June 3rd.
Shuta An slipped back into Japan under a veil of secrecy. Because he had requested the accompanying reporters to keep quiet, not a single person outside the inner circle knew when or how he returned. Even the flight route—two transfers, ending at Nagoya Airport—was chosen solely for speed rather than comfort.
The moment he landed, he headed straight to his apartment. Thanks to the peculiar temporal properties between the real world and the Dream World, he adjusted to the time difference in just one night. At dawn the next morning, he was already driving toward the Kasamatsu Training Center.
Recently, Trainer Sagami Masayuki had been strangely absent-minded. The staff all knew the reason: his "student" was still overseas, and the stable's most important horse, Swift Say Die, would soon run in the Tokai Derby. That same student had once made him a solemn promise—to bring him a victory in the Tokai Derby. Yet Shuta An had gone silent for days.
And so, Sagami Masayuki simply sat at the stable entrance every morning, waiting.
"I wonder why Shuta-kun hasn't replied—Is he really that busy preparing for the Belmont Stakes?" he murmured.
But before he could finish his sigh, a familiar voice called out:
"Teacher! I'm back!"
He looked up.
The face that had appeared on newspapers across the nation just days ago now stood before him, smiling with the same earnestness as always.
"Shuta-kun?! You actually came back from America?!" The older man nearly jumped to his feet. "What about the Belmont Stakes?!"
"I've left Sunday Silence's preparation temporarily in Trainer Charlie Whittingham's hands," Shuta explained calmly. "I rushed back to prepare for the Tokai Derby. Once the race is over, I'll head back immediately."
"Won't—won't that be too much? Won't it affect things over there?" Sagami Masayuki asked anxiously.
"No matter what, I promised Teacher a Tokai Derby victory." Shuta grinned. "So the Tokai Derby comes first. Now then—who am I riding? Please show me."
That was all Sagami Masayuki needed. His eyes brightened, and he sprang to his feet, brushing dirt off his trousers.
"Of course! Come this way, Shuta-kun!"
The news of his return spread like wildfire throughout the Tokai region. Sagami Masayuki blocked the press as best he could, but the swarm of visiting Trainers was unstoppable. Still, Shuta An never turned people away; he greeted everyone with the same humility and warmth he had before becoming national news.
Even so—some things happened that neither he nor his teacher could have predicted.
The next day—just one day before the Tokai Derby—every single participating stable withdrew their entries.
Except for Swift Say Die.
"Why did they all withdraw?!" Shuta stared in disbelief.
Sagami returned from making inquiries with an expression that mixed helplessness with disbelief.
"They said—since Mr. Shuta is riding, no one else has any hope of winning. So they all chose to avoid the race."
Even he never imagined a derby where every rival scratched because of the jockey.
"Well, I still have to ride Swift Say Die once, right?" Shuta asked.
"Of course. Even if it's only a formality, you still need to complete the race once." Sagami nodded.
June 5th — Tokai Derby Day
Nagoya Racecourse buzzed with a strange mixture of excitement and confusion. The annual Tokai Derby—normally a clash of pride among three-year-olds—had only one entrant.
But Shuta An did not slack off.
When the gates opened, he rode Swift Say Die through the entire course with utmost seriousness, executing every rhythm, every push, every corner as if rivals were breathing down his neck.
And when he crossed the finish line, he pulled the horse to a gentle stop. The stable staff took the reins. Then—
Shuta spread his arms like wings and leapt off Swift Say Die's back, landing lightly before raising both arms toward the crowd.
"GO, SHUTA-KUN! WIN THE AMERICAN TRIPLE CROWN!"
The roar hit him like a wave.
He froze for a heartbeat. He hadn't expected the Tokai spectators to shout that. Then he smiled—broadly, proudly—and raised his fist. He heard them. He heard all of it.
The Next Morning
Shuta awoke, expecting nothing. After all, the Tokai Derby this year had become little more than ceremony. But a notification awaited him:
Passive Skill Acquired: Exhilaration—When entering a one-on-one final straight duel, greatly enhances body balance.(Exclusive to Dream World jockeys)
"This—?" His thoughts flew immediately to the final stretch of the Preakness.
"If I'd had this skill back then, Sunday Silence might not have needed to push so hard" he muttered. "But getting it now isn't bad. I can still use it for the Belmont."
Easy Goer was a monster. The Belmont Stakes was 2400 meters—a paradise for stamina types. If Shuta fought with regular means, he would be crushed.
"To overturn the disadvantage—I'll have to go all-out on push riding," he thought.
Unlike the local jockeys in Tokai, Pat Day would not hold back even 1%. Easy Goer and his rider had achieved nothing yet; their pride would force them to fight to the last breath. Shuta didn't want regrets. He didn't want to fail Sunday Silence. He didn't want to betray the promise he had made long ago.
"I must win the Belmont Stakes—there's no other choice."
He murmured those words to himself. And Oguri Cap—watching her lover lost in thought—tilted her head, puzzled.
"Ann has been spacing out a lot lately—why?"
Her voice snapped him back.
"It's nothing. Just some work stuff I haven't sorted out."
"Then—do you need my help?" Oguri blinked. "Berno isn't at the apartment. If there's something I can do"
"Don't worry about it." Shuta forced a smile. "It's fine."
Of course, he couldn't tell her what was happening in the Dream World. So he could only answer— vaguely.
The day after the Tokai Derby concluded, Shuta An once again boarded a plane bound for the United States. The venue for the Belmont Stakes—the decisive third jewel of the American Triple Crown—was Belmont Park Racecourse, stretching an unforgiving 2400 meters. And with barely twenty days since the Preakness Stakes, it was a brutal test of endurance for any horse that had competed in all three legs.
Before the race, Claude III confidently declared to the press that Easy Goer would undoubtedly seize the final crown.
"Easy Goer's stamina is exceptional. Sunday Silence exhausted itself in the previous two races—there's simply no chance it can contend with Easy Goer here. Please continue to support Easy Goer!"
Pat Day echoed that confidence, raising the tension even further.
"I don't care how well Sunday Silence performs. Easy Goer is in perfect form, and this distance poses no threat. I'll be riding with everything I have to claim the victory we deserve."
Even Ogden Phipps, Easy Goer's owner, spoke without hesitation:
"The results so far have been disappointing, but Easy Goer's strength is unquestionable. It is the strongest of its generation in America, and this Belmont Stakes will prove it. Sunday Silence may be a fine horse, but its previous victories carried a measure of luck. In a race where only absolute strength matters, Easy Goer will not lose."
Meanwhile, the Sunday Silence camp—finally treated as something more than background characters—still sensed the favoritism in the reporters' questions. Every word, every tone, continued to lean toward Easy Goer.
"But this is already an improvement," Yoshida Zenya consoled Charlie Whittingham. "In the past, they wouldn't even ask us anything."
"That question though—" Charlie Whittingham seethed, jaw tight with anger. "What do they mean, 'How much strength can Sunday Silence exert'? What do they mean, 'How do you respond to claims that Easy Goer won't give Sunday Silence any chance'? And saying our victories were nothing but luck—!"
"It's fine," Yoshida Zenya said gently. "If we win the Belmont Stakes, they'll have nothing left to say."
He spoke with confidence born of experience. He had watched Shuta An and Oguri Cap transform from objects of doubt into a pair praised endlessly as "fated partners." This was nothing new—just another wall for Shuta An to break through.
The accompanying Japanese reporter, usually neutral, finally allowed his emotions to slip.
"If a new Triple Crown winner is born—I'll be the one who recorded every moment. For once, I wouldn't mind my American colleagues feeling jealous."
But unlike the noisy world around them, Shuta An and Sunday Silence simply pushed forward. After returning to America, Shuta An adjusted to the time difference in a single day and immediately plunged into Sunday Silence's final preparations.
"This is the last step. We cannot allow everything to fall apart here."
Even when urged to rest, he refused without hesitation. That determination infected the staff as well—rarely seen in America, they willingly stayed late to discuss race strategies together. Watching this, for the first time, Charlie Whittingham felt a faint, vivid conviction:
"Perhaps Sunday Silence truly carries the destiny of becoming a Triple Crown winner."
Three days before the Belmont Stakes, the gate draw ceremony began. Unlike the previous two legs, Shuta An did not skip it. He attended alongside Yoshida Zenya and Trainer Whittingham. Since he never watched the earlier ceremonies, he didn't recognize the guests at all.
"That's a popular American actor," Charlie Whittingham whispered when he caught Shuta An's confused look. "And the other is the Belmont Park board chairman. He attended all three Triple Crown draws and didn't let the chairmen of Churchill Downs or Pimlico take part—not modest at all."
"Having celebrities draw the gates—very similar to Japan." Shuta An folded his arms. "I hope she pulls a good number for us. If possible, gate 1 would be ideal."
"The course will be dry and fast this weekend," Whittingham explained. "Given Belmont's massive turns, inside positions are best. For Sunday Silence, gates 1 to 4 would all be favorable."
"Then let's hope Sunday Silence draws gate 1—and Easy Goer draws the worst gate, number 10," Yoshida Zenya said with a laugh.
Whittingham nodded in agreement. Only Shuta An shrugged. Wishing didn't change anything—he had learned that long ago.
The draw began.
Gate 5: Rock Point.
Gate 2: Imbibe.
Whittingham offered brief analyses. Yoshida Zenya gave sharp commentary. Shuta An stayed relaxed, watching each name appear on the monitor.
Then—
Gate 7: Sunday Silence.
"Oh, come on!" Shuta An nearly spilled his drink. "Why an outside gate?"
His complaint was raw, unfiltered. Seeing the outburst, Whittingham rose immediately to prepare for his stage comment.
"It's unexpected," he admitted into the microphone. "As a Triple Crown contender, we hoped for better luck. But even with this gate, I believe in Sunday Silence's strength—and in Mr. Shuta's riding. Please support us. Sunday Silence will become the next Triple Crown Winner!"
Then Shuta An was summoned.
"Mr. Shuta, this is your first Belmont Stakes. What is your goal?"
Isn't it obvious? He exhaled once, then answered clearly.
"Having come this far with Sunday Silence, we owe everything to our supporters. Only by showing our strongest selves and winning can we repay their expectations."
Afterward, the draw continued.
Gate 6: Easy Goer.
"Should I call this fate?" Yoshida Zenya muttered. "Why does this feel like the Kentucky Derby all over again?"
"Riding beside Shuta again—Pat Day will be under pressure," Whittingham added.
Shuta An didn't know what Pat Day felt. But Claude McGaughey III's interview made it clear enough—confidence bordering on obsession.
The draw ended without surprises, and as they left their seats, Shuta An stretched lightly.
"With this gate, I'll have to mark Easy Goer again. Lead early, stay close, and look for an opening on the turn—that's probably the plan."
He spoke loudly on purpose.
Whittingham blinked, then nodded as if enlightened. "That's right. That's the only approach."
On the other side of the venue, Easy Goer's camp heard everything. Pat Day tightened his jaw, silent.
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