Kitasan Black supported Duramente with every ounce of strength she could muster, her own body screaming with exhaustion that seeped into every muscle and joint. At first, the words spilling from Duramente's lips between ragged gasps made no sense at all. Concern for her friend's condition flooded her heart, but it was quickly joined by a swirling mix of confusion and bitter frustration.
In the end… she had still been surpassed.
The thought settled over her like a heavy cloud, carrying a quiet, dismal weight. Yet beneath it, a strange sense of calm began to take root. In this race, she had truly given everything—every last drop of effort she possessed. She could not remember ever collapsing from fatigue like this, not in training, not in any race before or after her debut. Right now, the weariness ran deeper than anything she had ever known.
The opening stage with its explosive start, the steep uphill climb, the sharp gradient acceleration through the first and second turns, the careful pace adjustment along the long mid-section straight, the second surge of speed in the third and fourth turns, the razor-sharp final bend followed by another punishing slope, and then the long home straight…
Every single segment, every single stride—she had pushed herself to the absolute limit. She had drawn on the full results of her daily training, applying them without reservation, and she honestly doubted she could replicate that level of performance if she had to run the race all over again. Because she had truly given her all, there was nothing left to regret.
Still, a pang of apology twisted inside her chest.
Her family and friends who had cheered her on with unwavering belief, the seniors who had guided her training, her longtime idol Tokai Teio, the countless fans who had supported her, the juniors she had only recently met, and her Trainer who had sacrificed so much time and effort for her sake… They had all poured their hearts into backing her, yet she had lost.
No matter how she tried to rationalize it, she could not bring herself to face them.
Just as that heavy thought weighed on her, Kitasan Black finally noticed the dazed look in Duramente's eyes. At the same moment, loud exclamations began echoing across the entire racecourse.
"Photo finish?! So who actually won?!"
"It has to be Duramente, right? She closed a six-length gap in the last two hundred meters!"
"Yeah, and don't forget—she was still stuck in the middle to back of the pack when she launched that final spurt."
"But I think it was Kitasan Black. I saw them cross the line together, and she looked like she was just a bit ahead."
"So what's the hold-up? Race organizers, where's the result already?"
Kitasan Black's ears twitched unconsciously, flicking up and down, left and right like they were conducting their own little exercise. She listened to the voices for a moment, blinking in a daze, then suddenly lifted her gaze to the massive display board opposite the grandstands. The names for third through fifth place had already appeared: third was Manhattan Cafe, fourth was Mejiro Bright, and fifth was Seiun Sky. In the top two positions, however, there were no names at all—only a glaring red message that read "Photo Finish In Progress."
Her long ears continued their restless movement as she stared, stunned. After a long pause, her eyes widened in genuine surprise.
"Eh…? A photo finish? This… this can't be…"
"Yes… a photo finish indeed…"
Duramente had been resting against Kitasan Black's arm for a while now and had finally regained some of her stamina. She let out a low, soft chuckle, her eyes flicking toward the display board before turning back to her friend.
"You… are truly strong, Kita-chan."
"Huh? Why are you saying that all of a sudden…"
Kitasan Black pulled her gaze away from the board and met Duramente's eyes. She blinked, scratched the back of her head with a sheepish grin, and smiled with open admiration.
"I actually feel like you're the one who's truly strong, Dura-chan. On that final straight, I thought I had the win locked down, and then you just… boomed forward and caught up like it was nothing. To be honest, I was sure I had already lost. I never expected it to come down to a photo finish…"
She trailed off, pursing her lips with a touch of uncertainty, then changed the subject.
"Oh, by the way… during that final spurt, Dura-chan… did you feel anything really special?"
Before crossing the finish line, Kitasan Black had genuinely believed for one fleeting moment that victory was hers. As she had burst out of the final turn, the sound of hooves behind her told her the closest pursuer was Manhattan Cafe. If it had been the same level of performance as the Spring Stakes, she knew she could not have guaranteed a win against that opponent. She had already experienced that rival's devastating late surge, and she understood that the lead she had carried into this race would not have been enough to hold her off.
Yet in this Satsuki Sho, aside from a brief moment early on when Seiun Sky had overtaken her, the rest of the race had unfolded remarkably smoothly. The fruits of her daily training had been utilized to perfection—perhaps even beyond her own expectations. When she entered the decisive clash on the final straight, she still held an advantage of roughly five to six lengths and retained plenty of stamina. With that distance cushion and energy to spare, even though she was not particularly skilled at explosive bursts, she had felt confident that Manhattan Cafe would never catch her before the line.
Then Duramente had suddenly appeared.
After training together for a full month, Kitasan Black had grown intimately familiar with her friend's hoofbeats. What felt different this time was how unnaturally swift and light those steps had become. Even harder to understand was the strange illusion that washed over her the moment those footsteps drew close—as if all her strength was being siphoned away. Perhaps it had not been an illusion at all. That exact feeling of powerlessness had taken tremendous effort to shake off, and in the end it had nearly cost her speed.
Now, she wanted to know exactly what had happened to Duramente in that moment.
At the very front of the spectator stands, the same topic was being discussed among the seasoned observers. Arms crossed, Tokai Teio stared intently at the two figures just past the finish line, her eyes sparkling with unmistakable amazement.
"There's no mistake. Even if it was only for a very short time… Duramente definitely entered the Domain."
"Really? She's still only in her Classic year, isn't she?" Daiwa Scarlet replied beside her, voice laced with disbelief. "I'll admit her talent is beyond what anyone expected, but to touch the Domain already…"
"But there's simply no other way to explain what happened back there," Vodka cut in, frowning deeply. "You're a runaway specialist yourself—you know exactly what Kita-chan's distance advantage really means. She clearly hadn't lost speed yet. How else could anyone catch up that easily if it wasn't the Domain?"
Daiwa Scarlet fell silent. Special Week and the others around them wore expressions caught between deep contemplation and lingering doubt.
Yasui Makoto said nothing.
One hand still gripped the binoculars that had become almost an extension of himself, while the other was clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palm. The sharp sting acted like a fuse, igniting the cold sweat that clung to his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the prickling itch that crawled along his spine, and the rising and falling murmurs from the crowd. All of it exploded into a throbbing hum inside his temples.
The bright red glow of the top two lines on the display board was almost blinding. He stared at it for a long moment, then forced his gaze downward. The black-haired girl's bangs stuck to her pale forehead, an unprecedented exhaustion covering her entire body. Her usually lively long ears trembled faintly in the gentle spring afternoon breeze. The same wind swept across his own sweat-soaked back, sending a fine shiver through him.
He shuddered unconsciously. The binoculars slipped from his fingers.
As he bent down to retrieve them, he caught a distorted reflection of his own face in the lenses—features pulled tight, lips dry and cracked, nostrils flaring, eyes bloodshot. Burning anticipation still clustered in his pupils, mixed with the deepest confusion and tension he had ever felt.
Suddenly, a piercing buzz erupted from the broadcast speakers. Yasui Makoto straightened up reflexively and staggered forward a step. His toes bumped against something, but he paid it no mind. Surprise swept away every trace of his earlier confusion and tension. The renewed stinging in his palm, the roaring cheers from the stands—everything converged at the center of his nerves.
He could not help but join the tsunami of cheers, his voice rising with the rest as he shouted the familiar name that had finally replaced the glaring red words at the top of the display board.
"Kitasan Black!!!"