Chapter 620

NO．201：Mirrors also don't want to look in the mirror.

On the 3,000-meter Saichang.

Aimu Zhiji undoubtedly occupied the advantage.

The medium-distance venue was perfectly suited to the foot quality she had trained for.

Even though she wasn't leading the pack as a pacemaker, Aomo could see her good condition and her relaxed running.

In contrast, not far ahead of her, Miss Chengtian Lu with her striking blond hair.

But she showed an uneven distribution of stamina.

Her seemingly steady steps betrayed a hint of chaos, so clear under the precise capture of mechanical instruments that even the commentator would mention it with a worried face.

The G2-level Capital Newspaper Cup, as the final warm-up race a few days before the Chrysanthemum Prize, the concluding race of the classic Triple Crown, bore the heavy responsibility of warming up the crowd, and thus attracted an audience no less than that of a G1 race.

And nearly all the gazes were focused on the two before and after.

Chengtian Lu and Aimu Zhiji—these two horse girls who had already competed in the first two legs of the classic Triple Crown—were certain to be entered for the Chrysanthemum Prize, and taking part in this G2 race was like a top-tier star visiting a small town.

It would inevitably capture too many spectators' attention, and any slight mistake would be infinitely magnified.

Chengtian Lu, the athlete, was exactly in that state.

Having won the Jidong Derby before, she undoubtedly faced heightened expectations from everyone, with many fans even hoping she would defeat Aimu Zhiji again and claim victory.

Fans like these, seeing her in this state, will only provoke early boos on the Saichang.

The racecourse will faithfully reflect this scene, telling the spectators watching the race replay a harsh fact:

Even though Thus we output: Thus we output: Thus we output: QiuChuan chairman strives to foster a healthy, upward, harmonious and friendly campus atmosphere, outside the school, especially once on the Saichang— one must confront that often ugly reality.

When outside the Saichang, they can readily face things together with trainers and family.

But on the Saichang, they usually can only bear alone the great wave formed by converging public sentiment.

"But if it were Aizhi, she wouldn't be affected by this."

This is like a prophecy that is guaranteed to come true.

As someone who has reviewed the race records several times, the meteor naturally understands that the kid's performance in this race is fine.

"Indeed, one who focuses wholeheartedly on the Saichang can naturally stand firm amidst wind and waves." Watching the screen that seemed to fulfill those words, Aomo also felt no surprise.

After all, when all is said and done…

"Rather, in this tier of competition, even the horse girls' keen ears struggle to precisely catch the words from the stands."

The trampling footsteps on the grass, the lightning‑swift sprint, bring an overly fierce wind sound, enough to envelop their ears—whether they wear ear‑cover protection or face everything bare.

When you truly have no spare attention for the sounds onstage, and your eyes merely gaze forward, the pressure from the stands becomes irrelevant.

The truly unavoidable confrontation with time has always been the pre‑gate display and the preparation of the victor's stage.

By comparison, this race's environment is far from harsh; before the gate it is calm, and only after the midway point do undercurrents begin to surge.

And when the final stretch arrives—

It is a hurricane sweeping in, a violent final leg, breaking through the air's barrier from the ultimate sprint; while surging ahead, there flickers a fire not yet ignited, undulating in their eyes.

Any spectator who witnessed that scene would hold their breath; even Miss Meteor, who originally paid more attention to Aomo's reaction, now lifted her gaze along with the figure on the screen.

That is the frantic Narita Run.

The 3000‑meter endurance battle, from the third turn onward, becomes a long and steep slope.

It is a route that cannot be crossed by effort alone; it requires the support of predecessors' experience to be traversed.

Faced with such a road, the pounding heartbeat sounds like a wail, and the violent exhalation is spat out from the burning throat.

Any horse girl would inevitably ask herself—why run while embracing pain?

Why must we shift forward those heavy steps, again and again?

Those who find an answer in their heart will naturally advance their steps further.

And those horse girls who utterly disregard this question, running solely to atone, will also now pursue onward.

Aimu Zhiji arrives, carrying the voices.

The victor's steps on the Narita Road are naturally awaited by all; likewise, fans gather based on Aimu Zhiji being an 'independent horse girl without a trainer' and her stern bearing on the Saichang.

Naturally, they also expect Aimu Zhiji to 'wipe away past shame'.

But their voices are destined not to be conveyed.

Not only does the commotion of the final sprint usually cause temporary deafness in horse girls, but also because Aimu Zhiji's eyes have never held them.

Her eyes even lack those ahead who are about to be overtaken by her.

From start to finish, she simply locks onto the finish line.

With the bearing of a first‑class star, she carries the heart of dedicating victory to someone; if she cannot do so, it is all in vain.

Thus, she moves forward with even greater speed.

Like a meteor streaking across the horizon, she truly burns within the atmosphere.

As if to shed every burden, until her form wastes away to bone.

This is merely a G2 race, yet both still exert their utmost, even going further; in the near‑neck‑and‑neck finish, the machinery on the high platform delivers a solemn, minute gap.

Aimu Zhiji gains a point.

Countless cheers pour in, and she raises her hand to clasp it before her chest, making a prayer‑like gesture, as if responding to the cheers, causing them to swell further, straight to the heavens.

At that moment, the meteor suddenly turns her head and asks: "Any thoughts, Trainer Linton?"

"It still feels pretty bad."

Aomo, who had not been immersed in the scene, looked at the ending picture paused by the meteor and answered succinctly.

"The self‑moved martyrs and the crowd of spectators look almost laughable, and they also reduce the value of the defeated competitors to the lowest."

"Your choice of words really…"

"Not likable, right?" He raised his hand, pushed up the glasses on his nose, and Aomo promptly closed his eyes.

No need to command the opponent to rewind or replay; his memory itself supports that function, able to easily freeze-frame the initially unfavorable state of Narita Road, and even lock onto Aimu Zhiji's frenzied posture at her final sprint.

A truly all-out run naturally won't have a flawless, all-around pretty finish.

The expressions of most horse girls at the finish line…… even if they can't be called ferocious, they can be said to be somewhat… facial art.

Put on promotional posters, there's a certain chance they need to be re-cropped, or even reshot.

And what that brown-haired horse girl displays is a cold frenzy.

Like Bourbon, it seems not for anything else, only for the run of victory; the only difference is that her posture looks more like she wants to shake off every burden.

To the horse girls, what counts as a burden?

Is it the ornaments on their clothing, the horseshoes on their running shoes, or the worries common in their girlhood?

No, none of those.

The answer is the body.

Only the body is the sole burden.

These horse-eared girls step onto the track, and their souls have already reached the finish line; that inescapable burden is the body.

Only when the body follows the soul's violent trajectory across the track does one truly become oneself.

And in the heart, nothing is lacking anymore.

Aimu Zhiji undoubtedly achieved this extreme.

She surpassed that burden; that spirit was enough to move people, and it even made Aomo feel a deep-seated rejection.

The rejection reached a point where he couldn't bear to look, so he sighed, causing the shooting star to cast a doubtful gaze.

Before this, he had thought himself sufficiently composed.

But indeed……

"People ultimately find it hard to reconcile with the past."