Chapter 108.
The front of the pack was seized by Top Rating, a New Zealand raider guided by local jockey Greg Hall.
Hall had spent countless hours in film rooms studying the biomechanics of the world's elite riders, viewing them as distant, untouchable mentors.
Shuta An was at the very top of that list. Hall had meticulously dissected Shuta's signature gate-breaking technique, successfully weaponizing it today to snatch the lead.
In a brutal 3200-meter marathon, there is absolutely no reason to force a suicidal pace. Maintain a steady, grinding rhythm.
Hall reminded himself, gently tightening his grip on the reins to keep Top Rating from letting the adrenaline completely take over.
Sitting securely in Rice Shower's saddle, Shuta An kept his hands quiet, his tactical mind already processing a bizarre anomaly unique to the Melbourne Cup. As the front thundered past the grandstands and rounded the first bend, the massive, rowdy crowds occupying the infield leisure area began to brazenly surge across the track, cutting directly behind the leaders to reach the grandstand side.
It's a good thing they wait until the front passes, otherwise this would be a catastrophic hazard.
Shuta An thought, before immediately correcting himself.
No. The truth is, the horses trapped in the rear of the pack are already paying the price.
Even though the spectators scrambled out of the way before the trailing horses arrived, the sudden, chaotic roar of hundreds of drunken racegoers flooding the turf sent violent ripples of panic through the back of the field. The psychological disruption was devastating.
"Is that even legal?!" Rice Shower's Owner gasped, his eyes wide with horror as he watched the infield crowd swarm the track on the monitors. "Where are the police?! Isn't that blatant race interference?!"
"It's a local Flemington tradition. It isn't strictly illegal because they wait for the leaders to pass."
Trainer Iizuka Yoshitsugu explained, shaking his head in disbelief.
"No wonder Shuta-kun was so utterly ruthless about securing a front position, even from Gate 21. If Rice Shower had been trapped in the back, the sheer noise and chaos of that crowd would have shattered his concertation."
As Top Rating swept into the first turn, the stadium jumbo-tron flashed the opening 800-meter split: 0:51.5.
"800 meters in 51 seconds... the pace is still a bit hot, isn't it?"
Iizuka murmured, his eyes narrowed in calculation.
"But the entire front is tracking it comfortably. At this tempo, Rice Shower's stamina drain shouldn't be pushing the redline."
Down on the turf, Shuta An felt the rhythm beneath him and made zero adjustments.
This pace is perfectly within his strike zone. Honestly, given his monstrous stamina reserves, I'd actually prefer if Top Rating pushed it even faster.
If there weren't a wall of massive Australian and European stayers acting as a physical barricade between him and the leader, Shuta An would have already urged Rice Shower forward to force the issue.
Beneath him, Rice Shower felt the exact same quiet, absolute confidence in the pace. But her mind was currently entirely consumed by a far more profound, surreal dilemma.
I've never been to Australia—so why does Flemington Racecourse feel so incredibly vivid? How is my subconscious rendering a track I haven't even seen in the real world yet?
Running on four legs, feeling the rhythmic, thunderous impact of hooves against the Australian turf, Rice Shower violently shook her head, trying to scatter the distracting thoughts to the wind.
This is a race. I have to focus.
As they leaned into the turn, she pushed the existential questions aside.
The early stages of any elite staying race are a psychological waiting game. Even if Japan's famously foolish runaway horses attempt to shatter the field with a frantic early sprint, veteran jockeys will simply let them go, refusing to ruin their own mounts' lungs. Greg Hall's pacing was the definition of a textbook, standard rhythm.
As Top Rating crossed the 2200-meter pole, the 1000-meter split flashed: 1:01.1.
"A 61-second opening kilometer. That is as standard as it gets."
Iizuka frowned deeply. Like Shuta An, he had been praying for a brutal, lung-burning pace to weed out the weaker stayers. But a standard pace wasn't a death sentence.
The first turn at Flemington is notoriously short and sharp. Rice Shower expertly downshifted his momentum to glide through the apex, but the bulky foreign stayers surrounding him bled significantly more speed trying to navigate the tight curve. Without expending a single extra ounce of energy, he effortlessly slipped up into fifth place.
Once we clear this bend, we hit the Maribyrnong River stretch.
Shuta An anticipated, maintaining a feather-light hold on the reins. They had burned through 1200 meters; a grueling 2000 meters still lay ahead.
What an unbelievably long straightaway—it feels almost as vast as the final stretch at Tokyo Racecourse.
Rice Shower marveled internally.
Shuta An shared her exact sentiment. He had ridden Flemington countless times in his career, and every single time he hit the sweeping backstretch opposite the grandstands, he couldn't help but find it—agonizingly boring.
With over half the race still remaining, only a fool would detonate an early acceleration and shatter their horse's cruising rhythm here. Everyone is just holding their breath in an orderly line.
Shuta An gripped the reins, his eyes locked on the distant end of the super-straight.
As she galloped, feeling the solid, reassuring warmth of the saddle and the subtle, expert shifts of her Trainer's weight on her back, a wildly innocent, affectionate thought suddenly bloomed in Rice Shower's mind.
When I wake up tomorrow—should I ask Onii-sama if I can carry him on my back in the real world? Just once? Would it feel as warm and perfect as this?
A phantom blush heated her cheeks, though she knew he would likely just pat her head, tell her to stop being silly, and order her to focus on her Kikuka Sho preparations.
But the Kikuka Sho is just a stepping stone to the Melbourne Cup.
Rice Shower blinked, a fierce, protective loyalty igniting in her chest.
Onii-sama told me my future lies in conquering the long distances. I'm going to challenge Flemington in the waking world. So today, I will memorize every blade of grass, every gust of wind on this track. When we come here for real, I am going to give him a victory that will shock the entire world!
As the front finally cleared the grueling backstretch, the elapsed time read: 2:13.4.
"The pace is dropping again."
Iizuka hissed, the tension finally cracking his stoic facade.
"Shuta-kun isn't making a move. He's anchoring Rice Shower. He's genuinely planning to wait until the final straight to detonate his acceleration. He's turning a two-mile marathon into a pure sprint finish based entirely on Rice Shower's raw power."
"But he's carrying the absolute heaviest saddle in the entire field!" Groom Kawashima's voice cracked, sheer panic bleeding into his words. "61 kilograms! How can Shuta-kun possibly believe he can out-sprint a field of fresh, lighter horses while carrying that much dead weight?!"
To be brutally honest, Kawashima—the man who loved and understood Rice Shower's fragile, delicate physique better than anyone alive—didn't believe it himself. The physics were simply impossible.