Chapter 117: This Here's a Festival
From Tokai Teio's words—and the subtle look she exchanged with Mejiro McQueen—Makoto sensed a faintly complicated emotion. Still, he chose not to dwell on it.
Japan's racing system had been modeled on that of Europe and America from the very beginning.
And from that time on, conquering an overseas Grade 1 had always been considered one of the highest standards by which to judge both an Umamusume and her trainer.
In recent years, the industry has placed ever greater importance on international races. More and more Umamusumes had embarked on overseas expeditions, and those standards had only grown in weight.
Yet looking at past results, to shine on the world stage, there was no question that you first had to prove yourself the strongest in Japan.
There was no need to worry about such distant goals right now. The Classic Triple Crown came first.
"I understand. As I said before—I'll give it my all."
Makoto gave his pledge once more.
"Good. And once I have more news, I'll let you know right away."
Teio gave a firm nod of her own. Then, in an instant, the businesslike seriousness melted away, replaced by her usual cheerful grin.
"All right! We've been talking shop for too long. Let's lighten things up, shall we?"
"Don't forget—this is Kita-chan's very first G1 victory! The first leg of the Classics, the Satsuki Sho! A night to celebrate!"
"I propose a toast—to Kita-chan's victory!"
"Yeahhh! Cheers!"
The room erupted once more into cheers.
The fragrant freshness of sushi, the sweet tang of assorted drinks, the sizzle of Pacific saury roasting over charcoal—it all filled the banquet hall in a wave of warmth.
…
Having an Umamusume with such wide connections had turned out to be an unexpected advantage, one that had already borne impressive results. Going forward, it was clear they had to press on even harder.
The next race was the Japanese Derby. The ideal training plan would naturally mirror the Satsuki Sho: first, targeted special training, then sparring in training races with experienced senpai, fine-tuning based on actual results.
Among the senpai who had already been helping Kitasan Black, Vodka and Special Week were both Derby winners. Just their guidance alone would cover a great deal of ground.
If they could also spar with Deep Impact and Orfevre, the results would be beyond question.
To make that happen, he'd simply have to do what he had promised—give everything he had.
So when the banquet finally ended, Makoto was ready to call it a night, rest properly, and begin preparations the next day.
But Kitasan Black's invitation before they parted ways made him reconsider.
"Trainer, come to my house tomorrow at noon, okay?"
"When we were backstage, Grandpa said it over and over—that he absolutely has to invite you over, to properly thank you."
"You don't know how excited he was, Trainer."
"I was getting ready to go on stage, and suddenly Grandpa burst into the backstage area, saying he wanted to get up there and sing a song too!"
"Like that would ever work—it's not the Kohaku Uta Gassen, you know…"
"Anyway, promise me you'll come tomorrow, okay?"
Makoto could easily understand Saburo's excitement, and agreed without hesitation.
After all, the man had supported racing for decades without ever seeing a G1 victory. And now, that long-cherished dream had finally come true—delivered by the granddaughter he adored. Anyone would be beside themselves with joy.
This was simply his way of expressing it, along with his heartfelt gratitude toward her trainer.
Yet the next day, when Makoto arrived at Kitasan Black's home, he found himself overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the celebration.
The butler, face shining with excitement, swung open the familiar wooden doors. In that instant, a roaring tide of sound surged out from within, crashing into Makoto as though to sweep him off his feet.
Dozens of disciples of the Kitajima household stood lined up on either side, clad in indigo festival happi coats. Some swung great uchiwa fans with all their strength, while others brought heavy drumsticks down onto enormous taiko drums.
With every beat of the drums and sweep of the fans, they shouted in unison—"Hee-yoh! Hee-yoh!"
The pounding rhythm and booming chants reverberated through the courtyard, making the great red lanterns hanging from the eaves tremble as if alive.
From each lantern dangled photographs and banners, every one the same: a black-haired girl surging past the finish line.
Before the fluttering banners stood a towering stack of sake barrels, rising nearly three meters tall.
And in front of that mound, dressed in full festive attire and plucking a lacquer-red shamisen with fervor, was none other than Saburo Kitajima himself—his face alight as if today truly were a festival day.
At that sight, Makoto had no more doubts. Kitasan Black's words from last night had been the plain truth.
Had she not refused him, this grandfather really would have stormed the winner's stage as though it were the Kohaku Uta Gassen, belting out Matsuri or Awa Odori for all the world to hear.
"Trainer!"
The familiar voice cut through the chaos of the "festival grounds." From beneath the eaves, quick footsteps clattered against the wooden corridor.
Makoto turned instinctively toward the sound—and froze.
Kitasan Black usual ponytail of jet-black hair had been gathered today into a neat, elegant chignon, set off by a crimson-and-gold maple-leaf hairpin.
A deep indigo obi cinched her waist, its folds tracing out a sleek, athletic curve. With each step, the hem of her crimson long-sleeved kimono lifted, revealing the faint shimmer of silver patterns beneath.
As she hurried closer, the sleeves billowed, revealing slim wrists bound with golden cords.
A faint, unfamiliar fragrance drifted over him—nothing like the mingling of sweat and grass he knew so well. This was sandalwood… or perhaps the lingering smoke of festival incense.
The girl who had contorted her face in fierce exertion at the finish line last night, who had beamed with unrestrained joy at the victory banquet—now carried herself with a quiet, unexpected grace.
And yet, the moment she clasped his hand, brimming with excitement, her familiar cheer and boundless energy returned in full.
For some reason, Makoto's throat went dry. He instinctively stepped back.
"Trainer! I—"
Eyes shining, she bit her lip, then pulled her hand back, laughing awkwardly as she shifted her weight.
"This outfit… Grandpa insisted I wear it. He kept saying, 'A champion needs the dignity of a furisode.' He never said anything like that before."
"So… it looks strange, doesn't it?"
Makoto finally came to his senses. Straightening his collar, he forced himself to smile as he always did.
"…It suits you."
And then, unable to help himself, he added:
"I mean… you look good. Kitasan—you look really good in that outfit today."
"Heheh~ Well, I usually wear this for festivals anyway—ah!"
Scratching her head out of habit, she accidentally dislodged the hairpin. With a small cry, she fumbled for it, only for Makoto to snatch it deftly from the air.
"Ugh, clumsy me… hold on a sec, Trainer."
Grinning sheepishly, she held the hairpin in her lips and turned her head, gathering up the strands of hair that had come loose.
Makoto adjusted his collar again and averted his gaze, trying to focus instead on the courtyard still roaring with festival-like fervor.
But out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't help remembering how, during training, she would bite down on a simple hair tie the very same way, pulling her hair back with the same casual ease.
"All right! Sorry for the wait!"
Hair neatly redone, Kitasan Black reached out her hand to him once more.
"Now then… welcome, Trainer, to today's Champion's Special Festival!"