In Kitasan Black's field of vision, four or five meters to her right and slightly behind, was Deep Impact—the one she had thought was at the very back just a second ago.
The forward-leaning figure was reflected in her retinas, seemingly four or five meters away.
The track boomed beneath the other girl's light yet explosive steps. Her taut leg muscles trembled at high frequency like hydraulic pumps, each push-off blasting a small shallow crater into the woodchip surface.
Dark brown lightweight woodchips sprayed continuously to both sides and behind her, some even flying in front of Kitasan Black's eyes.
Kitasan Black unconsciously turned her head away, then snapped it back a moment later, her pupils shrinking.
In the blink of an eye, her senior had already drawn level with her.
Her chestnut long hair and ponytail were pulled taut behind her by the headwind, while her bangs had been blown apart, revealing beneath her smooth forehead a pair of golden eyes that seemed to burn.
Her pupils narrowed slightly as she stared straight ahead. Her nostrils and lips were tense, as though she were not running a training race, but a prestigious battlefield like the Japanese Derby.
Yet despite her obvious total concentration, this senior's breathing rhythm, stride length, Stride Frequency, and everything else remained terrifyingly steady.
Kitasan Black had the dazed feeling that this absurd early-race burst was nothing more than an after-lunch stroll's little diversion to her opponent—utterly normal condition.
So... what kind of Running Style, what kind of tactic was this, exactly?
Since her debut—even including all the training before it—this was the first time she had panicked.
It was not as though accelerating explosively in the early stage was impossible.
Right after leaving the Start Gate was when one had the most stamina. If one