The Kyoto Racecourse paddock was a cage of nervous energy.
It was a chilly Saturday afternoon. The stands weren't full—Debut races rarely drew the massive crowds of the G1 classics—but to Kagura Seiran, the noise was physical. It was a wall of sound: the murmur of betting men clutching newspapers, the high-pitched encouragement of fans, the announcements blaring over the PA system.
"Entry Number 4, Kagura Seiran. 442 kilograms. Weight change: None."
Seiran walked in a circle, tugging at the collar of her new racing uniform. It was simple—a sleek, white bodysuit with pale blue accents that mimicked the winter sky, covered by a modified flight jacket that flapped loosely around her shoulders. Sato had designed it. He said it was "aerodynamic." Seiran just thought the jacket helped block out the people staring at her.
"Stop fidgeting," Sato hissed from the trainer's partition. He looked pale. He was vibrating more than she was.
"The collar itches," Seiran murmured.
"Focus on the plan. Remember what we talked about?"
Seiran nodded slowly. "Don't go to the front. The front is windy."
"Correct," Sato wiped sweat from his brow. "Let them cut the air for you. Stay in the back. Relax. And when you see the Fourth Corner sign..."
"...I go home," Seiran finished.
"You go for the finish line," Sato corrected, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "But yes. Treat the finish line like your front door. Sprint to it so you can lock the world out."
The bell rang.
"All runners, please enter the track."
Seiran stepped onto the turf. The transition from concrete to grass was instant relief. The earth here was soft, well-maintained. It welcomed her.
She looked at the other fifteen girls. They were all shapes and sizes, vibrating with adrenaline. Some were slapping their cheeks. Others were praying. One girl, a favorite named Silent Spark, was waving to the crowd, soaking in the attention.
Seiran lowered her head. She didn't wave. She walked to Gate 4.
The metal enclosure of the starting gate was tight. Claustrophobic. The smell of iron and grease mixed with the scent of the turf.
Clack. Clack. Clack. The gates locked.
Seiran closed her eyes. The noise of the stadium was a roar now, a chaotic ocean of sound. Scritch-scratch. Shout. Scream.
Make it stop, she thought.
The starter climbed the tower. The flag went up.
"You want quiet?" Sato's voice echoed in her memory. "Run faster than the sound."
Clang!
The gates slammed open.
"AND THEY'RE OFF!"
The pack exploded forward. Fifteen girls surged ahead, fighting for position, elbows jostling, dirt kicking up in a chaotic cloud.
Seiran didn't surge. She stumbled slightly, her reaction time a fraction of a second slower than the trained elites. By the time she found her footing, the wall of runners was already ten meters ahead.
The crowd groaned. "Look at Number 4! Bad start!"
Sato, watching from the monitors, didn't flinch. "Good," he whispered. "Stay there."
Seiran settled into the rear. The "Late Start" wasn't a mistake; it was a preference.
Ahead of her, the pack was a mess of noise. The sound of sixty feet hammering the turf was deafening. The wind turbulence created by the lead group was choppy and violent.
But back here? In last place?
It was smoother.
Seiran breathed. In. Out.
She watched the hips of the girl in 15th place. She watched the rhythm.
Too fast, Seiran analyzed. They're all running too fast for the first 600 meters.
They reached the back straight. The favorite, Silent Spark, was leading the pack, setting a blistering pace. The crowd cheered for her courage.
Seiran felt the itch in her legs. The "End Closer" instinct was waking up. It was a cold sensation, like ice water flowing through her veins. The distance to the front was about fifteen lengths. It looked impossible.
"Passing the 800m mark! The pace is rapid! Silent Spark is trying to run away with it!"
Seiran tilted her body forward. The shift was subtle. She didn't speed up yet; she just... leaned into the wind.
The Third Corner. The slope of Kyoto began to descend. This was the famous "turf slide." Most runners fought gravity here to maintain balance.
Seiran let gravity take her.
She began to thread the needle. She moved from the outer rail toward the inside, slipping into the slipstream of the 14th runner, then the 12th. She was a ghost, drifting through the gaps in the pack.
"Hey, watch it!" a girl shouted as Seiran appeared silently at her elbow and then vanished ahead of her.
The Fourth Corner. The final curve.
The pack bunched up. The "Wall" was thick here. Eight girls wide, blocking the path forward. There was no way through.
Most jockeys would take their horse wide, losing distance to find clear air.
Seiran didn't go wide. She saw a gap. A tiny, shifting window between two tiring runners. It was barely wide enough for a shoulder.
The noise is loudest here, she thought. I need to get out.
The "End Closer" ignited.
It wasn't a gradual acceleration. It was a detonation.
BOOM.
Seiran's stride frequency doubled. She shot through the gap like a bullet, the wind whipping her flight jacket violently behind her.
The announcer choked. "—And from the back! LOOK AT THE WHITE SHADOW! KAGURA SEIRAN IS FLYING!"
She burst out of the pack. Suddenly, there was no one in front of her except Silent Spark, who was five lengths ahead and fading.
The noise of the crowd vanished. The sound of the other runners faded.
All Seiran could hear was her own heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. And the wind. The wind wasn't fighting her anymore. It was carrying her.
She caught Silent Spark at the 200m mark.
She didn't just pass her. She devoured her.
One moment Silent Spark was leading; the next, a blue-and-white blur tore past her with such force that the air pressure knocked Silent Spark off her rhythm.
100 meters. Seiran was alone.
50 meters. The silence was absolute. It was beautiful.
She crossed the finish line.
"GOAL-IN! IT'S A DEBUT SHOCKER! KAGURA SEIRAN! WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?!"
The time flashed on the board: 1:33.4.
A Course Record for a 2-year-old debut.
Seiran coasted to a stop. She took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs. Her legs felt warm, buzzing with a pleasant hum.
She looked up at the stands. The crowd was silent for a split second, processing what they had just seen. Then, a confused murmur rippled through them.
"Who is that?" "Did you see that last leg?" "She was dead last!"
Seiran adjusted her jacket, pulling the collar up to hide her face.
"Too loud," she whispered.
High in the private viewing box, Agnes Tachyon lowered her binoculars.
Her tea had gone cold. Her hand was shaking, just slightly.
On the table next to her were piles of data sheets—simulations of the upcoming Classic Season. Tachyon had calculated the odds for everyone. Jungle Pocket. Manhattan Cafe. Herself.
She picked up a red pen and drew a thick, violent circle around the name Kagura Seiran.
"Hypothesis confirmed," Tachyon whispered, a manic grin stretching across her face. "The Singularity exists."
She stood up, her lab coat swishing.
"Now... how do I break it?"