"Shabalanke is pushing the pace! Heart Caesar is looking for an opening! But look at Haru Urara—she's not slowing down for the corner at all! She's hugging the rail, maintaining incredible speed!"
I gripped the railing, leaning out so far I thought I might fall.
"We're past the Great Keyaki tree! Into the final turn! Heart Caesar takes the lead! But here comes Urara! Haru Urara is making her move early!"
"She's sprinting with 500 meters to go!? Can she possibly sustain this?"
"Into the homestretch! Urara is closing in! She's past Shabalanke! She's neck-and-neck with Heart Caesar! She's taking the lead!"
I didn't just watch. I roared.
"GO! GO, URARA! RUN!"
My voice was one of thousands, but in that moment, it felt like the only sound in the world.
For a split second, as she rounded into the straight, Urara's eyes flickered toward the stands. Her lips moved—a silent word I couldn't hear.
"GOOOOOOO!"
She smiled. She dug her cleats into the dirt, her legs churning with a power that turned the track into a blur of brown dust. She wasn't just running; she was exploding forward.
"Haru Urara! She's pulling away! This isn't a race anymore, it's a solo performance! The gap is three lengths... four... five! She's gone!"
Even the commentator was screaming now. Urara hit the final uphill climb—the same hill that had broken the other girls in the last race—and she flew up it as if gravity didn't exist.
"Haru Urara! The win is hers! There's no one else in the frame! 100 meters! 50! IT'S HARU URARA!"
She crossed the finish line alone.
I tried to cheer, but my throat seized up. My vision blurred. I wiped my eyes, but the tears kept coming.
"Goal in! Haru Urara justifies her favorite status with a dominant performance! First place!"
Urara slowed down, looking back as if she couldn't believe how far away the other girls were. She stopped, looked at the scoreboard, and then let out a piercing shriek of joy.
"YAAAAAY! I DID IT!"
She jumped into the air, punching the sky. The crowd erupted into a roar that shook the foundations of the Tokyo Racecourse.
"Trainer! Trainer! I won! I really won!"
She came running toward the fence, sweat glistening on her brow, her tail whipping back and forth like a propeller. I wiped my face one last time and gave her a thumbs-up.
"I saw it, Urara! You were incredible! Are you okay? Anything hurt?"
"I'm great! I can't get hurt, or you'll scold me!" she joked, flashing a peace sign.
I let out a breath of pure relief. She was tired, but she was whole.
I turned my gaze to the electronic scoreboard. The final results were flashing.
1st: #8 — Haru Urara.
It was official. No fouls, no accidents. But then my eyes drifted to the numbers next to her name. My jaw dropped.
"...No way."
The speakers crackled to life. "The results are official... wait! It's a Record! Haru Urara has set a new record for the Junior Maiden 1300m Dirt! 1:19.47! She's shaved over two seconds off the previous record!"
The analyst sounded stunned. "A favorite winning a Maiden race is expected, but a record-breaking time? Even for this circuit, that is an elite performance."
I was speechless. I checked the screen three times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. That time was competitive even in the higher classes.
I looked back at the track. Urara was already talking to the other girls. Some were crying, but they were patting her on the back, sharing a bittersweet laugh. There was a sense of finality in their eyes—a realization that for many of them, this was the end of the road.
I felt a pang of sympathy, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of panic.
(Wait... Urara has to do a Winning Live. Her first one! Is she ready? We practiced, and I brought her outfit, but...)
The Winning Live.
The "Dream Stage." A privilege reserved only for the top three finishers.
I stood in the darkness of the spectator area, waiting for the lights to come up on the special stage. I remembered the first time I'd seen a Live on TV. I'd thought, What is this show? And what on earth is an 'Umapyoi'? Even as a professional trainer, the etymology of "Umapyoi" remained a mystery.
The music started. Urara stepped out onto the stage, flanked by the second and third-place finishers.
The Maiden circuit uses a standardized outfit: a wine-red vest, white and navy jacket, and a pleated skirt. They looked like a professional idol group.
I had always thought I'd find this part embarrassing. I was a trainer, a man of logic and dirt and stopwatches. Seeing my athlete dance in a skirt should have been awkward.
But as Urara began to move, all the cynicism vanished.
"..."
I watched her in silence. Seeing her run was one thing, but seeing her here, in the center of the stage, was something else entirely. There was no embarrassment—only a fierce, burning pride.
She was small, and she occasionally missed a step or flubbed a lyric, but she was giving it everything. She looked like she belonged there. She was the "Center." The winner's privilege.
"Ah... dammit..."
My vision blurred again. Twice in one day. I didn't think I was old enough to be this sentimental.
The song hit the chorus, the crowd's energy peaking as they swung their lightsticks in unison. I stood there in the dark, letting the tears fall.
This was just a Maiden race. In the grand scheme of things, it was just the first step. She had only earned the right to keep running—to try for the Opens and the Graded races. So many girls never even make it this far. They retire at the starting line.
Urara had crossed that line. Where she went from here depended on her heart and my hands.
The road ahead was a fog, but for today, I just wanted to watch her dance.
(...You can do it, Urara.)
I made a vow right then: I would see her on a G1 stage. I would see her dance in her own custom silks.
But for today, I just let myself be her first fan.
At that time, however, I still didn't truly understand.
I didn't know the terrifying power of the girls who ruled the Graded ranks.
And I didn't know that another encounter was waiting for us—one that would change everything.