Pimlico Race Course reached its boiling point the instant Sunday Silence crossed the line.
The black figure flashed like lightning tearing through a long night, and amid deafening cheers and screams, she broke through the finish line by force.
"The Champion is—! Sunday Silence—!!!"
The commentator's hoarse cry ignited the final frenzy, and the black sea in the stands surged completely. Flags waved wildly, roars gathered into a sound wave that shook heaven and earth, and countless voices overlapped, erupted, and existed for only one name:
"Sunday Silence—!!!"
"Black Tyrant!!!"
"Two crowns down! Only one left—!!"
"Unbeatable! Unbeatable! Unbeatable—!!!"
The waves of sound surged from every direction toward the black figure slowly decelerating at the center of the track.
She lifted her head slightly. Her golden eyes reflected streamers flying through the sky and the boiling sea of people. Her chest rose and fell with violent breaths, sweat sliding down her cheeks, but the curve at the corner of her lips was almost disdainful, cold and hard.
Her posture made it seem as though the sprint that had crushed every obstacle moments ago had been nothing more than casually brushing away a speck of dust.
Not far behind the finish line, Easy Goer slowly came to a stop.
Her blue-green hair was soaked with sweat, clinging to the side of her neck and cheeks.
She lowered her head slightly, her chest heaving violently, every breath carrying a burning ache. She raised her eyes and looked somewhat blankly at the huge record board hanging beside the track.
Displayed clearly upon it was the final margin:
Three lengths.
That number was like a cold nail, driving abruptly into her sight, then into the depths of her heart.
Compared with the last Kentucky Derby... she had actually improved.
Last time, Sunday Silence had left her five lengths behind.
But could Easy Goer truly accept this result?
Everything that had happened on the final straight blurred and flashed back through her mind.
One blue-green wall of Zone after another had risen, only to be smashed mercilessly to pieces before her eyes by that black thunder.
That tyrannical, unreasonable posture, pure power crushing everything in its path...
It was like a brief and violent dream.
But the number on the record board coldly showed the girl the reality before her.
It had not been a dream.
It was a gulf she still could not cross even after giving everything she had.
"Uu..."
An extremely soft, suppressed sob slipped from her throat.
She had clearly... already given it everything.
She had clearly... used everything her sister had taught her.
Subtraction.
Interference.
Confrontation.
At the most suitable moment, she had delivered the most precise strike.
She had thought she had touched a crack in that towering wall. She had thought she had found a possibility of climbing over it.
But that wall... at the final moment, had turned into a roaring black tsunami and swallowed her, along with all her efforts.
"I still... couldn't do anything..."
Tears welled from her eyes without warning, rolling hotly down her face, which was stained with dust and sweat.
She tried to bite her lip and hold them back, but the tears only flowed harder, and her vision quickly blurred into a wavering sheen of water.
It hurt.
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt!
Amid the heaven-shaking cheers of Pimlico Race Course, the roar of victory washed over every inch of the track again and again.
Streamers fell like rain, black flags formed a churning sea, and Sunday Silence's name was screamed and worshiped by the fans until their throats were raw, as if they meant to carve it into the bricks and air of the racecourse.
And at the center of that boiling sound, the blue-green figure slowly sank down.
In the end, Easy Goer's knees touched the dirt, warmed faintly by the sun and packed firm by countless hooves and spikes trampling over it.
She knelt there, her back no longer straight, her head lowered deeply until it nearly touched her chest.
Her blue-green hair hung in a mess, covering most of her face. Only her trembling shoulders and the teardrops that kept falling through the gaps in her hair, striking dark little spots into the dust, revealed the full collapse she was experiencing in that moment.
"...Sob..."
The suppressed choking finally broke through her tightly closed lips and teeth, turning into broken cries.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging deeply into the tender flesh of her palms, her knuckles whitening with force.
Her body was hollow and aching after exhaustion, but inside her chest, an even sharper emotion had filled every space.
...
The spotlight of the racecourse and everyone's gaze naturally followed that black figure standing beyond the finish line to receive her coronation.
No one would spare too much attention for a loser at a moment like this, even if she was a challenger worthy of respect.
The winner was crowned, the loser cast down. Cheers and tears were clearly divided on opposite sides of the track, the boundary distinct, cruel, and real.
...
In the VIP seating, Secretariat quietly watched the curled-up, crying blue-green figure on the track below.
Her hand on the railing tightened slightly at the knuckles.
Deep in her amber eyes, that ever-calm, wise light silently faded, replaced by heavy heartache and a complicated sigh.
She had taught Easy subtraction, given her the most exquisite tactic, and poured her effort and expectations into her.
But some mountains could not be summited simply because one knew how to climb them.
Some gaps could not be instantly erased simply because one held a sharp weapon.
The racecourse was that cruel a place.
It never sympathized with tears, never pitied effort, and judged heroes only by the coldest, most direct result.
The cheers for the victor were themselves the loudest proclamation to the defeated.
Secretariat gently closed her eyes, pressing a nearly inaudible sigh down into her heart.
Her heart ached—for her sister's tears, for that unwillingness that had burned itself out yet still failed to reach its goal.
But she also understood better than anyone that these tears and this unwillingness... were flavors that had to be swallowed when running along this cruel road.
Every Umamusume standing on the racecourse had staked her life on the track.
Things like tears were the cheapest thing on this racecourse.
Everyone wanted to win. No one wanted to lose.
But results did not always follow one's wishes.
...
On the other side.
The lingering impact of crossing the line still trembled in Sunday Silence's chest, and her breathing was heavy.
In her golden eyes flickered a scorching brightness tinged with irritation.
She had won.
That fact was clear and unmistakable, and the thunderous cheers behind her, offered to her alone, announced her victory plainly.
But the satisfaction she had imagined—the feeling of venting all her frustration and running herself clear—did not arrive as expected.
What replaced it was... an abruptly cut-off displeasure.
It was like throwing a punch loaded with all her strength, only to hit cotton. It felt utterly unsatisfying.
She turned around. Her gaze crossed the still-falling streamers and the clamorous crowd, landing on the blue-green figure kneeling on the track not far away.
Easy Goer was still curled up there, her shoulders trembling faintly. Against the background of deafening cheers, her suppressed crying was weak, yet stubbornly reached Sunday Silence's ears.
This was the one.
With that sticky Zone and that annoying physical confrontation, she had forcibly interrupted Sunday Silence's rhythm when all she had wanted was to lower her head and run madly, completely igniting that bit of depression over Sakuraba not coming into towering rage.
And it was this one... who had raised barrier after barrier on the final straight, all of them seemingly indestructible, forcing her to squeeze out even deeper power and smash through them in the most tyrannical, overbearing way.
But then?
Then the race had ended.
She had not run enough.
The fury and power forcibly ignited inside her, roaring and surging through her body, had only just found an outlet. She had only just begun to enjoy that almost violent pleasure of crushing every obstacle... and the track had already reached its end.
It was like a long-awaited duel where the opponent used a carefully prepared finishing move, only to collapse from exhaustion the instant she got serious.
Sunday Silence pressed her lips together. That nearly disdainful, cold curve now held a trace of obvious... displeasure.
Her golden eyes stared at that crying blue-green figure, complex, hard-to-describe emotions surging within them.
You went and made me angry on your own... and this is all you had?
I haven't even had enough yet.
So annoying.
That half-finished, suspended feeling irritated her even more than simple depression.
She had obtained victory.
But the taste of that victory... tsk, it had been discounted because it was not satisfying enough.
Sunday Silence glanced at Easy Goer, then turned to leave.
Tch...
Get a little stronger.
Strong enough... to let me run a little more to my heart's content!
I don't want to run a boring duel like this a second time.
Just as Sunday Silence turned and intended to leave the center of all that noise and attention, a rapid series of footsteps and camera shutters quickly converged around her.
"Athlete Sunday Silence! Please wait!"
"Congratulations on winning the Preakness Stakes! How do you feel right now?"
"You have successfully taken the first two American Triple Crown races. Do you have absolute confidence in the final crown, the Belmont Stakes?"
"Regarding the way you broke through Easy Goer's Zone on the final straight, could you share your thoughts?"
"How do you evaluate your opponent's performance today? Would you say this was your most challenging race so far?"
The reporters were like a swarm of bees scenting honey, instantly surrounding her so tightly that not even water could pass. Microphones, recorders, and camera lenses competed to thrust themselves in front of her, while all kinds of questions were fired at her like a barrage, each one trying to seize this rare opportunity. Camera flashes clicked nonstop, almost dazzling the eye.
Sunday Silence stopped.
Those noisy voices, those glaring lights, mixed with the irritation that had not fully settled in her chest, almost made her immediately want to frown and snap at them in her usual cold, hard, even slightly fierce tone to move aside.
She disliked occasions like this, and disliked dealing with them even more when she was in a bad mood.
But just as that rebuke was about to leave her mouth, an image suddenly flashed through her mind.
It was Tony Bianca's face, always carrying a bit of seriousness and worry, and the words she had solemnly reminded her of more than once.
"...Sunday Silence, you need to know that right now, you don't only represent yourself. You also represent Nishikino Academy."
"If you can achieve good results on the American circuit, that will be the best promotion for the academy."
"When you stand beneath the spotlight, you occasionally need to say a few words for the academy too, and attract more talented Umamusume to join us."
Repaying... the academy?
A nearly imperceptible flicker passed through Sunday Silence's golden eyes.
She remembered her days at Nishikino. That training, those teachings. Although she always acted impatient, it was undeniable that that place had been the starting point of her becoming stronger, and had also given her... the chance to meet someone.
Tony was right.
After winning a race, apart from her own victory, it seemed she ought to do something else too.
That thought was like a faint cool breeze, temporarily scattering the heat in her heart.
She raised her eyes. Her gaze swept over the faces before her, all written with urgency and expectation. Her expression remained as cold as ever, but in the end, she did not say "get lost."
Under the reporters' breathless gazes, she lifted her chin slightly and spoke in that voice with little emotional fluctuation.
"I won."
A simple and concise affirmation of the fact of victory. That counted as answering the first question.
Then she paused, her gaze seeming to pass beyond the crowd in front of her and look somewhere farther away.
"How I feel..." She tilted her head slightly, as if choosing her words, or perhaps recalling the displeasure of being interrupted midway on the track. "...It wasn't satisfying enough."
That sentence stunned the reporters. Clearly, they had not expected the victor to give such an evaluation.
But Sunday Silence did not give them any more opportunity to follow up. Immediately afterward, almost with the briskness of someone completing a task, she threw out the words she had prepared.
"If anyone in America... wants to become stronger."
She paused, making sure every word passed clearly into the microphones.
"Come to Nishikino Academy."
"That place will let you become stronger."
With that, she did not bother to look at how the reporters reacted.
Sunday Silence left those words behind and disappeared into the depths of the athletes' tunnel without looking back, leaving a group of reporters staring at one another in place.
After a brief silence came a sudden burst of discussion mixed with confusion and disbelief.
"Nishikino Academy?" A veteran sports reporter pushed up his glasses, his brows tightly knit. "Is that name... in our list of academies in America? Was it newly established?"
"I've never heard of it!" A young reporter holding a microphone shook his head repeatedly. "I know all the well-known academies here in American, but I've never heard the name 'Nishikino'..."
"Could it be a European branch?"
Someone guessed.
"Doesn't sound like a European name. More like..."
Just then, a somewhat hesitant voice cut in.
"Um... Nishikino Academy... seems to be Japanese."
Everyone's gaze turned in unison toward the source of the voice. It was a bespectacled, rather refined-looking Asian reporter, with the press badge of a Japanese media outlet hanging from his chest.
"Japanese?" The reporter who had asked became even more confused. "Doesn't Japan only have one Tracen Academy? The one in Tokyo?"
Under everyone's gaze, a trace of embarrassment appeared on the Japanese reporter's face. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice a little.
"Uh... strictly speaking, it's a regional academy... Nishikino Academy is one of Japan's Regional Academies. It is not directly under Central."
"A Regional Academy?!"
Looks of astonishment appeared on every reporter's face.
"A Regional Academy?!"
A blonde female reporter almost cried out.
"You're saying that Sunday Silence, who just won the first two American Triple Crown races and is currently the strongest contender for the Triple Crown... publicly promoted a... regional academy in a post-race interview of this level, in front of a nationwide American broadcast?!"
"This... this makes no sense!"
Another reporter shook his head repeatedly, his face full of incomprehension.
"With her current strength and reputation, even if she wanted to promote her alma mater, it should be Tracen Academy, right? A regional academy... its resources and platform aren't even on the same level!"
"Could it be that she came from a regional academy?" someone keenly caught the key point.
The Japanese reporter nodded. "As far as I know, athlete Sunday Silence did indeed transfer from Tracen Academy (American) to Nishikino Academy."
That confirmation shocked the reporters at the scene even more.
"She transferred from Tracen Academy to Nishikino Academy...?"
"And after coming back, she jumped straight into the highest level of racing on the American circuit and won by crushing her opposition?"
Someone sucked in a cold breath.
"Holy..."
"Unbelievable!"
"What did she just say again?"
The initial veteran reporter thought back.
"'If anyone in America wants to become stronger, come to Nishikino Academy'... My God, does that mean..."
"She is publicly declaring that a regional academy in Japan can train Umamusume capable of challenging, or even surpassing, the top level of America?"
"This... this isn't simply promoting her alma mater anymore, is it?!"
The blonde female reporter's voice was trembling slightly.
"This is practically challenging the entire existing talent development system and its assumptions!"
"A regional academy... Since when did it have that kind of power?"
"Nishikino... after today, that name will probably spread throughout the entire American racing world."
The reporters looked at one another, seeing the same shock in each other's eyes, as well as the excitement of having caught the scent of major news.
The ripples and deeper tremors caused by the one sentence Sunday Silence had tossed out so casually were probably only just beginning.
This was not merely a post-race comment.
It was more like... a scornful and direct challenge letter to the existing order.
And at the core of that challenge was an obscure "Regional Academy."
Things were in chaos now. Complete chaos.
Quite a few reporters were already scrambling to contact their editorial departments, preparing to be the first to publish this news that was more than enough to explode into a hot topic.
The noise at Pimlico Race Course had yet to fully settle, but another storm, triggered by that one sentence, was already quietly brewing in the media world.
And high above in the stands, Tony Bianca and Obey Your Master watched this scene and smiled.
This was exactly the result they wanted.
From this day on, the name of Nishikino would spread across the world through the pens of these reporters.
A regional academy publicly endorsed by a candidate for the American Triple Crown...
The meaning behind that could be called quite thought-provoking.
After all, Tracen academies that received this sort of treatment were usually that country's Central academy.
A special case like Nishikino Academy was likely the first in history.
And because of that, for the next while, Nishikino Academy would draw the attention of the entire world.
---
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