Chapter 207: Surrounded
Because they were overly focused on the situation on the track, Satono Crown and the others didn't hear the conversation between Oguri Cap and Bamboo Memory.
And at a spot some distance away…
"Yasui-san, Kita-chan's position right now… is it really okay?"
As he asked anxiously, Saburo Kitajima stared nervously at the pack on the track, one hand gripping Makoto beside him.
As if attending an important formal occasion, the elderly man was dressed in a dignified kimono. His graying hair had been neatly arranged, even carefully set with pomade.
Yet the strands at his forehead were slightly disheveled, fine beads of sweat clung to his temples, and the solemn, proper air he usually carried looked a little haggard instead.
The hand gripping Makoto's arm was covered in wrinkles, veins standing out clearly on the back, adding a sense of panic to that uncharacteristic disarray.
Unlike previous races, Makoto wasn't watching from the very front this time. Like Oguri Cap and the others, he was seated in the VIP section toward the rear of the stands.
The binoculars he never watched a race without were raised to his eyes as usual, the image inside showing the situation on the track with perfect clarity.
Several hundred meters straight ahead of the stands, the starting gates were being hauled away by a vehicle.
The section of track where the gates had stood stretched to the right, the incline visibly growing steeper to the naked eye.
At the very back was a racer in deep-blue Signature Racewear, with short chestnut hair.
Her small face was tightly set, cheeks puffed, eyes fixed ahead with a mix of confusion and frustration as she chased forward with all her strength.
Ahead of her was a massive pack—seventeen racers sprinting together in a wedge-shaped formation.
The rear of the wedge was gradually narrowing, while its tip was becoming sharper and sharper.
This was still only the opening phase, yet at the very front—the sharpest point of the wedge—two Umamusume were already locked in a fierce struggle. Every second they charged toward the top of the slope was accompanied by constant jostling for position.
Behind them came Red Solomon, clad in vivid red Signature Racewear, followed by Ribbon Victory in red-and-white.
Compared to the Umamusume who had started late, their expressions lacked confusion or frustration, but their faces were still tense, eyes fixed nervously on the rivals ahead.
And behind them, dressed in jet black accented with a gleam of gold, was Kitasan Black.
As Makoto examined Kitasan Black's condition, his mind rapidly analyzing the situation, a sudden pain shot through his arm, forcing him to lower the binoculars.
—Mr. Kitajima's grip is strong.
Meeting Saburo Kitajima's anxious gaze, Makoto finally realized just how much strength the elderly man was using—his arm actually hurt.
But the next moment, he raised the binoculars again, speaking rapidly, his tone carrying a note of reassurance.
"It's fine. In a situation like this, it's almost certainly a pace feint."
As he spoke, his words only sped up, his voice unconsciously growing louder, almost as if he were afraid Saburo Kitajima wouldn't hear him, or wouldn't understand.
Makoto had indeed trained Kitasan Black in "pace feints," especially after the Dream Trophy.
This tactic is also known as "pace manipulation" or "rhythm deception."
Its core lies in misleading opponents about the race's true tempo, causing errors in their stamina distribution so that they lose competitiveness during the final sprint.
By repeatedly cycling between acceleration and deceleration, the tactic disrupts the opponent's sense of rhythm—suddenly changing speed in non-critical phases, or slowing down to force those behind to brake or alter their racing lines—these are all extensions of the same concept.
As for when it's most effective: the longer the race, the more demanding stamina management becomes. In other words, the longer the distance, the more pronounced the effect of this tactic.
Seiun Sky used exactly this strategy in the Kikuka Sho, and it was precisely because of that girl's success that so many Umamusume attempted to imitate it in later Kikuka Sho races.
Crowned Stone and Real Will—the two Umamusume currently leading—were very likely doing just that.
And during their earlier training, he had already analyzed with Kitasan Black that this kind of tactic carried enormous risk when applied in real races.
At the G1 level, all racers were comparable in experience and ability, no one was that easy to fool.
Both accelerating and decelerating consumed stamina, which meant the tactic was, in practice, a double-edged sword. If it worked, fine—but if it didn't, it was nothing more than wasted energy.
More importantly, given Kitasan Black's capabilities, even if the tactic was used—even if it succeeded—it simply wasn't worth the cost.
To truly dictate the tempo, her early speed would have to exceed that of every other competitor.
It wasn't that Kitasan Black couldn't do it. Her extraordinary strength and stamina allowed her to unleash astonishing speed in an extremely short span of time.
But that astonishing speed demanded an equally astonishing price in stamina.
The rehearsal at the St. Lite Kinen had already made this clear. At a middle distance of 2200 meters, she could still bear that cost—and still win.
But add a few hundred more meters—even just 100—and Ribbon Victory might catch up, or other rivals might be given an opening.
The Kikuka Sho before them was a full 800 meters longer than the St. Lite Kinen. If she ran the same way as in the previous race, she would absolutely lose speed on the final straight.
Given that, it was better to rein in that explosive burst and stabilize the situation using a running style she was more proficient with.
All of these calculations flashed through Makoto's mind in an instant, yet he only had time to offer Saburo Kitajima a few brief words of rapid reassurance.
"Kitasan Black has trained for situations like this. I've given her instructions—she knows what to do. Please don't worry, Mr. Kitajima!"
"O–okay, okay… I understand…"
Saburo Kitajima nodded repeatedly, but the worry on his face did not diminish in the slightest.
Though advanced in age, his eyes were not clouded like those of an ordinary elderly man. On the contrary, they were clear and bright.
He wasn't using binoculars, yet he could still make out the situation on the right-hand curve of the track.
Eighteen streaking figures twisted together like a vortex as they tore through the bend.
Real Will and Crowned Stone—along with their fluttering Signature Racewear and swinging ponytails—looked as though they were tearing at each other in midair.
Behind them, green-yellow grass clippings and dark brown clods of dirt flew up, the colors warping together into a shifting barrier.
Beyond that barrier were Red Solomon and Ribbon Victory.
Suddenly, lowering her center of gravity, Red Solomon cut inward on the curve and forced her way forward.
In that single instant, Ribbon Victory clung tightly behind her and surged forward as well.
At the same time, on the outer side of the pack as it stretched along the curve, a black figure suddenly lunged ahead.
Saburo Kitajima's eyes lit up instinctively.
But in the very next second, he slammed himself against the railing of the stands, the hem of his kimono scraping noisily against the base of the barrier.
The black figure charging forward was not Kitasan Black.
It was another racer whose Signature Racewear was also predominantly black.
As if tearing open the air on Kitasan Black's outside, that equally jet-black Umamusume thrust forward with ferocious momentum.
Just as Ribbon Victory advanced along the path opened by Red Solomon, the massive pack surged up behind the black-clad runner.
Saburo Kitajima's eyes widened, his hands clenched around the railing, fingernails scraping against metal with sharp clicking sounds.
The frontmost position: two racer.
Just behind them: another two.
Next came the black-clad Umamusume who had just surged ahead.
And after that—the enormous mass of the field.
In the old man's eyes, within the pack blasting through the right-hand curve at full speed, these Umamusume formed a delicate arc.
Together with the inner rail of the track, that arc created a subtle encirclement.
And at the very center of that encirclement—like a raven's feather caught in a raging storm, as though being swallowed by some invisible, gigantic maw—was the figure he knew better than anyone.