Once they entered the backstretch, Shuta An finally sensed it—his partner's gait had returned to the exact rhythm she displayed in her previous races.
(The Sunday Silence in this body was possessed; thus, his pronouns reflected she/her rather than the original racehorse's he/his.)
"Good—judging by her stride, Sunday Silence's condition should still be intact." The young man let out a quiet breath of relief. "Let's move up a bit here. If we stay trapped behind the struggling front group, we'll lose all options later."
With that decision, he guided Sunday Silence inward, angling her toward the rail. Then, decisively, he pushed her forward. She slipped past several exhausted opponents, surging through the inside like a black shadow. In mere moments, Sunday Silence had climbed into third place. And now, ignoring the seven horses she had left behind, even a child could read the formation of the leading group—
Absorb, the front-runner, was visibly fading. Its legs were heavy, its breathing strained, and its speed refused to respond. No matter how it tried, it could not shake off Easy Goer.
Right behind, Easy Goer followed calmly, rhythm steady and unbroken. The earlier 1600 meters had barely dented his stamina.
Three lengths behind them ran Shuta An and Sunday Silence. And it was here that Shuta An noticed something troubling—her form looked normal, but her breathing had grown noticeably quicker.
"So her stamina really is strained at 2400 meters—" he murmured. But he wasn't surprised. He and Trainer Charlie Whittingham had predicted this long before the race. "Then—it all comes down to Sunday Silence's grit."
He exhaled, watching as Pat Day and Easy Goer prepared to strike at Absorb on the final turn.
Up in the stands, Charlie Whittingham's heart tightened. A veteran trainer could see it clearly—through the binoculars, he could tell Sunday Silence was nearing her limit.
"It's possible—NO, likely…she won't have the stamina to catch Easy Goer in the final 300 meters." Regret welled up in Charlie's chest. "Maybe—maybe I should have let Shuta attempt a big escape early on, then slow midway to lure Easy Goer in. We could have preserved stamina for a one-on-one battle at the end."
Yoshida Zenya, steeped in decades of racing experience, saw the same thing at a glance.
"Indeed—2400 meters is still too much for her, isn't it?" he whispered. "I shouldn't be greedy. Getting a two-time Uma Musume winner for under a million dollars is already an enormous return. I shouldn't wish for miracles."
Meanwhile, Claude III narrowed his eyes, a faint smile curling on his lips.
"It seems 2400 meters truly exceeds Sunday Silence's limits. The victory in this Belmont Stakes will belong to Easy Goer."
Easy Goer's owner nodded ruefully. "If only we hadn't lost the Kentucky Derby and Preakness—Easy Goer could have become the American Triple Crown champion."
"This only proves one thing—" Claudio III frowned slightly, searching for the right explanation. "Sunday Silence's rider—his talent is just too strong. Those first two Triple Crown races were won through highly targeted riding."
"Could we hire him to ride Easy Goer in the future?" Ogden Phipps asked.
"I doubt it." Claudio III shook his head. "He only has a short-term riding permit. Unless something unexpected happens, he'll return to Japan at the beginning of July, right after this Belmont Stakes."
"I see…" Ogden Phipps exhaled and released the idea. "Then forget it. If they can't form a long-term partnership, there's no point in changing jockeys."
And yet, among everyone present, the one suffering most…was the Sunday Silence within the dream.
"In the real world, I lost to Easy Goer at Belmont Park—losing the Triple Crown. And now, even in my dream—you're not giving me a chance?!" Her heart trembled with despair. "Not even a chance to have a beautiful dream?!"
Dazed, she ran forward, driven only by the instinct of the body she inhabited. In the saddle, Shuta An sensed something was off. His partner's focus had drifted. Her rhythm was scattered.
"Should I whip here?" he asked himself, eyes narrowing. They were still inside the final turn. If he used the whip now, Sunday Silence would have to burn extra stamina to fight centrifugal force—meaning her final burst on the straight would be weakened.
"Do I take that risk?"
His gaze dropped to her hind neck. He could feel it—her stride was full of confusion.
"Now it all comes down to grit," he whispered, recalling his own words.
He squinted into the wind, eyes locking onto Easy Goer's back ahead. Then he bit down on his lip.
"Let's gamble." He shifted the whip to his right hand, lifted it—
and struck.
Smack!
The crack sliced through the air, landing on her body. Her hindquarters flinched from the impact. The dazed Uma Musume jolted awake from the pain. Anger surged through her chest.
"EVEN YOU…ARE BULLYING ME?!"
But she knew—this was not the time to indulge in frustration. She inhaled sharply, adjusted her steps, and braced her heart. Her gaze locked onto the figure ahead—her rival in this world.
"I'm going all out against you. In that world, you denied me the Triple Crown. Here, in this dream—I absolutely won't allow it!"
Her fighting spirit erupted. Her speed spiked sharply. In an instant, she closed the gap with Easy Goer.
"Easy Goer!" she roared in her heart. "Sunday Silence is here!"
Grinding her teeth, she hurled every ounce of her resentment, frustration, and fury into raw momentum.
After the whip came down, Sunday Silence bolted forward as if its tail had been set ablaze. The sudden surge of speed was so violent that, had Shuta An's horsemanship been anything less than exceptional, he would have been unseated on the spot.
"So fast!" The young man's eyes widened in disbelief. "Sunday Silence has never shown speed like this!"
In the VIP stands, Charlie Whittingham shot to his feet. "Damn it—is that Sunday Silence?!"
Yoshida Zenya covered his mouth, stunned. The silhouette of the dark bay horse, racing like a streak of shadow, overlapped with another image in his memory. "This—this is just like Dancing Brave in the Arc two years ago. That explosive late charge—it's identical."
And it wasn't just them. The live commentator's voice cracked with excitement:
"Easy Goer needs to watch out! Sunday Silence is closing in—closing in fast!"
Claude R. McGaughey III frowned deeply. "Impossible. How does Sunday Silence have the stamina to accelerate here?"
Ogden Phipps turned toward him, face pale. "So the outcome is still uncertain?"
"No!" Claude shot back. "This is just its dying struggle. With its pedigree and past performance, a 2400-meter race is absolutely beyond it."
But Ogden Phipps suddenly pointed at the track, voice trembling. "Then explain why Sunday Silence is about to overtake Easy Goer!"
"What—?!" The trainer rushed to look—and froze. Ogden hadn't lied.
After Sunday Silence turned all of its anger and frustration into raw speed, Shuta An initially assumed the horse was simply reacting to pain. He had planned to shift one lane inward on the final straight, letting Sunday Silence accelerate along the rail.
He wasn't afraid of the risk of falling. After overtaking the exhausted Absorb, the passive skill Exhilaration had activated, strengthening his sense of balance. To others, improved balance seemed meaningless in such a desperate race. But to Shuta An, whose riding skills were a cheat, that little enhancement was worth more than gold.
"Pat Day, you'd better watch closely." A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "The next three hundred meters will be enough for you to study for the rest of your life."
Using every ounce of his core strength, Shuta An flattened his upper body along Sunday Silence's back. With every push-ride, he lifted his hands to their highest point—when the horse thrust its head forward, he pressed his weight onto its neck, helping it stretch; when it lifted its head, he tightened the reins, letting it retract with minimal effort.
To the audience, the young jockey looked like he was performing acrobatics atop the galloping horse.
But only he knew—their breathing, timing, and strength were aligned perfectly. Man and horse had become one.
Far away on Honshu, Yutaka Take was resting in the Hanshin Racecourse jockey room when the broadcast footage suddenly zoomed in on Shuta An and Sunday Silence. He sprang up from his seat.
"Shuta-kun?! What—what is that?!"
He hadn't forgotten the conversation he once had with Shuta An.
"That 'unity of breath,' becoming one with the horse—I've only just begun to touch that state." Yutaka Take clutched his head in disbelief. "And in barely a month with Sunday Silence, Shuta-kun has already reached it?! Is American training really that insane?!"
He clenched his teeth. "After the Takarazuka Kinen—I'm going to America too! I won't let Shuta-kun leave me behind!"
Thanks to Sunday Silence's relentless charge, Shuta An finally drew level with Pat Day at the 100-meter mark.
"Damn it!" Pat Day nearly lost his composure. "They said Sunday Silence couldn't last 2400 meters! How is it still accelerating?!"
But a veteran like him recovered quickly. With steely resolve, he struck Easy Goer again.
"I don't care what's happening! I will not let Sunday Silence pass!"
Easy Goer, receiving harsher whip strokes than ever before, burst forward with desperate effort.
But Sunday Silence's desire to win ran deeper. Because inside that body—was a soul that had just suffered defeat earlier that day.
No matter what happens to this body—I refuse to be a loser, even in a dream!
Sunday Silence felt the fatigue flooding its limbs, but her conviction held her upright. Pure stubborn will kept her sprinting, and she knew she wasn't alone.
I don't know what he's doing, but he's helping me push my strength to the limit. Even if the whip was annoying—the help outweighs the pain.
"Sunday Silence! Easy Goer! Sunday Silence! Easy Goer! They cross the line together! Do we have a new Triple Crown winner, or has Easy Goer finally claimed revenge?!"
The commentator was shrieking, nearly out of breath.
But Shuta An had already raised three fingers toward the stands—though his smile was twisted in pain. Only he knew why.
Pat Day, whipping with his left hand to avoid colliding with Shuta An, didn't realize that every swing hit not just Easy Goer—but partly Shuta An himself.
And every time, Shuta An absorbed the blow with his leg. It hurt like hell. But it blunted Easy Goer's stimulus just enough.
Easy Goer, robbed of the full strength of those whip strikes, couldn't unleash its stamina advantage completely. And so Sunday Silence beat it—by a nose.
A victory carved out through pain.
"Worth it." Shuta An gritted his teeth, forcing a smile uglier than crying.
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