Late November arrived in a flash.
The long-awaited Japan Cup finally raised its curtain.
Society at large seed swept up in the fever of this international G1. TV, radio, and the papers all blitzed the airwaves and front pages with nonstop coverage. From powerful overseas entrants to the dostic elite, every competitor's past results, training updates, front-running predictions, and even off-track tidbits were dissected again and again. The level of attention had never been higher.
Amid that feverish buzz, Kuroha walked to Obey Your Master's room.
Knock, knock.
"Please, co in."
With permission, he stepped inside.
Her room could not have been more different from the cute, girlish style you'd expect. It looked like a command center.
There wasn't a single extraneous object—just wall-to-wall charts and information boards, ticulously arranged and color-coded. She had compiled dossiers on the entire Japan contingent: from each runner's preferred tactics and final-spurt chanics to acceleration curves; down to their trainers and even close friends.
Different colored pens marked and circled details, each sheet pressed onto the wall with solemn care—like pieces on a war board, shuffled and re-shuffled to perfect the battle plan.
This was Obey Your Master's way of waging war—like Super Creek, one of the future "eternal top three," a thoroughgoing data-style Uma Musu, pushing "off-track strategy" to its limit. Her insight far surpassed the norm—she could dig habits, weaknesses, even hints of ntal state from the tiniest detail.
If the future SSS-class Super Creek would stand as the emblem of the data school, then right now Obey Your Master—when it ca to capturing details and orchestrating tactics—already surpassed that still-green future legend by a long, long way.
She stood in her race outfit—a crisp, gentlemanly cut that highlighted her long lines and lent her a composed, mysterious air. Those deep eyes, frad by walls of data, were all the sharper and more profound.
Hearing his steps, she turned. Noticing Kuroha, the corner of her mouth stirred with a faint smile.
"Trainer, you're here."
Kuroha ca to her side. Taking in the carefully arranged ensemble, he couldn't help teasing: "So… not going out as your rock-gal self today?"
Obey Your Master blinked, then shook her head with a light smile. "Not today."
Her voice hardened, stripped of banter; every syllable carried weight.
"This race is the witness to joining your team."
"It is also the goal I've spent my life striving toward."
Her gaze pierced the room—as if she were already looking across the distant course toward the fateful hour fast approaching.
"I'll win this one fair and square—by my own strength."
Seeing the resolve of the girl before him—so perfectly aligned with all her choices—Kuroha felt a warm, wordless pride rise in his chest. He said nothing more, only extended his hand and murmured:
"Then—"
"Go and take the victory."
Obey Your Master was quiet for a heartbeat. Then she drew a deep breath and squeezed his hand with all her strength.
—
At Central Tracen Academy, inside Ginjirou's training room.
"Uncle Ginjirou!"
A bright voice cut through the quiet. Oguri Cap stepped in and strode straight to the old man reading his paper on the sofa.
"It's Ginjirou."
Ginjirou glanced up, deadpan.
Oguri paused—maybe to reset from the tiny slip of the tongue—but she quickly let it go. She took a breath, face set with a seriousness never seen before.
"Today's race… can I run… earlier than usual?"
Ginjirou set the paper down. "Why?"
Oguri clenched her fists. Her eyes were unwavering, her reply crisp and ordered:
"After training with March and the others, I realized sothing."
"My late-spurt speed and Tamamo Cross's… are basically the sa."
"If I wait until the fourth turn like I used to, I won't catch her."
Her voice sank, like she was reliving it.
"Even if the straight is longer and gives more room, it won't matter."
"Once Tamamo turns that thing on, that distance… won't affect her at all."
Silence. A hard gleam flashed in the old trainer's clouded eyes.
Of course he knew what "that thing" ant.
The power of a Domain.
Sothing Ginjirou hadn't unraveled in decades of coaching—sothing sensed only among the very top runners, a force that felt like a rule.
He looked at the ash-grey girl before him. The faintly naive, airheaded look she often wore had vanished; all that remained was lucid recognition and grim resolve. She was no longer a monster running only on instinct—she had learned to think, to solve.
After a long quiet, he nodded slowly, solemnly.
"Understood."
His hoarse voice was full of trust. "Run the way you just said."
—
Late-autumn Fuchu, the sky scrubbed clear and bright; warm sun, no sting.
Tokyo Racecourse was long since packed to the rafters. The day's headliner was also the nation's grand banquet of the year. International G1—the Japan Cup—was about to unfold.
This ti, Kuroha didn't trouble Symboli Rudolf for a box. He brought the "white-house" girls and chose ordinary seats closer to the finish.
Soon, the mic checks ended.
"—Ladies and gentlen!"
"In this fine late-autumn Fuchu, the going is good!"
"Fourteen top Uma Musu from around the world have gathered! A summit clash to decide the world's strongest is about to begin!"
With the announcer's patter, the entrants—each bearing national honor and personal dreams—stepped out from the tunnel.
"First—traveling far from the White Eagle Nation! With an unrivaled, iron-strong body, she'll fight to bring glory ho—Michelle Baby!"
A dark-haired girl with a healthy sun-kissed tone strode out. Her long hair was tied in a crisp single ponytail; her eyes were keen, her whole presence radiating the pressure of a power fighter.
"Beauty and late-spurt—dangerous anywhere in the world! From proud New Zealand, can she show unbending will on this grass—Ellerslie Glory!"
Out ca a silver-haired beauty with doll-like features and a cool aura. A faint scar traced from the corner of her eye down her cheek, marring perfection and lending a broken, compelling edge.
"Britannia's moonlight returns to shine on Japan's turf! She's here to wipe away last year's bitter defeat—Lunatic Moonlight!"
Grace in every step, a whiff of aristocratic Britain in both outfit and bearing—her reserved smile couldn't hide the fire of revenge burning deep in her eyes.
"And the pride of Japan! Lauded as a once-in-a-century beauty! Today, she'll bend the world with her gravity—Gold City!"
The platinum figure drew a roar. Maybe because the announcer emphasized "beauty," a faint blush touched Gold City's cheeks.
One by one, the world-class runners took the stage, each radiating fierce will, ratcheting the atmosphere higher and higher.
In the shadow at the end of another entrant tunnel, Tamamo Cross stood alone. She took deep, repeated breaths, trying to calm the churning mix of battle lust and nerves in her chest.
And then—a tall silhouette slipped to her side without a sound.
At nearly 180 cm, Obey Your Master lood over the 140-cm Tamamo Cross—the height gap alone pressed like a wall.
"Hello, Tamamo Cross."
Her voice was calm, almost like a casual greeting.
"Ah—uh… hello."
Startled, Tamamo answered on reflex; she didn't know this person.
"This is our first eting, yes?"
Obey Your Master smiled lightly.
"?"
A question mark practically popped on Tamamo's forehead. "I… guess?"
Seeing the small ash-grey girl's confusion, a hint of mirth touched Obey Your Master's eyes. She didn't rush to speak; she bent slightly, then murmured:
"Originally, I considered using an inside-track tactic to make my point—"
Tamamo blinked, still a beat behind.
"—but then I thought… it would feel better to beat all of you openly, head-on."
That snapped Tamamo fully awake. The blue of her eyes iced over; a spark flared.
"Are you… provoking ?"
Obey Your Master didn't answer at once. She walked toward the light of the exit, never looking back. At her side, two fingers pressed together swayed in a tiny wave.
"No. Not a provocation."
"—A declaration of war."
She stepped onto the stage flooded with sunlight and cheers, leaving a single clear, domineering line echoing down the empty tunnel:
"From today on, I'll make the whole world rember my na."
Right on cue, the broadcast called her number.
"From the USA!—the ninth favorite—Obey Your Master!"
(End of Chapter)
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