The low roar of the engines echoed outside the cabin. Easy Goer leaned against the window, her unfocused gaze resting on the endless sea of clouds rolling beyond the glass.
The sights of Nishikino Academy, Sakuraba's sharp gaze, and that line—"A half-hearted resolve won't be enough to beat her"—kept circling through her mind like a film on loop.
Do I really... want to win more than Sunday Silence?
The question was like a fine needle, piercing straight into a corner of herself she had perhaps never truly examined before.
At first, she had stepped onto the track to break free from the brilliant yet heavy halo of being "Secretariat's younger sister." She had wanted to prove that she was not merely a shadow clinging to her sister's radiance. She had wanted a name and recognition that belonged to her alone.
For that, she ran. She fought. And she did succeed in earning her own place and respect on the American circuit.
But... then what?
After she reconciled with her sister, after that original obsession gradually faded, after the recognition she had once longed for was already in her hands...
She suddenly realized that the track beneath her feet, once so clear, seemed to have grown a little blurred.
What am I... running for now?
To keep winning?
To protect my reputation?
Or... simply because I've gotten used to working hard and running?
Compared with Sunday Silence's blazing, lava-like pure will, mixed with gratitude and revenge, this confusion seemed so pale and powerless.
Perhaps Sakuraba was right. Before a desire that burned through everything, her own "wanting to win," now that its main goal had already been achieved and it lacked new fuel, might really only count as "half-hearted."
The heaviness and confusion in her chest nearly overflowed.
She turned her head and looked at her sister, who sat beside her with her eyes closed, resting.
"Sis..." Easy Goer's voice was very soft, carrying an almost imperceptible uncertainty. "I have a question."
Secretariat slowly opened her eyes, her amber gaze turning toward her sister in inquiry.
"Back then... why did you want to win races?"
Easy Goer asked it seriously.
"I mean, at the very beginning, or... the most fundamental reason that supported you all the way until you retired. What was it?"
She wanted to know where the endless fire inside legends like her sister and fighters like Sunday Silence came from.
Was there some stronger, more lasting reason driving them, something that existed in a realm she had yet to touch?
Secretariat did not answer right away.
She looked at the rare confusion and searching in her sister's eyes, no longer hidden, and fell silent for a moment.
Inside the cabin, there was only the steady hum of the engines.
"Why..."
Secretariat turned her gaze toward the farther end of the clouds outside the window. Her voice was calm, yet it seemed to carry a certain weight.
"At first, perhaps I was like many Umamusume. I wanted to prove myself. I instinctively loved speed. I enjoyed the vanity of hearing the crowd cheer... But those things probably aren't enough to carry you to the very end."
She paused, as if sorting through thoughts from long ago.
"Later, what supported me... was probably that I didn't want to lose."
The corner of Secretariat's mouth curved slightly.
"It wasn't simply 'wanting to win,' but a more absolute 'not wanting to lose.'"
"Not wanting to lose to anyone. Not wanting to lose to injury, to condition, to time... or even to the slightest weakness or doubt in my own heart."
Her gaze returned to Easy Goer's face, clear and sharp.
"That kind of 'not wanting to lose' will force you to dig out every bit of potential you have, overcome every obstacle, and constantly surpass the person you were yesterday."
"It is greedier than 'wanting to win,' and more stubborn too."
"Because 'wanting to win' may fade once a goal is achieved. But 'not wanting to lose'... as long as you still stand on the track, it will always exist. Like a shadow, and like a whip."
Easy Goer listened in a daze.
Her sister's words, and the "wanting to win more" that Sakuraba had pointed out, seemed to indicate different sides of the same core: an extreme, almost obsessive will to victory.
"So,"
Secretariat gently patted the back of her sister's hand, her tone softening.
"You don't need to rush to find some grand or tragic reason."
"Maybe you can start by facing yourself honestly. Ask yourself, who do you 'not want to lose' to right now?"
"Or what do you 'not want to lose'? Is it Sunday Silence? Your past self? Or... something you haven't yet noticed, but actually treasure very deeply in your heart?"
Easy Goer lowered her head and looked at her own hands.
The cabin lights cast faint shadows over her lashes.
Not wanting to lose...
That thought seemed to touch her current, muddled state of mind more deeply than simply wanting to win.
Easy Goer's mind uncontrollably brought up the images of those two races she had lost to Sunday Silence.
Sunday Silence's back, driving forward like black lightning, pulling away with absolute resolve.
The instant before the finish line at the Preakness Stakes, when Easy Goer had given everything she had, only to be left behind, and the dull ache after crossing the line, nearly tearing her chest apart, mixed with exhaustion and frustration.
That was right. In her memories, Sunday Silence had never lowered her head, never wavered in the slightest.
Her eyes were always burning, her steps always firm, as if nothing existed ahead of her except victory.
That Sunday Silence had such a heavy, blazing reason for "not wanting to lose."
Then what about me? Do I have a reason why I have to beat her?
Is it only because I lost, so I don't want to lose again?
That sounded... a little thin.
Her thoughts seemed to fall into a dead end, looping tighter and tighter. The more deeply she examined it, the paler and more powerless her reason seemed, as if she were opposing Sunday Silence simply for the sake of opposition, lacking the core drive that could ignite her soul.
Just as her brows knit tighter and tighter, and she was about to trap herself in a blind alley—
Thump.
There was a crisp little sound, followed by a slight pain on her forehead.
Easy Goer covered her forehead and looked up in confusion, meeting Secretariat's amber eyes, which held both understanding and a touch of helpless amusement.
"You're overcomplicating it, Easy." Secretariat withdrew the finger she had flicked her with, her tone light, as if she were discussing the weather. "It can actually be very simple."
Looking at her sister's still-confused eyes, she reminded her,
"Do you remember how long you shut yourself in your room and cried after the Preakness Stakes? Your eyes were swollen like peaches the next day, and you refused to come out and see anyone no matter what."
Easy Goer's cheeks flushed slightly.
"That feeling wasn't pleasant, was it?"
Secretariat's voice softened, yet carried a force that went straight to the heart.
"Your chest felt tight. Your throat felt clenched. It felt like all your effort had struck empty air, and even breathing carried the bitter taste of defeat."
Easy Goer nodded unconsciously. She still remembered that feeling vividly.
"See?" Secretariat spread her hands. "'Not wanting to feel that awful again' is itself a very real, very personal, and sufficiently powerful reason."
"You don't need to elevate it into some grand narrative, and you don't need to search for some tragic or sacred mission."
"Simply hating the pain that defeat brings, hating that feeling of powerlessness, and therefore 'not wanting to lose'—what's wrong with that?"
Secretariat's words were like a key, turning gently and opening a door that had been overlooked.
Easy Goer froze.
That was right... Why did she have to look for some earth-shattering reason that she "had to beat Sunday Silence"?
I hate losing.
Especially losing to the opponent who had once made me taste that ultimate bitterness.
That feeling had been awful. She did not want to go through it again.
The thought emerged clearly and directly, carrying an almost instinctive resistance and resolve.
Perhaps it was not "noble" enough, not "complicated" enough, but it came truly from the deepest feelings in her heart.
It was hatred of the pain of defeat, and a longing for the joy of victory.
"Starting from that most direct feeling and searching for your motivation to 'not lose' may be much more effective than racking your brain to build some vague and lofty 'great cause.'"
Secretariat leaned back into her seat and closed her eyes again. Her voice carried a trace of weariness, yet was full of wisdom.
"On the track, sometimes thinking too much only makes you run slower."
Easy Goer slowly drew in a deep breath, then let it out at length.
The air circulating through the cabin carried a slight chill, but it made her head feel much clearer.
She looked out the window again. The clouds were still rolling, but the fog covering her heart seemed to have been scattered somewhat by her sister's simple, powerful words.
I don't want to cry again.
I don't want to feel that heart-wrenching frustration again.
So... I don't want to lose.
I don't want to lose to you again, Sunday Silence.
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