Two hours later, after finishing their session, the young Trainer and the gray-haired Uma Musume left the gym. As soon as they stepped into the corridor, Oguri Cap instinctively reached for his hand.
"Trainer, that person she's really strong," Oguri said quietly.
"Of course, she is," Shuta An replied at once, immediately realizing who she meant. "Miss Miesque isn't just strong—she's one of the world's top Uma Musume. She's won seven G1 titles, the same as Symboli Rudolf. Last year alone, she captured both the English and French 1000 Guineas—that's like winning both Oka Sho equivalents in one season. In Mile races, she's the reigning queen of the world."
As he spoke, Shuta An subconsciously pulled up her record on his viewer. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Mile adaptability: SS."
Even he couldn't help but feel a twinge of awe at the display.
"She is truly worthy of being called the reigning Mile Queen"
That was the young man's first thought upon seeing an Uma Musume with an SS rating in distance adaptability.
"Her adaptability is even more extreme than Symboli Rudolf's" he murmured, rubbing his chin in thought. "If only there were a way to enhance Oguri's distance adaptability."
If Shuta An knew how, he would have already devoted every waking hour to raising Oguri Cap's mid-distance rating to S before the French Derby. That would at least give them a fighting chance. But the truth was, he didn't know. And the attribute viewer—rigid, mechanical, and frustratingly unresponsive—offered no answers to his silent questions.
After returning to his room, Shuta An took a long shower, changed into casual clothes, and decided to explore the area after lunch. Oguri Cap, who had wanted to accompany him, was intercepted by Berno Light, who insisted she stay for afternoon tea at the hotel.
Shuta An politely declined the same invitation; tea parties were hardly his thing. Compared to small talk over teacups, the young man's curiosity leaned toward the nearby Longchamp Racecourse—and the Parc des Princes football stadium.
"If I'm lucky, maybe I can catch a football match there tonight," he mused. Though raised in the United States, Shuta An had always preferred football to basketball. He had even joined the American football team in college, thanks to his athletic build.
Yet the moment he stepped out of the hotel lobby, fate threw him a curveball.
There, under the mellow afternoon light, stood Miss Miesque. The bay-haired Uma Musume was dressed casually—a gray trench coat over a soft sweater, and slim jeans that highlighted her long legs.
Shuta An gave her a polite nod, intending to walk past without conversation. But before he could take a second step, her voice stopped him.
"Mr. Shuta, do you have time to accompany me?"
Her tone was lighter, almost teasing, a far cry from the formal one she had used that morning.
"That wouldn't be appropriate," Shuta An replied calmly. "Miss Miesque's Trainer should have more time for that sort of thing, shouldn't they?"
"My Trainer isn't in France," she said, smiling. "I'm alone in Paris right now." Then, tilting her head slightly, she added, "And… Mr. Shuta, don't you want to know about the current state of West Coast Tracen Academy?"
Her smile widened as she spoke, confident she had struck the right chord.
After being forced to leave, he must still have lingering feelings, she thought. And I'm the only one who can tell him what's been happening there.
Of course, Miss Miesque had her own motives. She wanted to know the real reason behind his departure. Yet to her surprise, Shuta An didn't even hesitate.
"I have no lingering attachment to the West Coast," he said flatly. "All I want now is to properly train the Uma Musume under my care in Japan."
His eyes met hers, sharp and unwavering. "Since you've brought this up, Miss Miesque, I assume you've already done your research."
Without giving her a chance to reply, he continued, "I probably know what you're trying to find out."
He slipped his phone from his pocket and checked the time. "While I can't accompany you now, I can at least answer your question. I've never had a guilty conscience about that matter."
"Today, at four in the afternoon—if you're free—we can meet at a café nearby. I'll tell you what happened back then."
"Alright," Miss Miesque said, her eyes bright with anticipation. Even though her invitation had been declined, she couldn't hide her excitement. "I'll be waiting to hear the truth."
When 4 p.m. came, Shuta An arrived punctually at the café. As expected, Miss Miesque had already chosen a corner table and waved as soon as she spotted him. He took the seat across from her and ordered a latte.
"I thought Mr. Shuta would prefer an iced Americano," she remarked, amused.
"If I'm going to recall bitter things," Shuta An said with a light shrug, "I shouldn't be tasting bitterness at the same time."
Then, setting his cup down, he met her gaze squarely.
"Well then," he said, voice steady, "let's go back to that time."
Los Angeles, USA.
April marked the height of spring, yet in the Student Council office of West Coast Tracen Academy, the air was as cold as midwinter. The source of that chill was none other than Secretariat, the Student Council President. Her sharp gaze, fixed on the desk before her, could have frozen anyone in their seat.
On the polished surface of that desk lay a single sheet of paper—a resignation letter. Secretariat slowly lifted her eyes to meet the person seated opposite her: Shuta An.
The young man lounged casually on the guest sofa, an indifferent look on his face as he stifled a yawn. When he finally spoke, it was with an air of careless politeness.
"It was already past midnight when I finished writing the resignation letter yesterday, so I might look a little tired today. Please bear with me, Miss Secretariat."
Secretariat ignored the attempt at levity. "Have you made up your mind?" she asked flatly, shaking the paper between her fingers.
"Although you got into a serious altercation with Trainer Baffert—resulting in him refusing to keep you as an intern—given your reputation, you'd have no trouble finding another Trainer to take you in. With your looks, a female Trainer would certainly oblige."
"I did think of that," Shuta replied with a small shrug. "But let's be honest—if I stay in America, no matter which team I join, I'll just end up clashing with my supervisor again, won't I?"
He straightened slightly, a faint smile curving his lips. "And I don't think you're unaware of why that happens, Miss Secretariat. Nothing that happens in this academy escapes your attention, does it?"
Secretariat sighed softly. "Shuta An… There are times when it's wiser to tolerate certain things. After your internship, you could form your own team and train your Uma Musume however you like. Wouldn't that be better than throwing everything away now?"
"If it were merely about training philosophy, maybe." The young man's smile brightened—but his tone turned sharp, almost mocking. "But as my father used to say, 'Those who walk different paths cannot plan together.'"
Closing her eyes briefly, Secretariat exhaled, exhaustion slipping into her voice. "Since you've already decided, I won't force you to stay. Just know that if you ever wish to return, the Academy will always welcome you back."
That final note of warmth made Shuta's eyes soften. He stood, bowed deeply, and said sincerely, "Thank you, President, for allowing me to leave on good terms. I truly have no way to repay your kindness."
"I don't need your gratitude," Secretariat said quickly, turning her head away to avoid his gaze. "Your father was my Trainer. I'll always be grateful for his guidance."
"...Well." Hearing her mention his father again, Shuta scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Anyway, I'll be going now."
He turned and headed for the door, fully aware this was likely the last time he'd ever step foot in the Student Council office.
"Wait."
Secretariat's voice halted him. "After leaving the West Coast, where will you go? New York? East Coast Tracen Academy, under Affirmed and Oath's management?"
"I plan to leave America altogether," he answered simply. "First, I'll visit my father's homeland—to see the place he longed for. After that, I'll probably stay somewhere in East Asia."
"Then your options are Hong Kong or Japan," Secretariat noted thoughtfully. "I'd recommend Japan. The Twinkle Series there isn't as competitive, but with your talent, you'll stand out easily."
"Thank you, Miss Secretariat. I'll keep that in mind."
He didn't look back—just waved a hand over his shoulder. "My luggage is already packed. I'm leaving tonight, so goodbye."
A wry smirk crossed his face as he muttered under his breath, "Or rather, see you never."
As his figure disappeared through the doorway, Secretariat whispered softly to the empty room, "I look forward to the day you achieve greatness overseas—and bring your Uma Musume to challenge the American Twinkle Series."
Her eyes glistened faintly. "Your father would've been proud."
Meanwhile, Shuta An strode down the academy corridors, two suitcases in hand, until he reached the front gate. Waiting there, as if by fate, was Baffert—the Trainer he had almost disfigured days earlier.
"Well, well, look who's finally crawling away," Baffert sneered, hatred twisting his face. "I'll never have to see you again, you motherless, fatherless brat."
But his attempt at mockery ended abruptly as the pain from his half-healed wound flared up, forcing him to wince and clutch his cheek. Shuta An hadn't planned to acknowledge him. But those words—motherless and fatherless—were the one line he wouldn't let anyone cross.
He stopped. Without turning around, he said coldly, "You haven't forgotten, have you? Neither my father nor my mother are people you can speak of so casually."
He dropped one hand from his suitcase and tightened his grip with the other. The next moment, he swung the heavy case in a wide, violent arc.
"My old man was a meritorious Trainer of this Academy," he said through clenched teeth, "and my old lady was a French Triple Tiara Uma Musume. What the hell are you, to bark at me like that?"
The suitcase whistled through the air, aimed straight at Baffert's head. For an instant, Baffert froze—his legs trembling, eyes wide, too afraid to move. But just before the blow landed, a gray-haired Uma Musume stepped forward. The one Baffert trained.
With one hand, she stopped the swing effortlessly. With the other, she delivered a sharp, echoing slap across her Trainer's face.
"My Trainer spoke out of line," she said firmly, bowing to Shuta. "I will submit a report to the Student Council requesting disciplinary action. Please, Mr. Shuta, don't act rashly. Your plane ticket can't be changed, can it?"
Her composure was impeccable. Shuta glanced at the handle of his suitcase—it hadn't even cracked. He exhaled through his nose, gave a dry, humorless chuckle, and said nothing more.
Without another word, he picked up his bags and walked away. As his figure faded from view, only Baffert and the gray Uma Musume remained at the gate—one clutching his burning cheek, the other silently watching the young man disappear into the spring sunlight.