Carrying a towel, shampoo, and other toiletries, Narita Taishin entered one of the private shower stalls in the first-floor bathing area.
Since lights-out was approaching, few Uma Musume remained inside.
That suited Taishin perfectly.
She disliked crowded places.
Although this was merely the dormitory bath, Tracen Academy had constructed it on an impressive scale.
In addition to the shower stalls, it included a small communal pool.
After an entire day of training, many Uma Musume enjoyed soaking there before bed to relieve their fatigue.
Steam filled the room, carrying a faint, soothing fragrance.
The aroma alone seemed capable of easing exhaustion.
Taishin stood silently beneath the warm mist.
Her slight frame appeared even more delicate in the steam.
Her pointed ears twitched faintly, but her expression remained blank.
She truly was tired.
It had taken only one day at the academy for her to feel an unmistakable pressure.
“That tiny girl is going to Tracen Academy?”
“You’re joking, right?
Taishin?”
“Can you imagine her standing out among all those elites and racing at the front?”
“Just thinking about it makes me want to laugh.”
“That’s cruel.
How could you say something like that?”
“Don’t you agree, Taishin?”
The old laughter returned to her inside the enclosed stall.
The voices of those who had mocked her—
“Damn it.”
Taishin closed her eyes and murmured.
As though enduring everything at once, she gradually clenched her fist.
Her fingers tightened until the knuckles turned white.
Warm water carrying the fragrance of medicinal herbs flowed over her.
The shampoo washed away the dust and exhaustion of the day.
Taishin stood motionless in the steam.
Droplets ran from her hair, down the slender line of her neck, and across her collarbone.
“I’ll do it.”
Her voice echoed inside the small stall.
“I’ll prove every last one of you wrong.”
Elsewhere, Kazuomi sat alone in the large staff bath.
A towel rested atop his head as he soaked naked in the hot water, leaning back against the wall with his mouth hanging open.
He looked as though his soul were leaving his body.
After the only other man rose and departed, Kazuomi effectively had the entire bath to himself.
Yet his mind remained elsewhere.
Whenever the surroundings became quiet, the small figure from the racetrack returned to him.
Despite the dim lighting, that final acceleration replayed repeatedly in his mind like a recording trapped on an endless loop.
Something seemed to obstruct his heart.
He felt restless and inexplicably anxious.
Kazuomi had hoped that soaking in the bath would clear his thoughts.
Instead, the problem had become even more tangled.
Why had the girl expressed emotions like that while running?
He had watched from a considerable distance and had never clearly seen her face.
Yet from her stride and posture, he had sensed—
Frustration.
Struggle.
Anger compressed beneath restraint.
She had appeared completely driven by emotion.
Kazuomi could not explain why he understood that.
But he had felt it.
That was precisely why the sight remained lodged inside him.
From his earliest memories, he had sat beside his father and watched Uma Musume races on television.
His father had preferred regional qualifiers to the major central races.
Kazuomi himself would sit beside him.
He had understood nothing at the time, but he had still watched.
Merely seeing the Uma Musume race had made him genuinely happy.
His father had once told him that the triumphs, losses, and ruthless victory-or-defeat structure of major central races were certainly worth appreciating.
However, regional qualifiers often offered only a single ticket to the central circuit.
That created a dividing line.
One second could mean heaven.
The next could mean hell.
Many competitors struggled for three years for that one opportunity.
Once it was gone, it was simply gone.
For that reason, even regional races contained both the blue of dreams and the bitterness of youth.
His father had spoken those words with a smile while patting Kazuomi’s head.
Kazuomi had not understood them then.
Now, considering them carefully, he felt strangely hollow.
He remembered again the Grade Two race that had left such a profound impression upon him.
The way that Uma Musume had run.
The absolute resolve she had carried.
Even through a television screen, Kazuomi had felt those emotions as if they were his own.
That powerful feeling—
That running form that seemed desperate to communicate something—
He had never forgotten it.
“What exactly is this?”
Kazuomi murmured blankly.
The question would apparently continue troubling him.
A droplet gathered at the tip of his hair and fell into the bath.
Kazuomi stared solemnly at the rippling water.
His expression became increasingly serious.
“I really want an ice-cold coffee milk.”