Most sane players didn't even attempt the Haru Urara Arima Kinen Challenge.
Most players brought fully maxed SSR support cards.
Most players used double S-rank inheritance.
Most players followed optimized guides built by people far smarter than me.
I watched all of them.
Japanese guides.
Chinese guides.
American guides.
Hours of videos.
Hours of spreadsheets.
Hours of people explaining inheritance routes, support card combinations, hidden mechanics, race scheduling, skill priority, and training optimization.
I watched successful clears.
I watched failed clears.
I watched challenge runners break down their thought process frame by frame.
I copied builds.
Copied strategies.
Copied training routes.
Copied everything.
And still failed.
I had none of the things they had.
My support deck wasn't maxed.
My inheritance wasn't optimal.
Most of my parent Uma weren't even close to S rank.
The entire setup was held together by stubbornness and wishful thinking.
And yet I kept trying.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Not because I thought I was good at the game.
If anything, the opposite.
Every failed run felt like proof that I wasn't.
Every challenge trend that appeared online seemed to have people clearing it eventually.
Every guide made things look simple.
Every video made success look inevitable.
Meanwhile I kept failing.
The wall wasn't Haru Urara.
The wall wasn't Arima Kinen.
The wall was the possibility that I simply wasn't good enough.
So I kept retrying.
Because if I quit, then maybe the answer was yes.
Maybe I really was bad.
And that thought scared me more than another failed run.
Another race loaded.
Another career.
Another attempt.
Haru Urara ran her heart out.
As always.
I watched the final stretch.
Watched her fight.
Watched her refuse to give up.
Watched her lose.
Again.
Fourteenth.
Retry.
Another career.
Another carefully planned training route.
Another set of events.
Another attempt to squeeze a little more out of impossible odds.
Arima Kinen.
Twelfth.
Retry.
I changed the inheritance.
Changed the skill route.
Changed the training priorities.
The result barely changed.
Eleventh.
Retry.
Tenth.
Retry.
Then ninth.
Then seventh.
Then fifth.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The wall started moving.
Not enough.
Never enough.
But moving.
Months passed.
Haru kept running.
I kept trying.
Neither of us reached the finish line we wanted.
Then finally
A career appeared.
The stats lined up.
The training succeeded.
The skills rolled correctly.
The race loaded.
I leaned forward.
Haru accelerated.
The crowd roared.
The final stretch opened.
And for one impossible moment...
I thought we had it.
I genuinely thought we had won.
Then the race ended.
Second place.
The result screen appeared.
I stared at it silently.
Second.
Not sixteenth.
Not twelfth.
Second.
Closer than I had ever gotten.
And somehow that hurt the most.
Because now I could see it.
Victory.
Right there.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to imagine.
Close enough to believe.
Yet still out of reach.
I lowered the phone.
My hands were shaking.
Not from anger.
Not even from frustration.
Exhaustion.
Months of effort.
Months of challenge runs.
Months of watching Haru try her best only to fall short.
Never knowing if the next run would finally prove I was improving...
Or prove I had simply hit my limit.
I looked back at the screen.
Haru Urara's victory pose was gone.
Now she stood there wearing that same smile she always wore.
The smile that tried so hard not to look disappointed.
I knew it was just a game.
I knew she wasn't real.
But after months of challenge runs...
After watching her throw herself into impossible races over and over...
That excuse wasn't working anymore.
I looked away.
"...Sorry."
The apology escaped before I could stop it.
Second place.
Again.
So close.
Close enough to hurt.
A grown man apologizing to a horse girl on a phone screen.
Pathetic.
Yet my chest still felt heavy.
Because Haru had done everything right.
She always did.
She trained.
She raced.
She gave everything she had.
And every time she reached that final wall...
I was the one who couldn't get her over it.
Not her.
Me.
I rubbed my eyes.
They stung.
Lack of sleep.
Probably.
I definitely wasn't crying over a challenge run.
Definitely not.
My phone blurred for a second.
I blinked.
The image cleared.
Then blurred again.
I hadn't realized how tired I was.
The challenge had consumed months of my life.
Every new trend.
Every difficult clear.
Every ridiculous community challenge.
I chased them all.
Not because I enjoyed suffering.
Because I hated being left behind.
The moment people said something was difficult, I wanted to clear it.
The moment people said something was impossible, I wanted to try.
Not to prove I was amazing.
Just to prove I wasn't terrible.
To prove I could keep up.
To prove I belonged.
And right now?
Arima Kinen was winning that argument.
I leaned back in my chair.
The Season 3 clips were still playing on my monitor.
Crowds cheering.
Legends winning.
Dreams coming true.
Meanwhile my Haru was stuck in second.
Again.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
Then I looked upward.
Toward absolutely nothing.
"Alright."
My voice came out hoarse.
"Uma gods."
Silence.
"Game gods."
Nothing.
"RNG gods."
Still nothing.
I swallowed.
Then lowered my head.
"Please."
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
a joke.
a meme.
a lucky ritual before a pull.
My hands tightened around the phone.
"One perfect run."
One run where the training succeeds.
One run where the skills activate.
One run where luck doesn't decide everything.
One run where I can finally get her there.
The room remained silent.
For a moment I felt stupid.
Then the temperature dropped.
My smile vanished.
The air suddenly felt heavy.
The hairs on my arms stood up.
A chill crawled up my spine.
"...What?"
The monitor flickered.
The Season 3 clips froze.
The sound distorted.
My phone screen flashed white.
Then black.
Not faded.
Not dimmed.
Gone.
Every light in the room vanished.
The world tilted.
My stomach dropped.
A sharp ringing filled my ears.
I tried to stand.
Failed.
The chair disappeared beneath me.
The floor vanished.
The room vanished.
Everything vanished.
And for one terrifying moment...
There was only white.
Endless white.