Kaiya Sora, inhabiting Marzensky, had just crossed the finish line of the JRA mile run. The track blurred behind me, a swirl of green turf and brown dirt, the stadium lights scattering across the edges of my vision. The wind ripped at my hair, carrying the faint smell of grass and dust. My lungs screamed for air, every muscle throbbed, every joint burned, but every ounce of training I had poured into this body over the last three years fired perfectly, like a well-oiled machine.
The start had been violent, and I had been ready. Burst Start pushed me forward immediately, a spring-loaded launch that carried me past the first few steps faster than my previous maximum. My heart pounded, matching the rhythm of my hooves striking the turf. I felt the familiar hum in my chest, adrenaline layered with Guts and Endurance, a mesh of pure physical instinct and honed reflexes. The first turn approached, tight, almost punishing, and I felt Corner Recovery snap into place. My stride never wavered. Every micro-adjustment, every subtle lean of my shoulders, every step inwards on the curve aligned as if the track itself bent to my body's command.
I could hear them, even in the blur. Gold Swinging Mastro on my inside and Professor of Arc on the outside. They were trying to sync with me, matching my speed, feeling for any weakness. Their AI was perfect enough to pressure me, smart enough to challenge, but in the face of my preparations, they were shadows, echoes of the greatest Uma Musume, yet still limited by the system's constraints. I knew them because I had studied their histories, their racing tendencies, and every corner, every straight, every reaction had been drilled into me.
Beeline activated as we stretched into the first straight. I barely noticed the micro-stumbles that would have cost me in previous years. Straightaway Recovery corrected them before my body even processed what went wrong. Every skill flowed seamlessly into the next: Rushing Gale kept my line clean, Concentrate honed my focus into a laser of rhythm and awareness, Take the Lead reinforced my pace while Unrestricted overrode the tiny hesitations my nervous system tried to sneak in. I wasn't just moving. I was dancing with the turf, anticipating every step, every angle, every pressure from the pack around me.
And then came the final corner. My chest heaved, my legs burned like they were carrying molten iron, but I had been waiting for this. Red Shift LP 1211-M, the ultimate inherited burst, activated. Instantly, every fiber of my body tensed, snapped, then propelled me forward like a bullet uncoiling. I felt the rhythm of my stride compress, my speed spiking beyond anything I had ever reached in the Classic or Senior Year races. It was perfection incarnate: my training, my stats, my skills, all converging in a single, flawless launch onto the home stretch.
The crowd blurred. The NPCs tried to follow. Gold Swinging Mastro faltered for a heartbeat. Professor of Arc tried to surge on the inside, but their timing was slightly off, and the perfect chain of Corner Recovery, Red Shift, and Wind Rider left them behind. Mile, turf, dirt, medium, front-runner. All S. Long distance, A. Every calculation, every repetition over the last three years, every tiny four-and-a-half-point stat increment, every experimental skill trigger had built this moment.
I crossed the finish line, chest heaving, legs trembling, muscles quivering under the strain. The cheers, the faint hum of the empty stadium, the echoing footsteps of NPCs, all collapsed into a single vibration in my mind. It was quiet, almost surreal. I felt the weight of everything I had done: the early mornings, the countless repetitions, the medium-distance races where I had survived rather than won, the dirt exposures that burned my legs raw, the skills farmed, the corners mastered. All of it crystallized into this moment.
I slowed, letting my legs catch up, my chest heaving as I walked the final few meters. The turf felt impossibly soft beneath my feet. I sank slowly to my knees, hands on the grass, staring at the track that had carried me through three years of meticulous preparation. A quiet thrill ran through me, an electric shiver. I realized. almost laughing at the absurdity of it. That every turn, every repetition, every single drop of sweat, every experiment, every simulated burst and recovery, every NPC mirror I had faced, had led to this perfection.
And then the system spoke.
System [Congratulations on finishing training mode!]
System [Overall evaluation S]
System [Prepare for launch in....10%....20%....50%....99%...]
I froze. My heart skipped. The air in my lungs tightened. And then, I was reborn.
The world snapped into white light. When it faded, I was back in the small, unfamiliar room where it had all begun. My hands were on the same phone. My body felt small again, fragile compared to the monstrous perfection I had just inhabited.
Kaiya Sora: "Not again!"
I sank onto the bed, catching my breath, still reeling. It had felt so real, the speed, the timing, the skill activations, the NPC pressure. Every element had been exactly as it would have been in a Senior Year championship, every skill firing in perfect sequence, every stat responding instantly. But it had only been training?
The realization sank in slowly, a mix of frustration, exhilaration, and disbelief. Every race, every mile, every dirt sprint, every tight corner, had been a simulation, yet my instincts, my timing, my understanding of my own body and the race environment, had sharpened as if I had lived through it. I could feel the mental panel ticking in the background, stats adjusted, aptitudes slightly improved. Front-runner style, medium-distance efficiency, dirt adaptation, all nudged upward just by simulation.
I ran through the mental checklist again, each point echoing in my mind like a drumbeat:
Front-runner S potential: Maxed.
Medium distance A+: Perfected.
Mile and short S: Confirmed.
Dirt adaptation: Improving steadily.
Skills: Corner Recovery, Straightaway Recovery, Red Shift LP 1211-M, Rushing Gale, Wind Rider, Beeline, Take the Lead, Unrestricted. Activation efficiency maxed.
Pressure handling: Experienced mirrors of history's top Uma Musume, survived perfectly.
I leaned back against the wall, exhausted in a way that only perfectly executed simulation under maximum theoretical pressure can produce. The knowledge was mine now, stored in my mind and body: if the URA Finals or the American races came tomorrow, I had already run them in perfect form. Every NPC mirror, every tight corner, every burst, every turf and dirt stride. I had survived and dominated it.
Yet, paradoxically, a thrill lingered beneath the fatigue. This wasn't just training. This was proof. Proof that everything I had done since Junior Year, every increment, every trial, every failure and adjustment, had prepared me for domination. If this had been a real Senior Year race, I would have left every competitor in the dust. Every skill would have triggered. Every stat would have responded. I could feel it in my bones.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a single thought pulsed:
"This is only the beginning. Real races will be harder, real NPCs will be smarter, stakes higher. But now I know. I can survive. I can dominate. I can push beyond what anyone else believes possible."
The room was silent. The phone screen glowed, Uma Musume Pretty Derby open, as if waiting. My fingers hovered over the panel, my mind running through every skill sequence, every corner angle, every burst timing.
Kaiya Sora: "I can't waste a single moment. Every turn counts, every straight counts. I've trained for this, I'll make it perfect."
I closed my eyes, recalling the wind tearing past my face, the pounding rhythm of hooves beneath me, the perfect chain of skill activations, the pressure of history's best mirroring me at every step. When I opened them again, the world felt different. I wasn't just Kaiya Sora. I wasn't just Marzensky. I was the product of three years of perfect, ruthless, calculated growth.