Chapter 19: Preparing for the Hopeful Stakes / King Halo

"Let’s work on a special week to prepare for the Hopeful Stakes!" —Tomio says it so casually, but in reality, it’s excruciatingly difficult. To surpass the absurd closing speed of Spec-chan and King-chan, I’d need strength, grit, and luck on par with theirs.

First and foremost, what I fundamentally need to fix is my passive runaway strategy—something Mejiro Palmer and Daitaku Helios pointed out. After discussing it with Tomio, we decided to come up with countermeasures.

The conclusion we reached? A lack of power. I don’t have the explosive strength, so I just end up leading and burning out. My speed and determination are there, but… the truth is, being a runaway-type horse girl demands overall excellence, and this power deficiency will haunt me later. To become the ideal runaway speedster, I have to pull ahead after breaking away.

Of course, if I could do that, I’d instantly become the long-distance monster Silence Suzuka. While "leading and widening the gap" is the ultimate goal, I at least want to build up enough stamina to maintain my lead until the end.

Let me be clear—leading and widening the gap is hard. It requires innate speed and power. A true runaway accelerates at a brutal pace from the start and never lets up, so weak horses like me usually collapse in the final stretch. Combined with my poor performance in races under 2400 meters, in a G1-level race, I’d get swallowed by the pack and suffer a crushing defeat.

In fact, during the Shigiku Stakes—where I raced against the phantoms of the strongest generation—I was already fading in the final stretch. My finishing kick was practically nonexistent. Even though I set a record and shook off the competition, I only made it to the finish line on sheer momentum.

Weak closing speed—that’s the discomfort and flaw the runaway gal squad pointed out in me. The "awkwardness in my stride" likely refers to my poor suitability for middle distances.

Since I’ve somewhat built up my speed—I mean, I did set a record—we decided to focus on power training until the Hopeful Stakes.

"Apollo, you can do one more, right?"

"Hah… hah… O-of course I can…"

"Naturally. This is just the appetizer."

Another day, another Spartan training session. The other horse girls around us look horrified, staring at me with concern as our trainer dons the guise of a demon.

Can’t blame them. I’ve already done nearly 100 full-speed dashes on the dirt track. Loose dirt courses are perfect for leg strength, but even though I talk big, my knees are laughing at me. This is the trainer’s specialty—brutal, borderline-overwork conditioning.

But they say I have limitless stamina and superhuman grit for a reason. After just five minutes of rest, I’m mostly recovered—probably thanks to the trainer massaging my legs during breaks.

Once we’re done torturing my lower body, it’s time to destroy my upper body. I’m handed two 75kg dumbbells and forced into endless lifts. My face twists into something no maiden should ever make as my slender arms and back muscles scream. These are the muscles needed to drive my arms hard in the final sprint. Anyone who thinks "only legs matter for running" is dead wrong.

According to a book Tomio borrowed, "Upper body instability creates a 1-second gap over 1000 meters." In other words, weak or imbalanced upper-body muscles directly hurt performance.

When I first met Tomio, my upper body was a mess—tense shoulders and arms while running, weak core muscles (abs, obliques, back), and horrible posture. Half a year ago, my upper body wobbled like jelly, and my times were slow.

It’s easy to forget, but we horse girls cover inhuman distances—1000, 2000 meters—in mere minutes. And unlike humans, imperfect form hurts us more. Every stride with bad form wastes energy, and over thousands of meters, those tiny losses pile up. If every step is inefficient, after a hundred steps, you’re finished.

My current form isn’t perfect. Legends like Mejiro McQueen, Rice Shower, and Tokai Teio—while each had their own style—had flawless form. Zero upper-body sway, every muscle working in harmony.

Perfect runaway speed requires perfect form. Perfect form requires a perfect body. Strength comes from mastering the basics. Some famous athlete once said, "Those who can’t master the basics will never advance." Only now do I understand the weight of those words.

Eliminating weaknesses while honing strengths… something so simple is this painful. Before becoming a horse girl, I never worked this hard. Refining yourself for your ideals is simple—but agony. You may have rivals, but the real battle is against your own lazy, fragile self.

If I waste hours lazing around watching UmaHo instead of improving, the gap between me and those who keep grinding widens—a week, a month, a year. Without talent, I’ll never catch up. I won’t even be allowed to gaze upon the backs of those gifted, hardworking speed freaks. That’s why I endure this insane Spartan training, devoting every waking moment to conditioning and race research.

But these grueling days wear down my spirit so easily. I want to run away—toss aside the training center, the races, both of my dreams, and live some lazy, worthless life far away. Right now, I want to hurl these dumbbells, bolt from the training room, and just sleep forever in my blankets.

Yet the madness rooted deep in my heart won’t let me. "You can do more. Don’t stop until you die." A second version of myself snarls at me. Frustration boiling, I grit my teeth and throw myself back into training. I endure these torturous days through sheer willpower alone.

"—Ghh…! Agh…! Damn it!!"

"……That makes 1,000. Good work, Apollo. Stretch, then meet me in the trainer’s room."

Cursing under my breath to push myself further, I somehow endured another day of brutal Spartan training. As I returned the dumbbells to their rack, I noticed Tomio’s face twitch slightly in pain.

"……?"

I wondered why for a moment, but stayed silent, watching his back as he left before starting my stretches alone.

Slowly, carefully, I stretched my screaming muscles loose.

"Ow, ow…"

Ever since Special Week was confirmed for the Hopeful Stakes, my body’s been wrecked with muscle soreness. Ugh, it hurts too much to even touch my toes… Hahaha…

Just then, a pair of hands gently pressed against my back. I flinched and turned to see King Halo, who’d been cycling on the fitness bike earlier. Her soft eyes met mine as she nudged her chin forward. In one hand, she held a sports drink—seemed she’d decided to help me stretch during her break.

"Thanks, King-chan."

"……Apollo. You’re pushing yourself too hard lately. You’ll burn out before the Classics at this rate."

"Haha… Well, if that happens, guess I just wasn’t cut out for it. Stamina and grit are all I’ve got, so I have to work twice as hard."

King-chan’s expression tightened as she leaned into my back. "Owowow—!" I yelped, but finally managed to fold forward until my chest touched the floor. The pain wasn’t from inflexibility—just pure muscle agony.

"—Impressive. Last time, you couldn’t even get close."

"Ehehe, gotta keep improving! …Ow."

Still folded over, I flashed her a thumbs-up. These little conversations might be the only thing keeping me sane through these grueling days.

King-chan gazed into the distance for a moment before murmuring something under her breath.

"—gotta keep—"

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Hmmm."

I tilted my head but shifted positions as King-chan continued assisting my stretches. I’m really grateful—this kindness of hers is one of the things I love about her.

For a while, neither of us spoke. But it was a comfortable silence—the kind where words aren’t needed to understand each other.

The quiet was broken by King-chan’s voice, barely above a whisper.

"……How do you keep going, Apollo? Doesn’t it hurt? Don’t you ever want to quit? Even when there’s no guarantee of results?"

"Eh?"

"……Sorry. Forget I said that."

Uncharacteristically, King-chan’s tail drooped as she pursed her lips. Maybe seeing me struggle like this stirred something in her.

……King Halo comes from a legendary lineage. She’s already won three straight races, including a graded stakes (the 1800m G2 Tokyo Sports Junior Stakes), but this upcoming G1 might be weighing on her.

The pressure of being hailed as "the child of greatness" must be crushing in ways I can’t imagine. Maybe she’s so close to breaking under it that she’s forgotten why she’s fighting. Those words just now—they might’ve been a scream from her heart, something she couldn’t even confess to her trainer.

Well then, I’ll be the one to pull her back. I’ve envied her talent every single day, but if we’re going to race, I want her at her best. I grabbed her hand and squeezed.

"……They say a true champion is someone who refuses to give up—no matter what."

"————"

"Everyone fights for different reasons. Maybe the results won’t come—but then you just grit your teeth and push harder. What matters is whether you quit or not… I think. ……Was that too cliché? Ugh, that sounded lame. Sorry, King-chan."

I tried to laugh it off awkwardly. King-chan’s eyes widened before she suddenly burst out laughing.

"What was that? Pfft—"

"Ahaha…"

"Thank you, Apollo… You just blew my worries away."

"Really?"

"Yes. I’m a champion. No matter what hell awaits me, no matter how many losses I suffer, I’ll never bow my head. That pride is unbreakable—I’d just forgotten something so simple."

"—King-chan?"

"It’s nothing. I’ve just… sorted out my thoughts."

"……I see. That’s great!"

A fierce light burned in King-chan’s eyes now—a jade-green resolve so intense it could ignite anyone who saw it. The hesitation from earlier was gone.

Maybe King-chan and I aren’t so different after all. That stubborn grit, the tunnel vision when we’re fixated…

I raised a fist toward her. After a brief pause, she smirked and bumped her knuckles against mine—hard.

"You’re running in the Hopeful Stakes, right?"

"Yeah. You too?"

"Oh yes—Apollo. I have absolutely no intention of losing. This King will take first place in the Hopeful Stakes."

"Of course, I’m not planning to let you have the lead either, King-chan. Sure, we’re both out of our element in middle distances—but I’ll crush you and Spec-chan with everything I’ve got!"

Even a jewel covered in mud is still a jewel. No matter how battered she gets, King-chan will always rise again—that’s the kind of horse girl she is. I envy that resilience. I envy her mental strength. Ahh, I’m so glad I get to share this era with her. Weirdly enough, we vibe well too.

After exchanging thin smiles and a long stare, I grabbed my gear and headed for the locker room.

"Alright, I’m heading out first! Later, King-chan!""Yes. Until next time, Apollo."

Reaffirming the presence of a formidable rival, I felt the flames of passion roar hotter in my chest.

Fresh from the shower and changed, I stepped into the trainer’s room. Tomio was hunched over his laptop inside, but swiveled his chair toward me at the sound of the door.

"Trainer, massage time~"

I flopped facedown onto the makeshift nap bed in the corner and waited like usual. He approached soon after, warning "I’m touching you" before his hands made contact with my legs.

"Aaaahhh~ Feels so goooood~"

"Quit making noises like that."

The moment his fingers dug into my exhausted muscles, an old-man groan escaped me. Telling me to hold it in is pointless—this is as involuntary as sighing "ahhh~" when sinking into a hot bath.

"Tomio, you’re way too good at this~"

"……Not sure if that’s a compliment, sigh… Apollo, any discomfort in your legs? Swelling? Pain when I press here?"

"Nope, all good~"

Post-workout massages aren’t just for recovery—they’re also a way to check for hidden injuries or abnormalities. A hands-on diagnostic, you could say.

When did these sessions even start? I think it was about a month into training when Tomio suddenly blurted, "Please—let me touch your legs!"

The bombshell made me recoil, but he had his reasons: massage therapy, diagnostics, muscle development tracking… Once I heard it was for my long-term growth, I agreed immediately.

Some horse girls refuse to let anyone touch their legs, even trusted trainers. So Tomio seemed genuinely surprised when I offered mine so casually.

I mean, a horse girl’s legs are worth as much as her life—maybe more. They’re the irreplaceable tools of our trade. But the faster we run, the more vulnerable they become. Our slender legs aren’t built to handle 70-80 km/h impacts. That’s why serious racers obsess over staircases and uneven pavement, and why most hate letting others near their legs.

Fragile as glass yet more vital than our hearts—that’s what these limbs are. And right now, my trainer’s palms are gliding over them, his fingers kneading with practiced precision. It feels too good, almost sinful. Like I’m melting into a puddle of bliss.

"Wrapping up now…"

With that, Tomio finished by pressing key acupressure points. Apparently, he got licensed in massage therapy during his assistant trainer days—and it shows. Without this, my muscles would never recover enough to survive the daily grind. Sure, being manhandled isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s necessary.

Well, not like he’d ever have ulterior motives anyway. …Sadly.

"Thanks."

"Mm. Rest up."

"So, we’re working on countering Spec now?"

"Yeah. We’ve got time before curfew… gimme a sec."

The trainer walked back to his desk and clicked his mouse. Instantly, footage of Special Week’s races filled the monitor, accompanied by commentary.

This "Special Week Countermeasures" plan—originally King-chan’s idea—revolved around studying Spec’s races obsessively to pinpoint her habits. Does she have slow starts? How sharp are her turns? Does pressure rattle her? Can pacemakers disrupt her rhythm? Where does her closing kick activate? What’s her final stretch time? And so on.

["Special Week is surging—can she pull it off!? Passing the 400-meter mark—"]

The footage showed Spec’s latest race, where her devastating closing speed shone. But just as I needed to burn her sprint into my mind—my eyelids grew heavy.

Maybe the exhaustion had piled up too high. My focus flickered like a dying bulb, my head lolling against the trainer’s shoulder repeatedly before I’d jerk awake, rubbing my eyes.

(…Shit, I’m fading…)

"…………"

Suddenly, Tomio paused the video. I blinked up at him, startled—only to find his eyes shadowed with guilt.

"…Sorry, Apollo. I’m a shitty trainer."

"…Huh? I don’t think that’s true?"

His abrupt confession made me reflexively deny it. Without Tomio, I’d never have come this far. Sure, his Spartan methods are brutal, but they’re why I’ve improved.

When I told him as much, he shook his head.

"My training’s too extreme. There are smarter ways to build you up… but my theories are half-baked, so I’m just making you suffer needlessly. You’re nodding off because you’re pushed past your limits."

"Well… yeah, but your Spartan training’s also given me so much. My grit? You forged that. Nothing about this was wasted."

"…………"

"Actually, I’m begging you—train me even harder. The path to becoming the strongest stayer isn’t supposed to be comfortable."

"—!"

Tomio’s eyes widened. The strongest stayer—what would that even mean? To surpass legends like Mejiro McQueen and Rice Shower, I’d need to plunge into madness. To break limits.

So no matter how much it hurts us both, this Spartan training can’t stop. He seemed to realize it too, clenching his fist.

"…Got it, Apollo. But we’re at max intensity for now. Don’t forget that."

"’Kay~"

"Let’s call it tonight. …Sleep well."

"Good work, Tomio! Later!"

That day, I learned something: I’m not the only one suffering under this Spartan regimen.