Chapter 106.
Late at night, the quiet hum of the Tokyo apartment stood in stark contrast to the deafening roars of the Tokyo Racecourse from hours prior.
Shuta gently pulled the duvet over a deeply exhausted, triumphant Mejiro Dober, her breathing finally evening out into a peaceful rhythm.
He quietly slipped out of the room, rubbing the back of his neck as the adrenaline of the Tenno Sho finally began to recede.
"Next week is Rice Shower's Kikuka Sho." the young man murmured to himself in the dim hallway. "She still hasn't given me a straight answer about whether she wants to challenge the Arima Kinen after that. I'll have to press her on it tomorrow."
With those lingering thoughts of his small, black-clad stayer, he climbed into his own bed and closed his eyes.
The familiar, weightless sensation of the Dream World pulled him under.
When his senses returned, the crisp autumn air of Tokyo had been replaced by the bright, piercing sunshine and distinct scent of eucalyptus. He wasn't in Japan anymore. He was standing in the bustling, high-tension jockeys' lounge of Flemington Racecourse in Australia.
Today was the running of the Melbourne Cup.
In this world, Rice Shower's ambitious European expedition had been painfully aborted due to health complications.
Instead, he had safely touched down in the Southern Hemisphere, aiming to conquer the race that stopped a nation.
In the waking world, Central Tracen's Uma Musumes had already mounted challenges here—never taking the crown, but securing a brilliant second place. Because of that, the Japanese public had developed a somewhat arrogant confidence, genuinely believing that for elite long-distance runners like Mejiro McQueen, conquering Flemington would be a simple task.
But here in the Dream World, the racehorse Rice Shower was a pioneer. He was the very first Japanese challenger to step onto this alien turf. To the Japanese, the Melbourne Cup was a prestigious overseas trophy; to the Australians, it was a religion, an impenetrable fortress guarded by local titans.
Unlike Hokuto Vega's lonely American dirt crusade, this time, Trainer Iizuka Yoshitsugu and the Horse Owner had flown the distance, standing nervously by the paddock to witness history in person.
"Shuta-kun is carrying a crushing amount of pressure today."
The Horse Owner muttered, completely ignoring the networking opportunities around him. His brow was furrowed so deeply it looked like it was carved from stone.
"Twenty-two horses in the field. And Rice Shower drew Gate 21. That is virtually the absolute outermost gate. The sheer tactical disadvantage of starting out there is practically a death sentence, isn't it?"
"The historical data is terrifying." Iizuka agreed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "For the last two decades, every single winning horse has broken from Gate 15 or further inside. Drawing Gate 21 is a nightmare."
Beside them, Groom Kawashima Fumio—the man who loved Rice Shower like his own child—was fighting a losing battle against his anxiety.
"He didn't eat well when we first landed."
Kawashima confessed, his voice tight.
"The travel stress took a toll. He lost weight immediately. He's slowly adapting to the Australian feed and managed to put a little back on, but he is still down about four kilograms from his ideal racing weight. I told Shuta-kun about it this morning."
"And what did he say?"
Iizuka turned sharply. He hadn't yet sat down with the young jockey to finalize their race tactics, choosing instead to place blind, absolute faith in Shuta An's ability to adapt to the turf in real-time.
"He looked at me and said it wouldn't affect anything."
Kawashima replied, staring down at his boots.
"But I can't shake this feeling. Rice Shower is already such a small, delicate horse. Losing four kilograms of muscle mass before a two-mile grind can't possibly be brushed off, no matter how you look at it."
"If Shuta-kun says it isn't a problem, then even if it is a problem, it isn't fatal."
Iizuka stated, his voice laced with unshakeable conviction.
"You know his character. He doesn't offer empty, patronizing comfort. If he couldn't run, he would have told us to scratch him."
"That's the truth." the Horse Owner sighed, a small, nervous smile breaking through his anxiety. "If the number one jockey in the world believes he has the legs to win today, then all we can do is trust him."
The gate draw and weight loss weren't their only enemies.
(For this race, I didn't have the time to crosscheck the records. Thus, I am here to apologize in advance if the names didn't match with the correct annotations)
The Melbourne Cup is a handicap race, assigning punishing weights based on a horse's historical dominance. As a phenomenal four-time G1 winner—having conquered the Prix du Cadran in Europe last year and effortlessly dismantled the Spring Tenno Sho field this spring—Rice Shower was slapped with a brutal handicap.
Sixty-one kilograms.
He was carrying the heaviest weight in the entire field—a full kilogram heavier than the reigning Melbourne Cup champion, Vintage Crop. For a horse of his diminutive stature, carrying 61kg out of Gate 21 was a Herculean trial.
"The heaviest handicap in the field, breaking from the parking lot—"
Iizuka ran a hand over his face, already subconsciously preparing excuses to shield Shuta An and his horse from the Japanese press.
"Honestly, if they just manage to finish in the top five today, I will consider it a massive victory."
"Even a fifth-place finish nets 350,000 Australian dollars. That's roughly 35 million yen."
The Horse Owner rationalized, trying to ease his own racing heart.
"Even seventh place keeps us in the black. As long as Rice Shower crosses that wire without shattering a leg, I'll be happy. We still need him healthy for the Arima Kinen this winter."
"The Cup is the sixth race on the card today. Looking at the program, it seems Shuta-kun was booked for several undercard rides."
Iizuka noted, flipping open the official Flemington booklet to distract himself.
"The boy's aura is truly terrifying." the Owner chuckled, watching Shuta An across the paddock, casually conversing with a group of elite European and Australian breeders. "Even on a hostile foreign expedition, local stables are calling him to ride for them. No other Japanese jockey commands that kind of universal respect."
"It's undeniable." Kawashima agreed, watching his jockey with immense pride. "He's treated like a rockstar here. After the bloodbath he unleashed on the European circuit last year, there isn't a single owner or trainer in the Western hemisphere who wouldn't sever their right arm to have Shuta An in their saddle."
"The JRA board members were sweating bullets over that." Iizuka smiled knowingly. "They were terrified Shuta-kun would be poached by one of the massive European conglomerates to be their retained jockey. If Katsumi Yoshida of Northern Farm hadn't personally stepped in to guarantee Shuta-kun's domestic status, those archaic old fools at the JRA probably would have done something incredibly stupid to try and leash him."
"Does Shuta-kun actually know about that backstage politics?"
The Owner asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Absolutely not. Katsumi-san gave strict orders to keep him in the dark." Iizuka shook his head. "And nobody in this industry is foolish enough to cross Katsumi Yoshida."
"A wise choice. Even after fracturing from the main Shadai Group, Katsumi-san's eye for horse flesh is peerless. He might be weathering a temporary storm, but Northern Farm will inevitably rise to absolute dominance. We need to ensure our ties with him remain ironclad."
The Owner nodded sagely.
—
While the Japanese contingent stressed over politics and handicaps, Shuta An was already hard at work on the turf.
He hadn't accepted the undercard rides just to pass the time or collect a paycheck. Though they were lower-class Listed and Maiden races, two of them were contested over the exact same 3200-meter distance as the Melbourne Cup.
Shuta was using other people's horses to physically map the moisture, the wind resistance, and the deceptive camber of the Flemington track.
In the first race, the Simpson Cup, he piloted Taldisco. Testing a hyper-aggressive strategy, Shuta pushed hard from the outside to steal the lead, testing the turf's front-running bias. The wind off the Maribyrnong River drained the horse's stamina, and they were caught in the final furlong by Ciba Geigy, losing by a length.
In the third race, the First Spring Stakes, he tested the exact opposite tactic aboard Over the Top. He held the horse dead last, launching a massive, wide sweeping move on the final turn to test the track's closing viability. The immense length of the straight gave the leaders too much breathing room, and he couldn't quite run down Seto Flowerian.
Dismounting from Over the Top, Shuta An gently patted the exhausted horse's sweat-lathered neck, his mind operating like a supercomputer.
He had felt the turf. He had mapped the wind.
"Just as I thought." the young man murmured to himself, his eyes fixed on the sweeping, daunting 450-meter final straight of Flemington. "An extreme late charge dies in this wind. And a pure front-running escape makes you a sitting duck—neither of which suits Rice Shower's current condition anyway."
He looked back toward the stables, where his small, black-coated stayer was waiting for him, carrying the crushing weight of 61 kilograms and a nation's hopes.
"We drop as a pace-chaser. We stalk the leaders, save every ounce of her legs, and strike with surgical precision."