<<[New Fanfic!!! [Danmachi: My Familia Is All Heroines]>>
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That silver-white figure bathed in the mellow afternoon sun—and in a landslide roar of cheers.
With a single step, Fujimasa March strode onto the course.
In that moment, it was as if an invisible, icy current swept noiselessly across the entire oval with her entrance.
The horse girls who'd been limbering up on the turf froze in unison.
A primal, indescribable shiver shot up their spines from the tailbone, every hair standing on end in an instant!
It felt like…
a flock of sheep quietly grazing, suddenly encompassed by the hunting gaze of a lone wolf descending from a mountaintop.
She had merely stepped forward—
but the pressure radiating from the silver-white center of the world spread without a sound, like a seamless net thrown over every opponent present and cinched tight.
A few with shakier nerves even stopped moving, a fine cold sweat beading at their temples.
Fear broke through their eyes; doubt seeped into their posture.
Their bodies were afraid.
Their instincts were howling.
"This aura…"
"Is she another Tamamo Cross?"
Several powerful horse girls who had G2 titles to their names stood on the course, their expressions grave, lips pressed tight.
Among them were those who had shared a track with Tamamo Cross last year—
and had felt, firsthand, the terror of the "strongest active" at her peak.
Now, with Tamamo Cross retired and the Central Big Three sidelined by injuries this spring,
they felt it again in this G2—
that "white lightning" pressure that seemed capable of ripping the racetrack itself apart!
Her long silver hair stirred lightly in the breeze, like moonlight in motion.
Just by standing there she naturally became the focus of the entire venue, drawing every gaze and holding it fast.
"Fujimasa March—!"
"Show them what South Kanto can do—!"
Waves of cheers braided together into a victory overture that belonged to her alone.
Taking in this familiar, thrilling sight, Fujimasa March let a faint curve rise at the corner of her lips.
In her eyes, a streak of blinding silver tracer flared.
All right…
the prelude is over.
Time for my solo.
Right here—Oguri, are you ready?
I'm coming to catch up!
"—All horse girls, to the gates!"
At the announcer's call, the rest of the field entered their stalls one by one,
their fighting spirit rising—and their wariness of that silver silhouette deepening.
As the rousing music at Kyoto Racecourse climbed to its peak, the commentator's voice rang out at full pitch:
"Kyoto Racecourse, G2—Kyoto Kinen, 2400 meters on turf, sunny skies, going: slightly heavy!"
When the last note fell, the music cut off—
and the world slipped into a taut stillness.
Above the gates, the signal light flicked—
a crisp crack sounded, and the doors sprang open.
Thirteen figures burst out like arrows loosed from the string.
"—We're off! A beautiful break—almost the entire field out in a line, looking to fight for the Front Runner position!"
The words had barely left the commentator's mouth when—
THOOM!!
A concussion like a hammerblow to the earth exploded outward.
A silver-white figure slammed a foot into the turf and a gale peeled up around her!
She wasn't merely running—she became a lance of air-tearing light.
With an out-and-out unreasonable, comprehension-breaking burst,
she seized the absolute Front Runner spot in the blink of an eye!
Wh—what is that!?
Those who'd planned to scrap for the lead out of the break only saw a blur—
then felt a massive wind-pressure rip past their flanks!
When their minds snapped back into place, Fujimasa March's back—already several lengths ahead and heavy with dominance—was all they could see.
Every prewritten script in their heads about jostling for position at the start was torn to confetti in an instant.
After a heartbeat of shock and hesitation, the Central veterans made the only rational choice—
they collectively eased off the throttle.
Keep fighting for the lead?
Don't be ridiculous.
Dueling that kind of monster for position right out of the gates…
that's not "contending"—that's suicide.
And so, within mere seconds of the start, a strange picture unfolded.
Fujimasa March, like a solitary lead dancer, swept clear at the point of the spear—
while behind her, every other horse girl, cowed by her overwhelming presence, unconsciously abandoned their own rhythms,
stringing themselves into a neat queue that followed her tempo.
In the stands, Kuroha's mouth edged into the faintest smile.
Fumino stared tight at the track, her brows cinched even harder.
She saw her charge, Hatsushiba Ace, holding steady in the front half of the main pack—
locked onto the tail ahead with focused calm, seemingly unshaken by the leader,
observing, storing power.
"Hold your own rhythm…"
Fumino murmured, fingers unconsciously pinching her jacket hem.
…
But the race refused to bend to Fumino's wishes.
Fujimasa March's stride was so precise it might have been measured; each footfall landed with surging strength.
She didn't just keep widening the gap—
she controlled—fixing the pace at a band exquisitely uncomfortable for those behind.
They couldn't easily reel her in;
nor could they tell whether their own speed had slipped out of rhythm.
On a slightly heavy course like today's, that interference with breathing and cadence gnawed at them even more.
This was a higher order of control—
a suffocating defense erected atop absolute strength.
Time bled away in the grinding pursuit.
Thud-thud-thud…!
The drumbeat of feet hammered the course.
Past halfway, the strain began to show—
some steps lost their spring.
Still, these were Central-class horse girls; their bodies outstripped those from the regions.
They didn't let Fujimasa March simply break their rhythm.
Bang!
Fujimasa March swept into the final corner.
The silver girl cocked her head a fraction,
eye-corner taking in the churning line behind. Her red eyes held no ripples—only absolute focus.
"Seventeen-fifty meters… about time for you to move."
She breathed the words to herself.
Fujimasa March wasn't like Obey Your Master, who built victory formulas with oceans of data.
But when it came to tactics—and that razor nose for the track—she yielded to no one.
Every course has its quirks.
On Kyoto's 2400 meters, the instant you enter the final corner—
that is the bell for the endgame.
From the final bend through the home stretch to the wire,
it's dead-flat all the way.
No undulations to sneak a breath, stash energy, or spring an ambush.
From the very first second of the endgame,
it's the purest trial—of pain tolerance, power output, and form economy.
With equal strength,
if you can't explode with everything you have the moment you hit endgame and start closing on the leader…
then your chance is gone. Nowhere in the remainder will you find even a thread of hope.
(End of Chapter)
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