Tsutsumi stood near the railing, his gaze fixed on the track as Agnes Tachyon stepped into Gate No. 9, placing her in the outermost lane. The position did not bother her in the slightest. If anything, the faint curve of her lips suggested she found it mildly entertaining.
The announcer's voice echoed throughout the stadium as the final preparations were made.
[All Uma Musume are to head for the Gates!]
The mechanical clanks of metal doors locking into place rang out one after another.
[-2000m turf course, all 9 runners have settled into their gates!]
Inside Gate 9, Tachyon lowered her center of gravity, bending her knees slightly and leaning forward. Her ears twitched once as she took a controlled breath, eyes sharpening as she focused on the straight path ahead.
[3!]
Every Uma Musume fixed their gaze forward, muscles coiled like compressed springs waiting to release.
[2!]
The stadium quieted, the anticipation pressing down on the field.
[1!]
[Race Start!]
With a loud metallic clang, the gates burst open simultaneously.
Most of the runners exploded forward in near-perfect synchronization, hooves striking turf with powerful rhythm as they fought for early positioning. The pack quickly compressed toward the inner lanes.
Except for one.
In the outermost lane, Gate 9, Agnes Tachyon was a full beat slower.
The delay was subtle but noticeable. For a brief moment, she remained behind while the others surged ahead.
A few spectators murmured at the late start, but their attention quickly shifted to the front of the pack where the early leaders were already contesting position. Tachyon's stumble, or what appeared to be one, was dismissed as rookie nerves. A beginner choking under pressure was not unusual, especially from the outside lane.
The race continued.
In Uma Musume racing, there are four distinct running styles, each defined by how a runner manages speed, stamina, and timing over the course.
The Front Runner immediately dashes to the front and attempts to maintain that lead from start to finish. It demands exceptional speed and enough stamina to sustain the pace while fending off challengers.
The Pace Chaser positions just behind the leader, staying within striking distance while conserving enough energy to overtake in the final stretch. It requires balance, neither reckless nor passive.
The Late Surger lingers in the middle of the pack, avoiding early clashes and preserving stamina before unleashing a powerful acceleration around the final corner to break through the crowd and claim victory. This style depends heavily on explosive power and the ability to navigate traffic.
These three styles were the most common and practical. The majority of runners chose one of them because they offered reasonable odds.
But the final style, the End Closer, was something entirely different.
It was rare and highly unorthodox because it began from the very back, even farther behind than a Late Surger. Usually, only those who suffered a poor start or were forced wide by circumstance found themselves in that position. From there, the End Closer had to endure the full distance with minimal drafting advantage, conserving just enough strength before unleashing an overwhelming burst at the very end.
It required immense stamina, explosive acceleration, and the raw power to overtake multiple competitors in rapid succession. A single miscalculation meant there would not be enough ground left to recover.
It was one of the most difficult strategies to win with.
Yet when it succeeded, the spectacle was unforgettable.
On the track, while the front runners battled for control and the pack began to settle into formation, Agnes Tachyon remained at the very back, her stride steady and unhurried as she allowed the gap to widen deliberately.
[Number 1, Dantsu Flame, the favorite to win, has already secured second place!]
The commentator's excited voice echoed across the stadium, drawing the crowd's attention toward the front of the pack where the leading runners were already contesting early dominance.
[But in the rear, Number 9, Agnes Tachyon seems completely unprepared for the start! A clear delay puts her dead last right out of the gate!]
A ripple of murmurs spread through the stands.
[Between the outer lane and that slow reaction, things aren't looking good for her.]
The commentator continued, unable to hide the skepticism in her tone.
This was a debut race. Only the winner would earn the right to become an official Uma Musume. There was no second place, no consolation placements. The stakes were high.
Even for a first-time race, a delay that obvious was rare. Among professionals and seasoned trainers, such a start would already be considered a critical mistake. To them, this "Agnes Tachyon" appeared to be an amateur who had stumbled into a stage far beyond her level.
When even the commentator, whose role was to remain neutral, openly remarked that the situation was unfavorable, it spoke volumes.
Yet on Agnes Tachyon's delicate face, there was no sign of panic. Instead, a fierce grin stretched across her lips as she maintained a steady, measured pace at the very back. She neither rushed nor attempted to force her way forward prematurely. Her stride remained smooth, controlled, and intentional.
She had placed herself here deliberately.
According to her sadistic trainer, her current Hazard Level had reached 1.9. A method to increase it further relied on emotional stimulation. Stronger emotions raised the Hazard Level, and in return, that heightened state allowed her to surpass her own natural limits.
Standing at the rear, watching the gap widen in front of her, feeling the weight of expectation and doubt pressing down, Tachyon allowed her pulse to rise.
The Mad Scientist's eyes sharpened.
Her heart pounded, not from fear, but from excitement.
She leaned forward slightly as the pack approached the second turn, marking the halfway point of the race. The turf curved ahead, and the formation of runners tightened as they prepared for the corner.
Her grin widened.
The atmosphere shifted.
Then the brown-haired girl who had started dead last suddenly accelerated.
The middle-pack runners ahead barely had time to register movement before Tachyon's figure slipped past them. One moment she was behind; the next, she was weaving through openings with surgical precision. A visible gap began forming behind her as she cut through the field.
"Tch… a come-from-behind runner, and she starts this fast?!" one competitor snapped, eyes widening.
"She's going to burn out before the final stretch! Don't let her mess up your rhythm!"
"Did her trainer not teach her anything about starts and pacing?!"
Their disbelief was evident. None of them had encountered a debutant who willingly surrendered the early phase only to launch such an aggressive surge at the midpoint.
Under the stunned gazes of the Late Surger pack, runners who specialized in timed acceleration, Tachyon blazed past them with overwhelming speed. Her strides lengthened, each step striking the turf with sharp, decisive force. She did not hesitate or falter.
Within seconds, the Late Surgers were no longer competitors in her line of sight.
The so-called amateur with the disastrous start had already left them behind.
Like a shooting star cutting across the night sky, she tore through the pack without slowing, her Hazard Level rising alongside her racing pulse as she burned brighter with every stride.
Tachyon ran without slowing, a living arrow cutting the field as she vaulted from last place into fifth and kept surging.
[Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!]
[Agnes Tachyon, who fell to last place after her poor start, is now charging forward without fear!]
[Before the third turn, she's already overtaken the Late Surger pack; she's in fifth place now, and still accelerating!]
[It's as if she isn't worried about stamina loss at all! She's aiming straight for Dantsu Flame at the front!]
The commentator's tone climbed, caught between shock and giddy thrill.
Every step felt like a decision. Sweat dampened Tachyon's brow; air burned her lungs; her legs replied with a familiar, aching protest.
Still, she kept pushing. The Nebula Gas essence inside her is reacting to her emotions, and with it, she can feel the burden on her body lightening a bit.
She focused on the final stretch as if it were the only thing that existed. Her crimson eyes pinned the finish line ahead.
In the next instant, she was like a shooting star, her silhouette splitting the air.
The Pace Chasers ahead tightened like a net, teeth clenched, trying to shrink the gap. Their efforts looked almost obscene beside the raw forward rush of one girl who seemed to laugh at the laws of fatigue.
"No way… a monster like this in a debut race?!" someone gasped.
"This pressure…" another voice faltered.
"This is the kind of showdown you see in major stakes races! Why is something like this here?!"
"My legs feel heavy… like I'm being hunted! No way, no way!!"
They strained and dug in, but the tide behind them was merciless. Tachyon slid past without a hint of hesitation; her motion was clean, efficient, and pitiless. One after another the Pace Chasers watched her go, mouths open, faces smudged with disbelief.
The stadium roared. Fans who'd come intent on other favorites forgot their prearranged loyalties and rose as one to the spectacle. Even the usual chatter, the rhythm of betting and banter, dropped beneath a single, overwhelming sound: pure, collective astonishment.
The commentator rattled on, breathless.
[This is unreal! The intensity of this debut race is off the charts!]
[Agnes Tachyon, who started dead last, has now overtaken both the Late Surgers and the other Pace Chasers!]
[The only one left ahead of her is the favorite, Dantsu Flame!]
[Without a doubt, this is the most thrilling debut race we've seen in years! Don't you dare look away, because you may never see another like it!]
Dantsu Flame, the race's polished favorite, felt her rhythm tilt as a flash of brown hair and sheer will cut the air beside her. She glanced at the figure that had appeared out of nowhere, and for the first time in the race, the lines on her face tightened. The girl at her shoulder wasn't just fast; she was accelerating.
Across the track, boards blurred, and faces became a smear of color. Tachyon didn't spare the other runners a second glance; her vision was a tunnel that ended at the finish. The last two hundred meters compressed into a single, finite stretch of effort.
Flame dug in. Powerful, steady, trained to hold and to finish, she answered with everything she had. Her hooves struck with the kind of force that could intimidate younger competitors. But with every meter she gained, a different thing happened: her breath came shorter, her muscles protested louder. The more she tried to match Tachyon's increase, the more the reserve she'd counted on evaporated.
'No… I can't lose…!' Heat and pressure clung to her like a second skin.
Side by side, they moved, then suddenly they weren't. Flame's world narrowed to the back of Tachyon's uniform as the newcomer lurched forward in those final meters, a living gust that left the favorite blinking in her wake. The distance wasn't subtle: one length, then two, then three. The numbers swelled as if counting down the impossible.
A faint plume of smoke drifted near the finish line, thin and fleeting, dissolving into the air almost as quickly as it had appeared. At the same time, something caught Tachyon's attention. As she crossed the line, she tilted her head back ever so slightly and glanced over her shoulder.
The high-speed camera stationed at the finish captured that instant with ruthless clarity, her hair swept by momentum, crimson eyes half-lidded, the finish line already beneath her feet, and the field far behind.
It was the kind of frame photographers dream about, and athletes never intend to give. Within minutes, it was destined to become an iconic image, circulated across headlines and feeds, replayed in slow motion until it burned itself into memory.
[She… glanced back, achieving a ten-length margin victory!!!]
[AGNES TACHYON TAKES THE WIN!!]
The announcement tore through the stadium, shaking it to its foundations. Celebration and disbelief tangled together in one overwhelming roar.
From the spectator stands, the reaction was immediate and chaotic. Fans who had come to support their own runners found themselves on their feet anyway. Other Uma Musumes watching from the crowd, some junior who haven't matured to even race, some veterans, stared at the track with widened eyes. Trainers leaned forward, calculations racing behind their expressions. Even seasoned analysts, who prided themselves on keeping cool heads, were speaking over one another in astonishment.
No one had expected this. Not here. Not in a debut race.
What they had just witnessed wasn't a narrow upset or a lucky surge. It was domination. A last-to-first charge followed by a double-digit margin. And that glance, casual, unhurried, almost curious, had sealed it into something more than just a victory.