Relying on the raw instinct humring through her veins, Dream Weaver navigated the downhill bend—a treacherous ten-meter drop—with a posture so extreme it bordered on suicidal.
One wrong move, and the crushing force of her own acceleration would have flung her right off the track.
Sea the Stars, by contrast, looked almost graceful. She was far more seasoned on European turf than Dream Weaver, her stride long since perfected for the damp, heavy grounds of the continent.
As her Zone expanded, she seemed to dissolve into the storm-lashed racecourse.
To any other racer, the sodden marshland would have been a swampy shackle, but for her, it became a source of pure propulsion.
If Dream Weaver hadn't built up such a massive lead earlier, Sea the Stars' superior explosiveness and adaptability likely would have swallowed her whole by now.
Still, the gap was shrinking. The dozen-plus lengths that had once separated them had withered away; now, Dream Weaver held an advantage of less than six.
Six lengths. If they were a hundred meters from the wire, that would be a commanding, victory-sealing lead. But Dream Weaver was staring down two remaining straightaways that totaled nearly eight hundred meters.
The aura looming behind her grew increasingly terrifying.
It felt like a tidal wave poised to swallow the world, a crushing pressure that weighed on her heart and forced her to grind her teeth in desperation.
There was no room left for caution.
I can't hold back, Dream Weaver thought.
She had triggered "Kindling Flames" early, back at the thousand-meter mark, but she hadn't dared to bet everything on that single moment; she had saved a reserve of strength for the final kick.
But hesitation was no longer an option.
The closing shadow behind her was a constant, relentless reminder: if she wavered now, she would taste the same bitter defeat that had haunted this race for years.
Her hooves slammed into the turf, sending plumes of water exploding into the air as she cleared the downhill bend, emerging onto the final eight hundred-meter straight.
But reality isn't a simulation.
It isn't a world of fixed variables where "Guts" and "Stamina" remain peak until the bar hits zero. In the real world, life is a flickering thing that wanes with every ounce of physical exertion.
In the real world, numbers don't feel pain. But Dream Weaver did, and every pang threatened to derail her performance.
Even though her skills, "Nirvana" and "Seeing the True Self," could loop with "Kindling Flames" to create a self-sustaining cycle, they couldn't fix the fundamental flaw: the longer they remained active, the more agonizing the toll on her body became.
And that was without considering her reckless—nearly suicidal—strategy of accelerating through a downhill bend on a rain-soaked, heavy track.
To keep herself from being catapulted outward by her own momentum, Dream Weaver had burned through most of her mental fortitude in just the last five hundred meters.
The pain and the creeping weakness were impossible to ignore. Even a soul as resilient as hers was beginning to buckle under the weight of it all.
Perhaps it was the delirium brought on by the agony, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw it again: that streak of crimson light.
Dream Weaver remembered overtaking her. She knew the distance was now so great that the other Uma Musume couldn't possibly be there. She should have left her far behind.
"How is she catching up...? Is my speed dropping? Or is this... the Curse of the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe?"
With her body screaming and her mind fraying, the line between reality and hallucination blurred. The mounting pressure from Sea the Stars behind her only fueled a rising, instinctive irritation.
"This is my stage! This is my race! I don't need a ghost from the past!"
"A ghost clinging to the Curse... should just stay in the shadows and disappear!"
Dream Weaver's voice was a raspy growl. The side effects of "Kindling Flames" were so severe that every word felt like she was coughing up fresh blood.
The phantom didn't speak. How could something that wasn't there respond? To Dream Weaver's roar, she only offered a look of profound pity and sorrow.
That look sent Dream Weaver's mind into a spiral of chaos.
Her body was already pushed to the brink, its vitality drained by the Agnes Tachyon formula, and her mind was taut to the breaking point from the downhill descent.
Caught in that storm, she lost the ability to think rationally. She shouldn't have been wasting energy on a vision, but she couldn't help herself.
The pressure coiled in her heart finally snapped. Glaring back at those sorrowful eyes, Dream Weaver screamed.
"Don't you dare look at me like that!"
"If you hadn't wasted so much time... I wouldn't have to carry a broken body onto this track!"
"This was... this was supposed to be the first time I won a race just for myself!"
Throughout her life, Dream Weaver had never shown malice toward anyone—save for the truly irredeemable.
In her many lives across various scenarios, the only time she had ever shown clear hatred was toward those European trainers who had insulted Shiragawa.
Even as a Northern-family Uma Musume, when faced with a Mejiro Asama twisted by love and guilt, she had simply cut ties cleanly without ever uttering a harsh word.
As for her rivalries on the track? That was just business—tactical maneuvering to break an opponent's will for the sake of the win.
Dream Weaver was a gentle Uma Musume. In a way, that gentleness bordered on cowardice, because she could never bring herself to say anything hurtful to those she cared about.
Perhaps it was a mark left over from her previous life, but she always acted for the sake of others—from saving her mother to trying to rescue everyone she met in the scripted worlds.
Even back in reality, she wanted her victories to bring happiness to everyone else.
Someone like her would never voice the frustration and darkness festering inside.
But this was different. The person she was berating was herself—that phantom of the past, the ghost shackled to the Arc.
When facing herself, Dream Weaver didn't have to be kind.
She had pressured herself a thousand times before. Using self-scorn as fuel for momentum had become as much of a habit as trading physical pain for power on the track.
"I won't be a coward like you! Never!"
The moment the words left her lips, Dream Weaver's dark eyes—usually as deep as the night sky—were dyed a predatory crimson.
"Kindling Flames" flared to its absolute limit. Dream Weaver threw everything she had left onto the scales.
--+--
T/N: I have a Patreon! Webnovel will get 2 Chapters Every Day, and advanced chapters will be uploaded on Patreon.
It may not seem worth it now, but maybe in the future. Who knows!
[email protected]/AspenTL
If you guys wanna check it out.