Chapter 9

The classroom smelled of kerosene, orange peels, and dry chalk dust.

It was mid-January, the peak of the third term, and the air inside the room was warm, stagnant, and heavy with unspoken stress. 

Outside, the winter sky was the color of lead, pressing low against the hills. Frost clung to the corners of the windowpanes, while the center of the glass remained completely fogged from the collective breath of thirty-five middle schoolers. 

Near the front blackboard, the metal stove clanked and hummed, radiating a dry heat that made my temples throb.

On almost every desk, thick booklets of mock entrance exams sat stacked beside sheaves of practice handouts. 

The room was nearly silent. Nobody laughed, nobody tossed erasers, and nobody walked across the aisles without treading softly. 

Half of our classmates looked like walking ghosts. They nursed tea from stainless thermoses, dark circles hanging beneath their bloodshot eyes, flipping through vocabulary cards with the frantic energy of people running out of time. 

A large square of white poster board hung beside the daily schedule, displaying black numbers written in thick marker: 

28 days until public high school exams.

In the very back row by the lockers sat our little island of relief.

Yuuki was slouching low in his chair, tapping a pencil against the edge of his wooden desk. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to say something, and glanced over at me with a restless grin.

I caught his eye and shook my head once, keeping my chin resting in my palm.

"Keep it down," I whispered, barely moving my lips. "Miyashita in front of you said this morning he only slept three hours last night. You get rowdy right now, and he might accidentally stab you with a drafting compass."

Yuuki glanced at the tense shoulders of the student sitting ahead of him, winced, and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. 

"Right," Yuuki murmured, dropping the pencil onto his notebook. "My bad."

Shizuo sat to my right, sitting upright with his arms crossed over his chest. Even without the threat of exams hanging over his head, he looked disciplined, staring straight ahead as if he were studying the blackboard even though the board was empty.

The three of us didn't carry that suffocating weight. 

It was a privilege, and we all knew it. That was why we kept our mouths shut and let the room in its own peace.

The long chime of the midday bell echoed through the hallway speakers, breaking the spell.

A collective groan rippled across the desks as dozens of students set their pens down, slumping forward onto their open notebooks. 

The classroom door slid open with a metallic rattle, and the students on lunch duty shuffled inside wearing white aprons and cloth caps. Behind them, heavy aluminum vats of rice and soup clattered against the metal cart, filling the stale air with the rich aroma of fried chicken.

"Finally," Yuuki breathed, sitting up instantly. "I was beginning to think the morning would never end."

We hauled our desks together, shoving the wooden frames into a cluster of three while the servers dished out the meal. 

Lunch today was standard fare. A set of a bowl of white rice, miso soup with seaweed, a carton of milk, and three pieces of fried chicken resting on a paper liner. 

Yuuki picked up his chopsticks, inspecting his tray with the intense gaze of a food critic. 

"They definitely changed the batter," Yuuki announced, poking a golden piece of chicken. "Look at the crust. It is noticeably darker than last month. Did the kitchen staff get a new fryer, or are they cooking with different oil?"

"It's just soy sauce, Yuuki," Shizuo said, already chewing his first mouthful of rice with steady rhythm. "Eat your food."

"Details matter, Shizuo! A true athlete monitors his intake!" Yuuki turned his head toward me, looking for second opinion. "What do you think, Yama? Did the cafeteria upgrade their recipe, or are they just burning the starch?"

Usually, I would have thrown back an easy jab. I would have pointed out that a guy who said instant ramen was his favourite food had no right to lecture anyone on culinary standards. 

Today, my mind simply wouldn't latch onto the banter. Is it the surrounding mood, after all? I thought.

"Tastes fine," I said quietly, picking up a piece of chicken with my chopsticks. "Food is food."

I dipped my head and took a bite of rice, chewing in silence.

The table went completely still.

Yuuki froze with his chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth. He blinked once, then turned his head slowly toward Shizuo with an expression of profound confusion.

"Did he hit his head this morning?" Yuuki asked in an urgent whisper. "Did someone replace our friend with a cardboard cutout?"

Shizuo swallowed his rice, setting his chopsticks down on the edge of the plastic tray. He looked at me, his dark eyes narrowing in genuine concern.

"He has been spaced out since homeroom," Shizuo remarked, nodding in rare agreement with Yuuki.

I swallowed my food and let out a short, quiet sigh. 

"I'm fine," I said, offering a small wave of my hand to brush them off. "Just tired from the morning run. My legs are still adjusting to the early mileage, that's all."

The explanation seemed to make immediate sense to both of them. 

Ever since the trip to the National Stadium, our group had ramped up our physical conditioning. Shizuo had noticed my newfound consistency, and Yuuki had even complained about me waking up earlier than him to jog through the neighborhood frost.

Shizuo's expression softened into an approving nod. 

Without a single word, he picked up one of the fried chicken pieces from his own tray, leaned across the gap between our desks, and set it squarely onto my paper liner.

"Eat up, then," Shizuo said gruffly. "You need the protein if you're building your stamina. It's not only about lung capacity, muscles are important too."

"He's right!" Yuuki nodded rapidly. A second later, he used his chopsticks to drop one of his own pieces onto my plate as well. "Take mine too, you lazy bum. Just make sure you run enough laps to make up for my sacrifice!"

"Thanks," I murmured, staring down at the new pieces of fried chicken now sitting on my tray. 

"Now then," Yuuki said, his tone turning predatory as he glared across the table at Shizuo. "There is still one extra piece left in the serving tray by the teacher's podium."

Shizuo picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth, and raised his right fist to chest level. 

"Rock, paper, scissors," Shizuo said, his voice flat and deadly serious.

"One match," Yuuki hissed, leaning forward until his forehead was inches from Shizuo's nose. "Winner takes the prize!"

They erupted into a furious, hand-slapping match of Janken, their voices rising over the background hum of the classroom as their fists clashed again and again. 

I picked up my chopsticks and ate in silence.

The chicken tasted fine, but the knot in my stomach refused to loosen while my thoughts were away.

Three days ago, on Tuesday, Top Road had run her third race at Kyoto Racecourse: the Fukujuso Tokubetsu. 

I had been at school when the race went off, but the moment I returned home that afternoon, I had searched the results on my phone. 

She had finished third.

She had run an impeccable race, holding her stride steady over the notorious Yodo hill and keeping herself composed through the turn. But in the final furlong, two runners had surged past her along the outside rail, claiming first and second by less than a length.

That evening, she had sent me a message.

Her text had been polite, humble, and completely composed. She thanked me again for the track advice from my mother, explaining that holding her pace on the descent had kept her legs fresh for the straight. She had simply been outmatched by the raw finishing speed of her rivals. 

She hadn't complained nor she made excuses. She had accepted the result with the quiet dignity that defined everything she did.

So I had sent a brief, supportive message telling her to rest well, and left it at that.

Yet ever since that afternoon, a strange question had been nagging at the back of my brain.

What was she going to do now?

A third-place finish in an open-class allowance race earned almost no prize money. 

To enter the Satsuki Sho in April, an Umamusume needed enough recorded earnings to survive the entry cutoffs, or a guaranteed ticket from a designated trial race. With only a single Maiden win to her name, her margin for error had shrunk down even more.

"I won!" Yuuki's triumphant roar shattered my train of thought. 

Across the desk, Shizuo was staring down at his outstretched scissors with an expression of pure disbelief, while Yuuki marched toward the front podium like a conquering general to claim his prize.

I pushed my empty tray forward and stood up from my chair.

"Going to the restroom," I said to Shizuo.

"Don't fall asleep in there," Shizuo muttered, still glaring at his own hand.

I slid the classroom door open and stepped out into the hallway. 

The corridor was quiet, cold, and smelled of wet umbrellas from the morning mist. I walked past other classes, turned the corner, and pushed through the swinging door of the boys' restroom.

The tiled room was empty. A single fluorescent tube hummed faintly against the white ceiling, reflecting off the clean mirrors above the sinks.

I stepped into the far corner near the frosted window, reached into the pocket of my uniform trousers, and pulled out my smartphone.

The screen lit up with the LINE interface. 

Her name sat near the top of the list, right beneath the family group chat. The last text between us remained my simple note wishing her a safe trip back from Kyoto, followed by her polite reply thanking me.

I tapped the screen, opening the keyboard. 

My thumb hovered over the letters for a long, quiet second.

How is training going?

Did you get back to the dorms safely?

I stared at the blinking cursor, feeling an uncomfortable itch in my chest. 

No. That was wrong. 

She was carrying the weight of a setback, likely locked in intense discussions with her trainer about their next move. Sending an idle text just to ease my own restless curiosity was the wrong call. 

I closed the LINE, opened the mobile browser, and brought up the search engine.

If she wasn't going to talk about it, the public record would have to do.

I typed her name into the search bar: Narita Top Road.

The search results loaded with a soft flicker.

Most of the links were standard race archives, fan blog summaries of her Make Debut, and the official chart from her race at Kyoto. Coverage of Classic runners in January was always thin. Especially this year, where they were heavily overshadowed by the elite stars from the Golden Generation preparing for the big spring campaigns. 

To the broader sports media, she was just another promising runner who had stumbled in an allowance race.

I scrolled down to a dedicated portal that tracked weekly training track reports and entry declarations for the Central circuit. 

The page refreshed, updating with news bulletins posted earlier that morning.

A headline near the top caught my eye.

Kisaragi Sho Entries Announced: Narita Top Road Bypasses Allowance Class.

My breath caught in my throat.

I tapped the link, bringing up the short article.

According to the bulletin posted barely an hour ago, her trainer had made an official decision regarding her schedule. Rather than entering another standard allowance race to slowly gather prize money, they had taken an audacious step.

She was entered into the G3 Kisaragi Sho, scheduled for Sunday, February seventh, at Kyoto Racecourse.

Eighteen hundred meters on turf.

I leaned back against the cold tiles, reading the short paragraph three times to make sure I wasn't misreading something.

Entering a graded stakes race as a one-win runner was known in the racing world as a kakue-chosen, stepping up in class to challenge superior competition. 

It was a desperate, dangerous gamble. 

The Kisaragi Sho was a prestigious trial race, traditionally packed with established heavyweights and graded stakes winners who were already tuned up for the spring. Among the early entries listed in the article was Eishin Cameron, a formidable runner who had won a G2 title and placed second in the Grade 1 Asahi Hai in December.

The math was simple, but I didn't like it.

If she ran in a normal allowance race, she might win, but the prize money would be modest, and the calendar would keep moving toward April. If she ran out of time, the first Crown would slip through her fingers.

By entering the Kisaragi Sho, her team was staking everything on a single throw of the dice to keep the opportunity alive.

Win or place at the top of a Grade 3, and her prize money might've been able to compete for a spot in Satsuki Sho. Her road to the Triple Crown would be opened once again.

Lose, and her spring campaign was finished before it even started.

"Are you serious...?" I murmured aloud, staring at the glowing screen.

The sheer guts required to make that call made the hairs on my arms stand up. 

Her trainer had to have steel nerves to enter that paper, and she had to possess an unbelievable amount of courage to accept the assignment. They were taking their one-win record, walking into a den of lions, and daring anyone to stop them.

Yet beneath that sudden rush of awe, a cold knot twisted deep in my stomach.

To ease that for a bit, I could only sighed deeply.

I then tapped the power button, plunging the screen into darkness, and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

I walked over to the porcelain sinks, turned the metal handle, and let the icy tap water wash over my hands. 

The cold was sharp enough to make my knuckles ache, clearing the fog from my head. I splashed a handful of water onto my face, grabbed a paper towel to dry my skin, and looked at my reflection in the mirror.

"Hang in there," I whispered to the empty room.

I took a slow breath, straightened the collar of my uniform jacket, and pushed through the door to head back to class.