Hearing Chiemi say that, Tamamo Cross almost failed to hold back her laughter.
Well played. You didn't spare him either.
Saying something like that before a match—she wasn't even treating the other side as human.
Chiemi Representative stepped forward, stopping in front of the pair. Looking down at the pink-haired Umamusume—much shorter than herself—she asked calmly:
"So? Will you race me?"
The pink-haired girl froze, then waved her hands frantically.
Me—race Chiemi?!
Don't be ridiculous.
The gap between them was obvious at a glance. Sparring was one thing, but a serious run? No chance.
That single warm-up lap Chiemi had just run was enough to make most of the training ground go quiet in fear.
The male trainer also looked troubled.
He knew exactly what his partner was capable of—and it wasn't enough to face Chiemi.
But since he'd dared to provoke them, he clearly had a "plan."
He changed tack on the spot.
"I'm not competing in speed," he said. "I'm competing in whether your training method is actually useful for Chiemi Representative."
"Huh?" Tamamo tilted her head, completely lost.
The male trainer produced a stopwatch and displayed a number:
2:15.
That was Chiemi's time for 2000 meters before training.
For an Umamusume who hadn't even debuted yet, that time alone proved she had top-tier talent.
"If Chiemi Representative can run faster than this, you win. Otherwise, I win."
"That's disgusting!" Tamamo burst out before anyone else could speak. "It's only been one afternoon—how could she possibly improve that much?!"
A crowd had gathered by now. Hearing his terms, many frowned.
They were right: breaking a personal mark after a single afternoon of training wasn't something you demanded like it was a coin toss.
Even if he was desperate to win, this was shameless.
Whispers rose. Even some trainers shook their heads.
The pink-haired Umamusume lowered her head in embarrassment.
"Well?" the male trainer barked, stubbornly forcing his voice through the unflattering silence. "Do you dare?"
"I do," Chiemi said.
"What—?!"
With that, she walked straight onto the track.
A wave of astonished murmurs rippled outward as she lowered into her stance.
"Yuu-ni! Stop her!" Tamamo spun around in a panic. "This isn't fair!"
But Wu You had already reached the trackside.
He simply smiled toward Chiemi.
The autumn wind tugged at the coat on his shoulders, and gently lifted a few strands of her hair.
"If you're going to race," he said, "then you must win."
Chiemi's eyes lit with confidence.
"Leave it to me."
…
The spectators packed closer.
Breaths held.
All eyes locked onto Chiemi.
The signal rang.
Bang!
Chiemi shot out like a chestnut meteor—smooth stride, stable rhythm.
"So fast!" Someone gasped.
No matter how many times you watched it, her start was always shocking.
In the first 200 meters, she looked almost relaxed—still beautiful enough to be a painting.
But the sharp-eyed noticed something:
Her pace looked… about the same as the pre-training lap that produced 2:15.
"See?" The male trainer squeezed his stopwatch, the corner of his mouth lifting. "That weird training of yours ruined her!"
No one echoed him.
The training looked strange, sure—but everyone could tell what he was doing.
He was dodging the real point and posturing.
Tamamo frowned and instinctively looked to Wu You.
He was leaning against the railing, a faint smile on his lips—like everything unfolding was exactly as he'd expected.
Tamamo hesitated, then folded her arms and stood quietly beside him.
Soon, the race crossed the halfway mark.
Even with a hold-back typical of a late-chaser in mid-distance, Chiemi's maintained speed was still terrifying.
But compared to her earlier solo run, there was still no obvious change.
The crowd's murmurs grew louder.
The male trainer's satisfaction was barely containable.
As expected. As expected. As expected.
At this pace, even if she pushes in the second half, she won't break the old time.
Don't smile yet. Don't smile yet.
Twenty seconds… no, ten seconds and it's over—
His eyes flicked to Wu You.
Still calm. Still unshaken.
And that calmness tightened something in his chest.
"You've already lost," the male trainer said, forcing steel into his voice.
Everyone turned toward Wu You, waiting.
But Wu You didn't answer directly.
Instead, he asked a question that sounded unrelated:
"Do you know what Chiemi's running style truly needs?"
No one responded.
Wu You answered himself.
"Lightness. She needs to learn how to control her center of gravity."
The male trainer frowned. "Everyone knows that. That's why she needs strength—so she can control her center better."
Wu You's tone didn't change.
"Do you think Chiemi lacks strength?"
"…"
One sentence—and the man choked silent.
Most Umamusume spend their pre-debut period raising the five basic stats—an "adjustment phase."
Chiemi Representative was different.
She'd already undergone systematic training long ago.
Compared to most, she had effectively ended her "adjustment phase early."
Meaning: she didn't lack strength at all.
Wu You continued, precise and clinical:
"Power starts from the ground. If the ankles aren't stable, you lose an enormous amount of force."
The male trainer's expression collapsed.
Ankles were the foundation of force transmission. If the "base" was unstable, finding balance was never effortless.
Wu You slowly turned his face.
Those closed eyes felt like they were staring straight through the man.
"Guess this," Wu You said quietly. "When Chiemi can truly control her center of gravity… how much of her strength do you think she'll be able to release?"
Bang—
Like the track itself answered him, a thunderclap erupted from the lane.
With 600 meters left—coming out of the bend into the final straight—Chiemi's breathing rhythm snapped into something sharper.
Her forward lean increased.
Her arm swing opened up—longer, stronger—like something that had been caged inside her core finally burst free.
Her speed rose in visible increments.
Each step was longer.
Each stride was faster.
"She accelerated?!" someone shouted. "She's faster than before!"
Late-chaser style already carried terrifying end-game explosiveness.
Now Chiemi looked like an arrow released from restraints, blasting toward the line.
Wind pressure kicked sand across the track; a faint dust trail followed her.
"So fast…" Tamamo whispered, almost reverent. "She's faster than her best lap…"
The male trainer stood frozen.
His stopwatch had slipped from his hand at some point and now dangled on its strap, swaying against his chest.
Timing?
Pointless.
Anyone with eyes could see it.
Chiemi Representative had already won.
Only one afternoon.
Only those "irrelevant" drills.
And yet the result was this.
Why was it so effective? Why did she improve so quickly?
He opened his mouth—no sound came out.
If he had stopped the watch properly, it would have displayed a number that made people's pupils shrink:
2:10.
-------
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