Chapter 14: The Power of a Maiden in Love is Against the Rules, Right?

The brutally intense summer training camp progressed smoothly, and before we knew it, we had entered the fifth day. Thanks to Kiryuuin’s meticulous coaching and Tomio’s merciless Spartan methods, the efficiency of our training felt unbeatable.

In fact, the fusion of their two opposing training philosophies had resulted in remarkable growth for both Happy Meek and me.

Happy Meek’s strengths were her speed and power—enough to win short-distance graded races. Her weaknesses were her stamina, which, despite being decent, still made her uneasy in longer races, and her fragile mental resilience, which often led to defeat when pressed.

On the other hand, my strengths were my boundless stamina, allowing me to effortlessly run 4000 meters, and my indomitable willpower that kept me ahead even in a front-running strategy. My weaknesses? A severe lack of speed and power for middle-distance races.

...Needless to say, I admired Meek-chan’s speed and power, while she envied my stamina and tenacity. As a result, the two of us created an explosive synergy.

We focused on each other’s strengths, chasing one another’s backs. Someday, we’d likely run on separate paths—but right now, neither of us wanted to lose. That was how our perfect rivalry was born.

Over these five days, Meek-chan and I had improved so much that even Tomio and Kiryuuin were astonished. Meek-chan’s stamina had risen above average, and my speed and power had grown to the point where they could no longer be considered weaknesses.

Growth was good, of course—but it didn’t end there. As the fifth day of training camp drew to a close, we were set to face off in a mock race, just the two of us.

Left-handed turf, 2400 meters—a distance that formed the backbone of major international races, the classic distance. The world’s biggest races held at this distance included the Derby, the Oaks, the Dubai Sheema Classic, the Japan Cup, the Hong Kong Vase, the BC Turf, the King George VI & Queen Elizabeth Stakes, and the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, among others.

Simply put, if you had the aptitude for it, 2400 meters was a safe bet. There were plenty of races at this distance, and more importantly, they offered high prize money and prestige.

But I digress—2400 meters was the absolute limit of Meek’s stamina, while for me, it was the bare minimum of my distance suitability. There were all sorts of justifications, but in the end, this was why Tomio and Kiryuuin had chosen this distance.

Though it would take the form of a match race, this mock race was the culmination of our training camp. Both of us would be going all out.

Given Happy Meek’s usual tendencies, her strategy would likely be either front-running or stalking. (Spoiler: If she ever mastered a skill comparable to "Steel Will," she’d probably choose stalking—unless she was stuck in the innermost post position.)

So, which running style would she pick for this match race? Would she go for front-running to catch me, the obvious front-runner, early? Or would she let me dash freely while conserving her stamina, then gamble everything on a late surge with her finishing kick?

"Tomio, which one do you think Meek will go for?"

Under the scorching sun that had begun to wane in the late afternoon, I stretched on the course near the training camp and asked Tomio. A short distance away, Happy Meek and Kiryuuin were deep in their own strategy meeting.

"Hmm... Even though Meek’s stamina has improved dramatically, 2400 meters is still pretty tough for her, don’t you think?"

The average stamina of junior-level racers doesn’t meet the standard required to run 2400 meters. Frankly, it was already reckless for a junior like me to attempt 4000 meters—someone like Meek, for whom 2400 meters was a struggle, was completely normal.

"So, you’re saying she’ll go for stalking, conserving her stamina?"

"Yeah. I’ve never seen a match race between a front-runner and a stalker before... but that’s probably how it’ll play out."

"This is gonna be one weird race."

"Big wins and crushing losses are both possible. Wish there were other horse girls besides us in this race…"

Races with front-running horse girls (oomake uma musume) are notorious for turning chaotic. The reasons vary—but since this is a match race between me and Meek-chan, let’s imagine a scenario where there’s no nige uma (pace-setting frontrunner).

Without a nige uma and only a reckless front-runner (oomake uma) leading, the senkou (stalker) horse girl in second effectively becomes the de facto pacemaker for the pack. But senkou types aren’t as adept at pace control as pure frontrunners. Their strength lies in securing a good position and overtaking fading leaders—that’s their winning pattern. By then, lap times and race flow are already disrupted.

And the other horse girls? They’ll hesitate endlessly about when to reel in the oomake uma. They’ll exchange glances—“You go after her!” “No, you!” “Not me, you do it!”—while the runaway leader gallops unchecked into mid-race. How many would willingly sacrifice themselves to chase down an oomake uma in a leaderless race?

Exactly. Almost none. Unless the oomake uma collapses spectacularly, the pack usually overestimates their stamina, fails to close the gap, and lets her steal the win.

Either way, an oomake uma makes it hard for others to judge whether the pace is fast or slow. A fast pace favors closers (sashi) and late chargers (oikomi), while a slow pace benefits runaway leaders and stalkers.

This match race will likely see a huge gap form right after the start—by mid-race, it’ll probably be insurmountable.

The key here is either:

1. Fake an oomake start, then slow the pace and cruise to victory, or

2. Pull a Silence Suzuka—accelerate endlessly and never let up.

The old me would’ve brute-forced the first option. But this isn’t a real race. It’s just practice.

A perfect chance to experiment. If my initial plan fails, I can always switch to pace-control. After a moment’s thought, I commit—not just to oomake, but to baku-nuke (all-out explosive runaway).

When I tell Tomio, he smirks. “Do what you want.” Typical of him to add, “But stop immediately if you’re at risk of injury.”

I glance around. Happy Meek is already heading to the starting line. Time to go.

I’m about to trot toward Meek when I freeze. Almost forgot—today’s the day to try everything. No reason not to test that.

“Hey, Tomio. Got a sec?”

“Hm? What’s up?”

I should channel this smoldering emotion into fighting spirit—a trial run for the real thing. I wrap his hand between both of mine.

“Wh-what are you—?”

I knead his palm with my thumbs, testing its warmth. He tries to pull back, but when I tug his arm, he stops resisting.

…So warm. His hand dwarfs mine—I could vanish into it. As always, touching Tomio’s hand calms me.

My heart pounds. He looks uneasy but trusts me enough to stay put.

…Sorry, Tomio. I might betray that trust a little.

I press his hand against my chest.

“Wha—!?”

Tomio jerks back, yanking his arm free. I hadn’t held him tightly, so it slips away easily.

“Why’d you pull away?”

“Why?! You damn—!”

He clutches his right hand, face crimson. Ah. So his heart’s racing too. I was nervous, but this feels… weird.

As I space out, Tomio misreads my silence and launches into a flustered lecture.

“L-listen. Girls shouldn’t act so recklessly.”

“…………”

“…Apollo. We’re pre-race. Don’t lose focus.”

“I’m focused.”

“…………”

My instant reply leaves him speechless. Truth is, I’ve never been more focused. That’s why he’s struggling—how else would a trainer react when his horse girl suddenly grabs his hand and—?

I take another step forward.

“Tomio.”

“What now?”

"Touch me more."

"Huh?! W-wait, Apollo—"

I step closer, seizing his hand. Rising onto my tiptoes, I stare into Tomio’s wide eyes until our lips nearly brush. He doesn’t move—no, can’t move.

Without blinking, I whisper in his ear:

"Please, Tomio. Look at me. All for this race. All to win."

"……!?"

Ignoring his sharp inhale, I press his hand to my cheek.

—I’ll sacrifice this greedy, possessive love—and claim the fighting spirit that defines a horse girl.

That’s right. Burn hotter. Obsess. Go mad with love, Apollo Rainbow. Set it all aflame and awaken your fury.

I overwrite my warm, fuzzy emotions. Incinerate every tender feeling.

My heart lurches. Time slows; my vision tunnels.

Burn it all. This love is useless if it doesn’t lead to victory. To become his special one, I must win first.

I fuel the inferno with my affection, exposing a razor-sharp blade of fighting spirit at its core. The fiercer the flames, the keener the edge.

A red-hot mass of fury, tempered by reason. Crude, unrefined—but a weapon nonetheless. This is the blade I’ll use to shatter Happy Meek.

—Ready. No doubt about it—this is the ultimate focus of a horse girl’s instincts. My vision clears; every detail sharpens.

"Thanks, Trainer. I’m heading out now."

"Y-yeah…"

Leaving a bewildered Tomio behind, I pivot toward the starting line.

Happy Meek eyes me with palpable skepticism.

"...What were you doing? People were waiting."

"Preparation... to win."

"…?"

"I won’t lose, Meek-chan."

Baring my fangs in a grin, I take my stance. Kiryūin raises the starter pistol—a makeshift gate substitute.

Meek squints at me but crouches low. Kiryūin exchanges a nod with Tomio, then tenses.

"On your marks! Set—"

BANG.

I rocket forward, hooves tearing into the turf. Meek follows a split second later.

This race is my proving ground. I’ve chosen baku-nuke—not just front-running, but all-out explosive escape. No breathing over 2400 meters. Unrelenting acceleration.

"—!?"

Leaning into the turn, I hit top speed, drifting inches from the inner rail. Meek vanishes behind me as I dominate the backstretch.

By the 800m mark, I lead by 14 lengths. This is the same race? Hilarious. The odds favor my defeat—how thrilling.

"Hah—!"

A crazed laugh escapes. Forgive me—this moment of self-testing is too exhilarating.

My honed internal clock reports the 1000m split:

—57.9.

Pathetic. Silence Suzuka and Mejiro Palmer’s shadows still dwarf me. I’d lose to Trick Star or Seiun Sky, too.

My lap times: 12.7 → 12.0 → 11.0 → 11.0 → 11.0. Faster. I need more—

My bottomless fury and trained body demand it.

But—my legs won’t hold. Any further risks breakdown.

"Hah…! Hah…!"

2400m doesn’t fit Apollo Rainbow. Too short. My instincts waste energy forcing the distance.

Like Symboli Rudolf or Rice Shower crashing in mile races—I’m a misfit gear. Yet Meek charges undeterred, closing the gap to 7 lengths. …Am I slowing?

Entering the final stretch, my lap times are chaos. The pace is unsustainable—but that doesn’t matter.

Make it last.

"RAAAAAAHHH!!"

I replace exhausted stamina with sheer will, resurrecting my spent kick. My lungs scream as I attack the Tokyo Racecourse-mimicked 2-meter slope.

Then—200m left.

A chill down my spine.

(She’s here—! HAPPY MEEK!!)

THUD. THUD. The sound of a champion closing in.

No time to look back. Howling against the terror of defeat, I roar:

"I’LL DIE BEFORE I LOSE!!"

Shatter. The presence directly behind me suddenly veers to the side.

(She’s slipping out of my slipstream—trying to overtake!?)

In an instant, I make my decision. Arching my back as far as I can, I throw myself toward the finish line. Just as I think Meek might pass me, I surge forward—just for a split second—blocking her path. My posture is so far forward it’s almost suicidal, a desperate, near-falling dive toward the goal.

I can’t lose. I have to win.

For my dreams. And for my trainer.

"—hk!"

A faint gasp escapes Happy Meek—and I cross the finish line first.

Well, "cross" is generous. I more like faceplant spectacularly past it.

"Hah—hah… haaah…!"

Rolling with the impact, I sprawl out on the turf like a starfish. A victory snatched through sheer focus and a final, reckless leap—this is what makes it meaningful. I raise a fist to the sky and laugh, dry and breathless.

"Ah-ha… hah. See? Told ya… I’d manage somehow."

It was borderline miraculous, but I’d held off Happy Meek’s furious charge. My stamina’s at zero. I’ve burned through every last ounce of speed and grit.

I try to get up, checking for injuries—but my arms and legs feel like lead. Welp. Pushed myself too hard… hah…

Gulping down air like a fish out of water, I heave my chest, oxygen-starved. Then, the very picture of an undignified winner, I spot Meek approaching.

"…Apollo. You okay?"

"Y-yeah… Barely. But… made it."

Wiping the waterfall of sweat from my brow, I flash her a shaky V-sign. Meek—usually so expressionless—presses her lips together.

"…I thought I had you in the last 200 meters. But your stubbornness… never fails to surprise me."

"If anything, hah… I’m the one shocked by your closing speed, Meek…"

"…You hurt?"

"Just some scrapes, maybe."

Meek offers me her shoulder. Her gym clothes are drenched, heavy with sweat—proof she’d given it her all, too. If not for my heedless dive, I’d be the one in second place.

As we stagger forward, Kirishima and Tomio come running.

"Apollo! You alright!?"

"Ah—yeah, just overdid it. Sorry."

"Meek, let go of her."

Meek obeys Tomio, releasing me. Without support, I pitch forward—only for my trainer to catch me gently, sweeping me up in a princess carry.

"Kirishima, my apologies! I’m taking her to the infirmary—debrief later!"

"Understood!"

And with that—though nowhere near as fast as an Uma Musume—he sprints me toward the lodging’s infirmary.

Cradled in his warmth, I study his face as he runs. Ahh. Not a bad reward for victory, huh? A princess carry, and that serious expression of his. Worth every ounce of effort. Perks of the job~.

"Apollo, I’m putting you down now!"

Kicking the infirmary door open dramatically, he deposits me on a bed. Honestly, this might be the first time I’ve ever pushed myself this hard. I genuinely can’t stand. Maybe tapping into an Uma Musume’s instincts really does drain every last drop of energy. Pondering this, I watch Tomio rummage for the medkit.

"Just some scrapes, really."

"You’re still adrenaline-drunk. The pain’ll hit later."

"Nuh-uh."

I know my own durability. Sure, it was close, but this level of recklessness won’t leave me injured.

Tomio reaches for my knee. The moment antiseptic-soaked cotton touches skin, I jerk.

"Ow—owow!"

Must’ve skinned it during the roll. Considering we were running at near-car speeds, though, this is lucky. Toughness for the win.

As I grin through the sting, I notice Tomio’s lips are tight. His eyes hold something unspoken. Dropping the act, I tilt my head. "What’s up?"

His question catches me off guard.

"How… do you always give everything you’ve got?"

"How? That’s obvious."

I flash him a bright, uncomplicated smile.

"I do it for me."

---

Simulated Race Clear Time: 2:25.00.

With a glimpse of immense growth, the dawn of a new front-running style—our training camp came to a close.