Chapter 110.
3 minutes, 19.7 seconds.
That was the official finishing time flashing across the Flemington jumbo-tron. Rice Shower had crossed the wire exactly 0.1 seconds ahead of Jeune, clinging to a margin of less than a single horse length. Visually, it was a grinding, agonizingly close finish—but mathematically, it was a miracle.
He had won.
"WHAT ABOUT THE CRUSHING TOP WEIGHT?! WHAT ABOUT THE CURSED WIDE DRAW?! ALL THE DOUBTS VANISH INTO THE MELBOURNE AIR! STANDING VICTORIOUS AT FLEMINGTON IS THE UNDISPUTED STRONGEST STAYER ON THE PLANET!"
The live commentator's voice cracked into the microphone, echoing across the massive Australian venue.
"SHUTA AN RAISES HIS RIGHT INDEX FINGER TOWARD THE SKY! THIS IS HIS FIRST TIME CONQUERING THE MELBOURNE CUP! YOUNG MAN, I GUARANTEE THERE WILL BE AN AVALANCHE OF INVITATIONS WAITING FOR YOU TOMORROW! AUSTRALIA RESPECT YOU!"
Shuta An couldn't hear a single word of the broadcast over the deafening roar of the crowd. He kept his right index finger raised in a silent, absolute claim of supremacy, waving it once toward the grandstands before settling his weight back into the saddle. He gently drew the reins back, decelerating smoothly as he leaned down to affectionately stroke his partner's sweat-soaked, heaving neck.
"After a grueling marathon like this, absolutely no one can doubt your long-distance pedigree." the young man murmured softly, entirely to himself. "To maximize his future breeding value, he'll need to secure a middle-distance title; but he truly struggles with explosive pacing. It might be better to just wait until he retires to the breeding sheds and let the sire's bloodline supplement his speed genes."
Trapped within the vessel of the racehorse, Rice Shower heard every single word with crystal clarity.
Breeding value? Speed genes?
Even though her mind was spinning from the sheer, burning exhaustion of the race and the lingering shock of the kiss, she couldn't help but blink in bewilderment.
I don't understand these strange concepts... but the way he mutters to himself about future race schedules and potential growth... he sounds exactly like my Trainer.
She chose to remain perfectly still, quietly comparing the similarities in her heart.
Down by the paddock fences, the Japanese contingent was a mess of unadulterated joy.
Trainer Iizuka Yoshitsugu, Groom Kawashima Fumio, and the Horse Owner were locked in a tight embrace, tears openly streaming down their faces.
"To actually shatter the curse and win despite all those brutal disadvantages—you both truly worked miracles today." the Horse Owner stepped back, roughly wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "Rice Shower gave us everything she had. Next year will be his final season in active racing. We will return to this exact turf next year to attempt a consecutive victory."
"The handicap weight they assign him next year will be absolutely terrifying."
Iizuka reminded him, a wry, exhausted smile on his face.
"I don't care." the Owner replied, looking at the Trainer with absolute conviction. "As long as it is a pure test of stamina, I believe Rice Shower can conquer anything."
Kawashima blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief.
"We should probably consult Shuta-kun before locking that in, shouldn't we? I wonder what his grand vision for his final race schedule looks like."
"That is a very fair point." the Owner and Iizuka quickly agreed.
But Iizuka couldn't shake the heavy finality of the Owner's previous sentence.
After next year, Rice Shower will retire—
He murmured internally, watching the small black horse being led back toward the winner's enclosure.
The greatest legend this stable has ever produced will be leaving me.
Iizuka knew with bittersweet certainty that he would likely never experience a high like this again in his entire career. A profound, aching reluctance settled deep in his chest.
—
When Shuta An opened his eyes in his Tokyo apartment, the morning light was filtering through the curtains.
He immediately pulled up his system interface. As expected, a new passive trait glowed in his attribute viewer:
[Long Drive: Slightly increases speed and cruising efficiency when participating in long-distance races.]
Simple and crude, the young man complained silently, swiping the notification away. But this is undeniably tailor-made for Rice. The Melbourne Cup in the real world doesn't enforce those archaic, arbitrary weight handicaps. It's entirely possible for Rice Shower to challenge for a three-peat on that turf in the future.
Shuta An felt a surge of absolute confidence. But before they could conquer the Southern Hemisphere, they had a domestic mission to complete.
This weekend was the Kikuka Sho.
If she won under those hellish conditions in the Dream World, she absolutely has to win even more beautifully in reality, the young man set a quiet benchmark for himself. At the bare minimum, we are winning by two clear lengths.
Arriving at Central Tracen Academy, Shuta An clocked in, exchanged a few brief pleasantries with Kitahara in the hallway, and locked himself inside the Team Sadalsuud office.
It was the week of the Kikuka Sho.
Beyond the grueling reality of finalizing race-week conditioning, a Trainer's administrative workload exploded. There were mandatory pre-race press conferences, exclusive media interviews, and endless bureaucratic red tape with the URA Association.
The old Shuta An would have found the paperwork agonizing, but he was now a seasoned veteran at navigating the corporate machine.
The official press conference is tomorrow. I'll just blitz through all the team's training menus and weekly reports today.
Shuta An decided, clapping his hands together to focus.
Once the paperwork is submitted, I need to call Rice in and check her mental state. The media has been spinning a toxic narrative lately, claiming she had an unfair advantage in the Derby and predicting Mihono Bourbon will crush her in a Kikuka Sho revenge match. I have to ensure Rice isn't internalizing that garbage.
Drafting the training reports required surgical precision. He couldn't just copy and paste previous regimens; every week demanded nuanced adjustments based on the girls' bio-feedback.
Dober requires zero physical training this week. She just survived the Tenno Sho, so a full week of restorative rest is mandatory.
He typed rapidly.
His mind shifted to his black-clad stayer.
The primary focus is Rice. According to Sadalsuud's standard tapering protocols, her overall intensity should drop significantly this week. However... considering the grueling 3000-meter nature of the Kikuka Sho, I still need to stimulate her stamina reserves without overloading her joints.
He paused, pulling his hands off the keyboard.
I'll swap out the hill sprints for two additional deep-water swimming sessions. Grinding up the slope puts too much micro-stress on her legs; we absolutely cannot risk inflammation the week before a Classic.
—
Across campus, in the pristine quiet of the Student Council office, Symboli Rudolf and Maruzensky sat on opposite leather sofas, quietly sipping Darjeeling tea.
"The massive collection of welcome-back props and banners the URA prepared for Teio's Arc de Triomphe victory are just sitting in storage untouched."
Maruzensky noted, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Why don't we just alter the lettering and repurpose them for Mejiro Dober's retirement ceremony? It's a shame to let all that expensive production go to waste."
"Nobody anticipated that Teio would literally sneak out the backdoor of the airport the moment her plane landed."
Rudolf sighed, rubbing her temples. What exasperated the Emperor the most was that Tokai Teio flat-out refused to tell her where she had disappeared to that afternoon.
"Teio is growing up. She has her own private world now; she isn't going to share every little secret with the Council anymore."
Maruzensky smiled softly, observing the subtle melancholy in Rudolf's eyes.
"I am well aware." Rudolf replied after a brief pause. "Regarding the props—any banners with pre-printed names will show obvious signs of alteration, and Dober will definitely feel slighted if she notices. We can transport the general, unbranded items down to Kansai and utilize them for the Queen Elizabeth II Cup."
"The accounting department at the URA Association is going to breathe a massive sigh of relief." Maruzensky chuckled. "I heard they were sweating bullets over the budget if they had to commission an entirely new set of stadium-scale decorations."
"It is merely a retirement ceremony. How much more could the Association possibly bleed from their budget?"
Rudolf asked skeptically.
Maruzensky took a sip of her tea, keeping her true thoughts to herself.
They are likely brewing something monumental this time, she mused.
Unlike Silence Suzuka or Oguri Cap, Mejiro Dober was an undefeated Triple Tiara queen who had systematically conquered both the domestic circuit and the world. She had provided the URA with a mountain of prestige.
For the board executives, Dober's retirement wasn't just a farewell; it was a grand rehearsal for the inevitable, astronomical spectacle of Tokai Teio's future retirement. Sparing no expense now made perfect political sense.
—
Late in the afternoon, Rice Shower quietly pushed open the door to the Sadalsuud clubroom. She took a seat on the sofa, gingerly accepting a chilled glass of carrot juice from her Trainer.
"Trainer... is there a new tactical announcement?"
Rice asked softly, keeping her knees pressed tightly together as she smoothed the fabric of her skirt.
Shuta An immediately caught the subtle shift in her vocabulary.
She dropped 'Onii-sama'.
Choosing not to interrogate her on it just yet, he sat down opposite her, popping the tab on a can of sparkling water.
"No announcements. I just wanted to have a quiet chat with you today, Rice."
Rice's large ears twitched nervously. Her mind instantly flashed back to the vivid, surreal intimacy of the lucid dream from the night before. The searing crack of the whip, the breathless acceleration, and the ghost of a lingering kiss against her neck—she remembered every terrifying, intoxicating detail perfectly.
"Trainer... did Rice do something wrong?"
She shrank back into the cushions, looking profoundly guilty and pitiful.
"No, Rice, you haven't done a single thing wrong, and I'm certainly not here to scold you." Shuta An shook his head gently, his gaze locking onto her. "I've been monitoring the media chatter regarding the Derby recently. I know your roommate is an avid reader, and I checked the library logs. You've been reading the weekly sports magazines, haven't you?"
"I read them. The articles say—they say even though Rice won the Derby, it feels like I stole it. Like I'm a thief who ruined Bourbon-san's perfect story."
Shuta An stood up, crossed the distance between them, and placed a warm, firm hand on her shoulder. The gentle weight of his palm against the fabric of her dress served as a physical anchor.
"Rice. I need you to completely ignore the garbage those reporters are spinning. Do not let their manufactured drama poison your heart."
"I don't hate Bourbon-san." Rice shook her head weakly, her voice trembling. "None of this is her fault."
"I'm not worried about you hating Mihono Bourbon." Shuta An smiled, a trace of bitter helplessness in his eyes. "I am worried about you hating yourself for fighting so desperately to win on the Tokyo turf."
"I..."
Rice opened her mouth to deny it, but the words caught in her throat. The guilt had been quietly eating her alive.
"Take all of this frustration, all of this unearned guilt, and compress it into raw, terrifying motivation on the track."
Shuta An's grip on her shoulder tightened slightly, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, unshakeable certainty.
"I know who you are, Rice. You can shatter their narratives. And I will be right there beside you when you do it."
Rice gathered every ounce of her fragile courage. She slowly lifted her head, her amethyst eyes meeting his.
"If... if I win the Kikuka Sho... will the cruel voices finally stop?"
"I cannot guarantee they will vanish entirely. But I promise you this: as long as they care about their own professional reputations, they will not dare to question your legitimacy ever again."
Shuta An answered honestly, refusing to offer her a hollow fairy tale.
The suffocating tension in the room slowly began to dissipate. The heavy, anxious aura clinging to Rice melted away, and her long ears finally stopped their erratic, nervous twitching.
"Trainer..." the small, black-clad stayer murmured after a long silence, her eyes burning with a quiet, lethal resolve. "Rice will give it her absolute all."
Seeing that her mental fortress had been successfully reinforced, Shuta An finally circled back to the anomaly he had noticed earlier.
"By the way, why did you revert to calling me 'Trainer' today? Did I implement a new training menu that made you uncomfortable?"
"No!" Rice panicked, waving her hands frantically in front of her chest. "Nothing like that at all! It's just... I just..."
A violent, furious blush exploded across her cheeks, turning her face the color of a ripe tomato. She couldn't possibly tell him the truth. How could she look him in the eye and explain the scandalous, masochistic lucid dream she had experienced?
"Never mind. You can call me whatever makes you comfortable."
Shuta An chuckled softly, tactfully letting the subject drop as he noted her flustered state.
In his eyes, Rice wasn't the type of girl capable of maintaining a lie, nor did he believe the toxic media narrative would successfully break her focus now. He had armed her for the war ahead.
Should I drop a warning shot at tomorrow's press conference?
The young man mused later that evening, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling of his apartment.
If a standard, run-of-the-mill Trainer publicly complained about media bullying, the press would smell blood in the water.
'He's defensive, let's turn up the heat,' they would think.
But Shuta An wasn't a standard Trainer. He had a brutal, documented history of ruthlessly humiliating reporters who crossed the line. If he fired a shot across their bow, the media would collectively flinch.
I'll give them something to chew on. Nothing overly dramatic. Just a casual, passing remark to let them know I'm watching.
—
The following morning, the press room for the Kikuka Sho was packed to absolute capacity. Flashbulbs strobed like lightning as Shuta An, scheduled as the final speaker, casually strolled onto the stage and took his seat.
A sharp, predatory grin rested on his face.
He leaned forward, extending his right index finger, and sharply flicked the head of the microphone.
Thump.
The harsh, amplified feedback instantly sliced through the ambient chatter, dragging every single pair of eyes in the room directly to him. The room fell dead silent.
Shuta An kept the grin plastered on his face as he leaned into the mic.
"Good morning, everyone." his voice was smooth, dripping with an icy, mocking sarcasm. "I am Trainer Shuta An. The man who, quite fortunately, stole the Japanese Derby this year."
The color rapidly drained from the faces of the assembled journalists. The temperature in the room plummeted.
Everyone in the industry knew exactly what he was referencing.
The media had assumed the arrogant prodigy Trainer wouldn't care about the tabloids bullying a sweet, quiet girl like Rice Shower for the sake of a dramatic narrative. But looking at the cold, dead eyes hovering just above that grinning mouth, they realized they had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Hmm—someone in the editorial department is going to lose their job, a veteran reporter from Twinkle magazine swallowed hard, cold sweat prickling his neck. And they absolutely deserve it. Trying to sabotage Rice Shower's mentality right before a Classic—with Shuta An's vindictive streak, he is going to make them bleed.
The reporters braced themselves for the inevitable, brutal verbal lashing.
But to their profound, terrified confusion, Shuta An simply adjusted his collar, seamlessly transitioned into discussing track conditions, and didn't mention the topic again for the remainder of the press conference.
He left the guillotine blade hanging perfectly still above their necks, and the silence was infinitely more terrifying than the strike.