At Leopardstown Racecourse, in the highest private box overlooking the track.
Fine Motion followed behind a maid and stepped inside.
The little princess practically bounced the moment she entered, darting to the tall floor-to-ceiling window. Her pale yellow eyes pressed to the glass as she scanned left and right, searching the course—like she was trying to spot that gray-haired figure from a few days ago, the one who'd piqued her curiosity.
Unfortunately, none of the racers on the paddock walk were Oguri Cap.
"Denka."
A retainer behind her offered a clipboard of forms with both hands and spoke in a lowered voice.
"Based on the crowd's voting at the venue, this time's popularity ranking… seems a bit different from what you expected."
"Oh, I know."
Fine Motion didn't even glance at the sheet. She kept her gaze fixed on the tunnel leading onto the track, speaking as if it were obvious.
"This is Europe. This is a stage that values bloodlines and results."
"That gray-haired horsegirl has no pedigree, and her only truly notable achievements were earned on a far-eastern track."
"In a lion's territory… a stray dog is all anyone sees."
She was interested in that "onee-san" called Oguri Cap, yes—but it was only interest.
As a princess raised within the Irish royal family, her reason told her plainly:
For a horsegirl from the Far East to conquer Europe's circuit… the odds were so close to zero they might as well be.
Just then—
The announcer's voice boomed from the speakers below, snapping her thoughts in half.
"Next to enter the track: a challenger from the distant East!"
The commentator sounded enthusiastic, but when he reached the name, the warmth in his voice turned unmistakably polite—formal, hollow.
"Representing a far-eastern island nation—this is her third time stepping onto Europe's throne!"
"Let's hope this horsegirl can deliver a performance she'll be satisfied with today!"
"Ninth in popularity—Oguri Cap!"
"...Clap, clap, clap…"
The applause came thin and scattered, laced with murmurs.
Most of the European spectators looked confused, but they still offered sincere encouragement to the challenger—if only out of courtesy.
In that chilly atmosphere, a gray-white figure walked out at an unhurried pace.
A deep navy sailor-collar top and skirt, clean lines, a simple white base. At her waist, a small strip of pale skin showed between the tailoring—quietly elegant, understated.
Plain, practical racewear.
On Europe's premier stage, Oguri Cap looked like a country Cinderella who'd wandered into the wrong ballroom.
The racers who'd entered a few slots earlier barely paid her any mind, focused on loosening up and getting a feel for the ground.
After all, some of them were even lower in popularity than Oguri Cap.
They didn't exactly have the right to be arrogant.
Faced with the surrounding indifference, Oguri Cap's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker.
She only lowered her head and pressed her shoes into the mud, testing the soil beneath her feet as if confirming something.
"Ninth in popularity…"
Up in the private box, Fine Motion tilted her head, a faint confusion stirring inside her.
"Why did she feel so different during the open training…?"
But watching Oguri Cap now, that feeling from before was gone.
It left the young royal unsure whether she'd imagined it—or whether the gray-haired girl had simply pulled everything back in, hiding it all away.
…
That quiet mood didn't last.
One racer after another stepped onto the course with the commentator's calls.
Then, the instant one particular competitor entered the track, the entire Leopardstown Racecourse felt as if three heavy bombs had been dropped into it.
"Third in popularity!!"
The commentator's voice shot up an octave.
"Great Britain's steel war-chariot—the absolute ruler of the Ribot Grand Prix!"
"Crush everything with raw power—Sixton!!"
"OHHHHHHHHHH—!!"
It was completely different from when Oguri Cap and the others had appeared. The stands erupted into scorching cheers in an instant.
With the roar swelling around her, a broad-shouldered, short-haired horsegirl strode out in huge steps.
She wore a red-and-green outfit styled like a Roman gladiator's armor.
Beneath heavy leather pauldrons, thick cords of muscle rose and shifted with each movement.
Sixton threw both arms high, basking in worship, her eyes blazing with imperious arrogance.
Only after she finished playing to the crowd did she lower her head and click her tongue.
"Third in popularity, huh…"
But then Sixton's pupils tightened. She snapped her head toward the tunnel behind her.
A pressure—too strong to ignore—was rolling through the entrance like a physical force.
"Next to enter: the loudest note of this year's Classic season!"
"The genius girl who just created a miracle at the Eclipse Stakes!"
"Today, she'll use her unrivaled finishing kick once again—to smash through the obstacle of the Triple Crown!"
"Second in popularity—Elmaamul!!"
"Elmaamul! Elmaamul!!"
"Give it your all!"
"You're the best, Elmaamul!"
The entire venue boiled over. Countless fans waved flags like they'd gone mad, the sea of sound swelling higher and higher…
And through that deafening roar, a chestnut-haired girl came sprinting out.
Her racewear was lavish—blue and white with lace trim—almost dazzling in motion.
A daring cutout at the waist showed off tight, explosive core muscle, wiry and powerful.
"Hi, everyone! I'm going to run my hardest today too!"
Elmaamul was practically vibrating with excitement, her face split by a fearless grin as she walked and waved both hands toward the stands.
"And now—the final racer to enter—!!"
The commentator drew in a deep breath, then shouted a name that made every horsegirl on the track turn to look.
"She is elegance incarnate! Great Britain's pride!"
"Fresh off a Grand Prix de Paris crown—aiming straight for the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe!"
"The undisputed top favorite of this race—Saumarez!!"
"OHHHHHHHHHH—!!!"
This time, the cheering was like a tsunami, so loud it felt as if it could shatter the storm clouds hanging overhead.
At the center of countless gazes, a tall horsegirl with long blonde waves stepped forward in a graceful, catlike walk.
She wore a deep navy ceremonial court uniform. Gold tassels at her shoulders swayed gently with each step. Below it, a pleated skirt as white as snow—pristine even beside the mud-soaked course.
Saumarez held her chin high, her beauty cold as ice.
But the moment she set foot onto the grass—when her horseshoe pressed into the turf—her eyes flickered.
"…"
A bad feeling rose up inside her. She lifted her gaze forward.
Whumm—!
On the track, the sixteen horsegirls who had entered earlier were all surging with boundless fighting spirit.
It was as if that intent had dyed them pitch-black—leaving only their eyes, each pair gleaming with a deep, heavy shine, sharp enough to pin her in place.
"…Troublesome."
(End of Chapter)
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