Too focused on the situation on the track, Satono Crown and the others didn't hear Oguri Cap and Bamboo mory's conversation.
And a short distance away…
"Yasui-san—Kita-chan's position… is that okay?"
Kitajima Saburō stared nervously at the pack as he blurted out the question, one hand gripping Yasui Makoto's arm.
As if attending an important ceremony, the old man wore a formal kimono. His graying hair was grood flawlessly, slicked carefully with pomade.
Yet, his forehead was slightly disheveled, fine beads of sweat clung to his temples, and the solemn dignity he'd put on earlier now looked flustered.
The hand clamped around Yasui Makoto's arm was deeply lined with wrinkles, veins prominent—adding a raw edge of panic to that fluster.
Instead of watching from the front row as usual, Yasui Makoto was in the rear VIP section this ti, near Oguri Cap and the others.
He raised the binoculars he never parted with, clearly seeing the situation on the track.
Hundreds of ters directly across from the stands, the starting gates were being towed away.
To the right, the slope visibly steepened beyond where the gates had stood.
At the very back was an Umamusu with short chestnut hair, clad in a dark-blue racing outfit.
Her small face was tense, cheeks puffed, eyes locked ahead with clear distress and frustration as she gave chase at full speed.
Ahead stretched a massive pack—seventeen Umamusu sprinting forward in a wedge formation.
The wedge narrowed at the tail, sharpening at the front.
And even this early, two Umamusu at the tip were locked in a fierce struggle—jostling constantly, positions shifting second by second as they crested the slope.
Behind them ca Red Solomon, her vivid crimson racing outfit striking, and Musee Alien in red and white.
Unlike the Umamusu trailing behind, these two showed no panic or resentnt—but their faces were taut, eyes intensely fixed on those ahead.
Behind them, dressed in black with gold trim, was Kitasan Black.
Assessing Kitasan Black's situation, Yasui Makoto rapidly analyzed the race—until a sharp pain in his arm forced him to lower his binoculars.
Kitajima-san… he's strong.
eting Kitajima Saburō's anxious gaze, Yasui realized just how much strength was in that grip—his arm actually hurt.
But in the next instant, he snapped back to the binoculars, speaking rapidly and reassuringly.
"It's fine. If nothing unusual happens, this is just deception!"
His speech quickened, voice rising slightly—as if worried Kitajima Saburō wouldn't hear clearly, or wouldn't understand.
He had indeed trained Kitasan Black extensively on "tricking the pace," especially after the Dream Trophy.
This tactic, also known as "pace-change" or "rhythm deception," involved misleading opponents about the true rhythm of the race, causing them to misallocate stamina—weakening their competitiveness in the final sprint.
Cycling between acceleration and deceleration disrupted opponents' rhythm, slowing suddenly in non-critical phases forced rivals to slow or alter their line…
These were all variations of the sa strategy.
The longer the race, the greater the stamina required—making pace deception even more effective at longer distances.
Seiun Sky had famously used this tactic in the Kikuka Sho. Her success inspired many Umamusu in later Kikuka Sho races to attempt the sa approach.
Lia Fail and Spirits Minoru—the two front-running Umamusu—were likely using precisely this tactic.
Yet during training, Yasui had already analyzed with Kitasan Black that this approach carried huge risks in real competition.
These were all G1-level Umamusu. Their strength and experience were comparable—they wouldn't be easily fooled.
Accelerations and decelerations cost stamina, making the tactic a double-edged sword—success ant gaining advantage; failure ant wasted stamina.
More importantly, for Kitasan Black, even a successful implentation of this tactic wouldn't be worth it.
To dominate the rhythm, her initial pace would have to surpass every opponent.
It wasn't that Kitasan Black couldn't achieve this. Her extraordinary strength and endurance allowed her to burst forward with terrifying speed in a short ti.
But terrifying speed required terrifying stamina.
The St. Lite Kinen had proven clearly: at a dium distance like 2200 ters, she could afford that stamina cost and still win.
But add just a few hundred ters—no, even just one hundred—and Musee Alien might overtake her, or another rival could exploit the opening.
This Kikuka Sho was 800 ters longer than the St. Lite Kinen. If Kitasan Black ran the sa way as before, she would inevitably slow on the final straight.
Therefore, it was wiser to restrain that explosive burst, first stabilizing her position with a running style better suited to her strengths.
All this raced through Yasui Makoto's mind instantly—but he only had ti to deliver a few rapid, reassuring words to Kitajima Saburō.
"Kita-chan's prepared for situations like this. I've instructed her clearly—she knows exactly what to do. Don't worry, Kitajima-san!"
"R-right… okay…" Kitajima Saburō nodded repeatedly, but the anxiety in his expression didn't lessen.
Though advanced in years, his eyes were sharp and clear—not clouded like most elderly people's.
He wasn't using binoculars, yet he could still clearly discern the unfolding situation at the right-hand bend.
Eighteen figures streaked through the turn, forming a vortex.
Spirits Minoru and Lia Fail—their racing outfits and ponytails flying—looked as if they were tearing at each other in midair.
Behind them, grass and dark soil flew upwards, creating a swirling barrier.
Beyond that barrier, Red Solomon suddenly lowered her center of gravity and pressed inward, aggressively seeking the inner lane.
At the sa instant, Musee Alien clung tightly behind her, matching her advance.
Then, along the outside of the pack stretched out by the curve, a black-clad figure surged forward.
Kitajima Saburō's eyes lit up involuntarily.
But a mont later, he lurched forward against the railing, the hem of his kimono scraping lightly against the base.
The black figure charging ahead wasn't Kitasan Black.
It was another Umamusu, similarly dressed primarily in black.
Like tearing through the air on Kitasan Black's outside, this equally pitch-black Umamusu sliced forward with fierce montum.
Just as Musee Alien moved up alongside Red Solomon, the pack surged in behind the black-clad Umamusu.
Kitajima Saburō's eyes widened. Both hands clenched the railing, his nails clicking rapidly against tal.
Two Umamusu at the very front.
Two more imdiately behind.
Then the black-clad Umamusu surging upward.
Then the massive pack.
In the old man's eyes, as the group tore through the bend at full speed, the Umamusu ford a subtle arc.
This subtle arc, together with the inner rail, ford a delicate encirclent.
And at the center of that encirclent—like a crow's feather caught in a storm, about to vanish into an invisible maw—was the silhouette he knew better than anything.
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