After Silence Suzuka brought her montum under control, she first raised her hand toward the infield audience in acknowledgnt, then turned gracefully to face the grandstand, offering another composed wave.
The cheers that followed rolled across the racecourse like a lingering tide, yet she did not allow herself to be swept away by it. That single, instinctive urge—to step down, to cross the distance, to close it with her own hands—rose quietly within her chest, only to be pressed down with equal resolve. There was still a stage awaiting her, still a role she had yet to fulfill.
Suppressing that impulse, she turned without hesitation and began walking back toward the lounge, her expression already returning to its usual calm, as if the overwhelming victory monts ago had been nothing more than a passing ripple.
"This race almost broke the record—" soone behind Shuta An murmured, their voice tinged with disbelief. "And a wire-to-wire finish at that pace—it's terrifying."
"Our middle-distance level was never our strongest to begin with," another voice responded, carrying a tone more pragmatic than bitter. "Losing to an overseas Uma Musu like that isn't exactly unexpected."
The surrounding discussion drifted in fragnts, yet Shuta An paid it little mind. He had already turned, intending to leave the infield and return to the Box, when a familiar figure approached from the side.
Freedman extended his hand, his expression open, though there was a faint, restrained weight behind it.
"Congratulations, Mr. Shuta. Silence Suzuka's performance in the Cox Plate—it was truly overwhelming."
Shuta An accepted the handshake, his grip steady, his reply asured.
"I always believed this track layout suited her," he said, a faint, wry smile touching the edge of his lips. "But believing it and watching it unfold are two different things. Even so—I'm satisfied."
Freedman studied him for a mont before continuing, his tone shifting slightly, more contemplative now. "Given her adaptability, I'd like to ask—if you train a long-distance Uma Musu in the future, would you consider returning to Australia for the lbourne Cup?"
"Yes,"
Shuta An answered without pause. The decisiveness in his voice carried no embellishnt, only certainty.
"If I have one suited for it, I'll bring her. After all, it's a race that can bring an entire country to a standstill."
Freedman's smile broadened at that, a trace of genuine amusent breaking through.
"A race that brings all of Australia to a standstill—I like that." He paused, then added, almost as if setting sothing aside for the future, "If you return in three years, you might find sothing worth your surprise."
Shuta An's eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity flickering—but he did not press. "Then I'll look forward to it."
Their exchange ended there. Freedman watched as the young man stepped away, his figure gradually blending back into the movent of the racecourse. Only after he had gone did Freedman lower his gaze to his own palm, flexing his fingers slightly, as though weighing sothing intangible.
"Three years—" he murmured under his breath. "That should be enough."
When he looked up again, his focus had already shifted.
Across the grounds, he located Doriemus—head lowered, silent, her usual composure stripped away by the outco of the race. Without hesitation, he walked toward her.
"What do you want to eat today?" he said, deliberately light, as though nothing had happened. "My treat. No limit."
There was no response. Not even a glance.
Freedman did not stop walking. "Anchovy, then. Vietnase food. You like their chicken cold noodles, don't you?"
He set the direction himself, moving forward with unbroken steps. Behind him, Doriemus followed, quiet, her silence heavier than any words.
It was only after they had left the racecourse grounds that her voice finally erged, low and uncertain, as if each word required effort to form.
"Trainer, should I retire from the Twinkle Series?"
Freedman stopped.
He turned, surprise evident but not sharp. "Why would you think that?"
"Because of today." Her gaze remained lowered. "I can't catch up to them anymore. After the lbourne Cup this year—I want to retire. I'll prepare for the Dream Trophy Series."
There was no hesitation in her conclusion—only a quiet finality.
Freedman held her gaze for a mont, then exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Alright."
He did not argue. He did not attempt to overturn her decision.
"I'll arrange a suitable agent for you ahead of ti," he continued evenly.
"But first, make sure you co out of the lbourne Cup without injury. If sothing feels wrong, withdraw. You've already won both the Caulfield Cup and the lbourne Cup. Your na is already written into history. There's no need to force anything further."
Doriemus lifted her head slightly, a faint, strained smile forming. "That Uma Musu from Japan—she's really strong. I'm almost glad she didn't co here earlier. Otherwise, she might've led the Caulfield Cup from start to finish too."
"No," Freedman replied, shaking his head. "Her Trainer wouldn't allow that. He doesn't run his Uma Musu that frequently. At most, he'd choose one between the Caulfield Cup, Cox Plate, and lbourne Cup. And Silence Suzuka won't run the lbourne Cup either. They'll likely return ho soon."
A subtle ease settled into Doriemus's expression at those words. "Then— I won't have to face that kind of pace again."
Freedman gave a small, resigned shrug. "That kind of pace…might only suit sprinters here. And since she's retiring as well, I suppose I won't get another chance to verify that judgnt."
"Trainers who keep working will always find soone similar," Doriemus said softly.
Freedman's response ca without delay. "No, I won't."
He looked ahead, his gaze already set on sothing beyond the present.
"After you retire, I'll start transferring the rest of my team next year. I'm planning to compete for a position in the lbourne URA Association. Right now, the URA Associations are fragnted, undermining each other. If this continues, the Twinkle Series will only decline. I intend to change that."
Doriemus's eyes widened in genuine shock. "Trainer…you're quitting? Is it because I didn't perform well?"
"It has nothing to do with you," he replied, almost dismissively. "It's simply ti for to take a different path."
"If I had voting rights," Doriemus said, placing a hand against her chest, her voice firm despite everything, "I would definitely vote for you."
—
anwhile, beneath the stage, Shuta An stood still.
His gaze lifted upward, steady and unwavering, fixed on the lone figure illuminated above.
Silence Suzuka stood there alone, the light gathering around her as though drawn to her presence.
"I'm very happy to win my eighth G1 here," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the venue.
"The Australian audience is incredibly passionate, and this turf suits very well. If there's a chance—I would like to race here again in the future."
Her eyes lowered then, cutting through distance with unerring precision, finding him without hesitation.
"But that will probably be in the Dream Trophy Series."
For a brief mont, everything else seed to fall away.
"The song I'll be performing today is 'Make it without defeat.'"
Shuta An exhaled quietly, his gaze softening just a fraction as he watched her.
"Good timing," he murmured to himself, almost inaudible beneath the lingering echoes of applause. "If it had been last year—it wouldn't have been this simple."
After returning to the hotel with Silence Suzuka, Shuta An's gaze swept across the entrance, landing on the cluster of reporters gathered without any attempt at concealnt. Their presence was almost aggressive in its openness, as though they had already decided the outco of their wait. He tilted his head slightly, then turned to the Uma Musu beside him.
"It seems quite a few of them are here for you," he said evenly. "Do you want to go out and accept interviews?"
"No." Silence Suzuka answered without hesitation.
She leaned into his arms, lifting her face just enough to et his eyes before pressing closer, her voice soft yet unmistakably resolute.
"I want to hear Ann praise . The reporters can wait."
Shuta An's expression did not change much, yet his body leaned closer, his voice lowering as it brushed against her ear.
"Then as you wish."
Outside, the reporters remained stationed in place, their anticipation simring into quiet speculation.
"I wonder if we'll catch Silence Suzuka coming out tonight," one of them murmured, glancing toward the hotel entrance. "She's leaving Australia soon, isn't she? There's barely any ti left."
"Even just a few questions would be enough," another replied, impatience threading through the words. "And her Trainer too—he travels overseas often. If he cos back for another Twinkle Series expedition, that alone would be worth covering."
"He will," soone said with quiet certainty. "He looked genuinely pleased today."
"Of course he did. Anyone would, after winning a G1."
Their voices faded into the background, reduced to nothing more than distant noise.
—
Inside, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Silence Suzuka lay sideways across Shuta An's lap, her body relaxed, her breathing steady. The tension of the race had already dissolved, leaving behind only a quiet, almost indulgent stillness. Shuta An held a cotton swab with careful precision, his movents unhurried as he cleaned her ears, each motion deliberate and controlled.
"If this were before," he said after a mont, his tone calm, almost conversational, "after the Cox Plate, you would've gone straight to Hong Kong to prepare for the Hong Kong Cup. But with the new URA regulations, we have to return to Japan first."
"I'll stay until Teio finishes the Kyoto Hopeful Stakes," Silence Suzuka replied, her voice softened by the comfort of her position. "And Dober-chan's next race—hasn't been decided yet, right?"
"It's still between the Queen Elizabeth Cup and the Japan Cup," Shuta An answered. "Neither she nor the jiro Family has finalized it. The Japan Cup carries more prestige, but it ans facing the Golden Generation. The Queen Elizabeth Cup is easier by comparison, though the prize money is lower."
Silence Suzuka fell silent for a brief mont before exhaling lightly, a trace of dissatisfaction surfacing. "A family as large as the jiro Family still relies on race earnings to sustain itself—I don't know whether to call that admirable or troubling. If this continues, will Dober-chan ever be able to keep anything for herself?"
"That's her choice," Shuta An replied without embellishnt. "Before her debut, she was supported by the senior mbers of her family. Now that she's capable, asking her to refuse that responsibility—she wouldn't accept it herself."
"I see." Silence Suzuka's voice lowered, her agreent quiet but firm. After a pause, she added, "And you're not in a position to interfere either, are you?"
Shuta An's hand paused briefly before continuing, his fingers brushing lightly against her hair as he gestured for her to turn over.
"The matriarch has her own considerations," he said. "But Miss Ramonu wouldn't bring it up in front of . She knows exactly how I'd respond."
His tone remained even, yet there was a faint edge beneath it.
"What difference would that make from handing Miss Dober over to ?" he continued. "And the jiro Family's financial state—it's not sothing that can be filled."
Silence Suzuka caught the implication instantly.
She did not voice it. She did not need to.
Instead, her thoughts moved quietly in the background, drawing conclusions from fragnts.
The cohesion of the jiro Family rested upon a single figure—their grandmother. If that pillar were to disappear, then everything that followed would be…predictable.
She had seen enough to understand how such stories ended.
That evening, after dinner, Shuta An stepped outside alone to deal with the reporters. Silence Suzuka remained in the room, seated calmly before the television, her attention only half on the screen. The noise of the outside world no longer concerned her.
For Shuta An, however, the interaction was brief and controlled.
The mont the first question veered toward the nature of his relationship with Silence Suzuka, his patience had already reached its limit. From that point onward, every response he gave was asured, minimal, and carefully contained. He answered just enough to fulfill obligation—nothing more.
When the reporters were finally dismissed, he did not return imdiately.
Instead, he walked alone through the night streets, the city lights stretching quietly around him. His phone rested in his hand, the screen filled with unread ssages. One by one, he opened them, replying with concise efficiency.
Most were predictable.
Nishizaki Ryu. Tojo Hana. Familiar nas, familiar tones.
Congratulations repeated in slightly different phrasing, yet fundantally identical in substance. He read through them quickly, his expression unchanged.
"But Kitahara-san—" he murmured softly, a faint shift finally appearing in his gaze.
The ssage from this friend stood apart.
After the customary congratulations, it unfolded into sothing far more personal—concern, frustration, and quiet urgency layered beneath the text. The scheduling of the Sprint Horse Girl Championship in mid-December had created a narrow window, and Sabuno Hana Park's current earnings were insufficient for qualification. With ti running out and options dwindling, the situation had beco precarious.
"That's unfortunate," Shuta An muttered under his breath.
He understood the context imdiately. The plan had been sound—enter a prep race, secure qualification—but an untily injury had disrupted everything. Now, the margin for correction was dangerously thin.
"Then aim directly for the CBC Sho," he replied without delay. "Chukyo, 1200 ters, G3. If she wins, the prize money should be enough to qualify."
The response ca quickly.
"Chukyo 1200m. Understood. I'll prepare her."
Shuta An paused for a mont before adding another line.
"Don't push too hard. Her legs aren't the strongest type. This is still her classic year—there's no need to force the Sprint Championship."
The reply that followed was brief.
"I don't have much say in that."
Shuta An stared at the screen for a mont longer, then exhaled quietly. He could almost see the expression behind those words—the restrained frustration, the lack of control.
"External pressure?" he thought.
He did not pursue it further for now. That was a conversation better held in person.
"I'll ask him when I get back," he decided silently. "If there's sothing I can do, I will."
By the ti he returned to the hotel, the night had deepened.
Later, after ensuring Silence Suzuka had fallen asleep, her breathing steady and undisturbed, Shuta An finally allowed himself to rest. As his eyes closed, his consciousness slipped once more into the Dream World.
Tonight's race awaited.
The Rose Stakes. 2000 ters. His mount: TalentDancer. The favorite: Nishino Flower.
"A 2000-ter race—" he thought calmly as the scene ford around him. "That distance doesn't favor her."
The conclusion was imdiate. No unnecessary focus. No wasted attention.
The race unfolded swiftly.
"Talent Dancer! Closing in at the final mont! Shuta An claims his 22nd graded race victory this year! The record continues to be rewritten!"
The comntator's voice rang out, sharp with excitent.
Shuta An lifted his whip, spinning it lightly between his fingers, a trace of satisfaction settling into his expression.
"Sooner or later," he thought, his gaze steady, "I'll face her on her own ground."
"And when that happens—I'll defeat her"
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