Chapter 31. Future Vision for Mejiro Dober
On the weekend of the Japanese Oaks, Air Deja Vu clung to victory by a mere nose at the final instant. The margin was so thin it felt less like triumph and more like survival—enough, at least, to spare her Trainer the humiliation of paying out half a year's debt.
"It seems she has learned not only when to launch her chase," Shuta An observed quietly, "but also how to withstand the pressure from behind."
Mr. Kitahara, now an Oaks-winning Trainer, leapt in elation and clasped his friend's shoulder. "You must come to Scorpii's celebration tonight!"
But Shuta An declined. "No, you should celebrate with your team. I need to return to Central and check on Teio and the others. Dober's debut is close. I can't afford any mistakes."
"Then I'll treat you another time, Ann-san," Kitahara insisted, unwilling to abandon the thought of repaying him.
—
Back at Central Tracen Academy, Shuta An reviewed Tokai Teio and Mejiro Dober's training metrics in silence. Split times, stride analysis, recovery curves—he examined each without haste. The videos showed no visible irregularities. Satisfied, he chose not to disturb their rest.
He returned to his office and began drafting the weekly report. Just as he completed Tokai Teio's section, a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he said, eyes still on the screen. "Who is it?"
"Ann~"
The familiar voice forced him to stop typing. Silence Suzuka stepped inside, dressed in her academy uniform, carrying a basket in both hands.
His gaze lowered. "What's this?"
"Desserts and coffee from outside the academy. I thought you would've eaten at Tokyo Racecourse, so this should be just right for afternoon tea." She pulled a chair beside his and sat close. "There's something I wanted to ask you about, too."
Late May in Tokyo was already oppressive. Yet when he accepted the cup, the condensation was still cold against his palm. Ice cubes clinked faintly within.
"You ran here, didn't you?" he asked.
Suzuka's breathing had not fully steadied. The rise and fall of her chest betrayed the distance she had covered.
"Are you writing the weekly report?" she asked, leaning slightly forward to look at the screen.
"Yes. If I don't submit it soon, Miss Rudolph will call again." His tone carried a trace of resignation. "And I need to finalize Dober's debut race in this report."
"The first debut of the year," Suzuka said softly. "You're placing high expectations on Dober-chan."
He took a measured sip of coffee before replying. "It's preparation for the Hakodate Nisai Stakes."
"Turf 1200?" Suzuka's brows knit. "Why that race? Wouldn't 1400 meters at Niigata—or even 1800 at Sapporo—suit her better?"
"Those are in September. There isn't enough time." He spoke evenly. "Her overseas expedition is scheduled for mid-September. If she performs exceptionally at Hakodate, I may even add another race."
Suzuka's attention sharpened. "Overseas? Which one?"
"Natalma Stakes. G1. Woodbine, Canada. 1600 meters on turf. Restricted to the Triple Tiara route." His explanation was clinical. "Dry track. Breeders' Cup ticket attached. It's the most appropriate target."
She paused, absorbing the weight of it. "And the additional race?"
"Prix Maurice de Gheest. Deauville. August. 1200 meters." He did not look away from the screen. "Entry would require an outstanding showing. Deauville's turf runs heavier than Hakodate."
"Another 1200—" Suzuka murmured. "But Dober-chan is better over longer distances."
"That's true," he admitted. "But suitable 1600-meter races within the schedule are limited. And we must preserve space to prepare for the Hanshin Juvenile Fillies." He spread his hands faintly. "At one point, I even considered the Prix de Diane. To familiarize her with the French track."
Suzuka's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ann… are you thinking of having her challenge 'that'?"
He understood immediately.
"As for the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, no." He waved the thought away. "If I were to send anyone from this team to the Arc, it would be Teio. But with the Kikuka Sho in the Classic season, that would only be possible when she's older."
"That's far away," Suzuka said with a quiet laugh, though it carried a faint strain.
"Yes." His voice lowered almost imperceptibly. "So the Diane would be for the future. If Dober adapts to European turf, I would rather aim her elsewhere next year."
"Where?"
"Yorkshire Oaks. Approximately 2400 meters. York Racecourse." He paused. "The configuration suits her in theory. The uncertainty lies in whether she can truly endure 2400."
The office fell into a momentary silence, heavy with distances not yet run and years not yet lived.
"Next summer…" Suzuka's eyes brightened despite it all. "Maybe we could hold a summer training camp in Europe? I've never been."
He had not finalized anything. Yet the URA's funding made the idea feasible.
"If the opportunity comes," he said at last, "I'll bring everyone."
Her expression softened into something almost defiant. "Then I'll look forward to it. No—I'll help Dober-chan conquer 2400 meters."
She rose, fists clenched in quiet resolve.
And Shuta An watched her, aware that every plan he drafted—every race, every meter—was a wager against time, against fragility, against the narrow margin by which victory and loss were decided.
That night, Ann returned home alone and chose to sleep early.
"Tonight, I'll challenge the Japanese Oaks again—in the dream."
He lay on his back, staring into the darkness. The sigh that escaped him carried no anticipation—only calculation.
He had no confidence in victory.
In that world, skill alone was insufficient. Even if his riding surpassed every peer, when the mount beneath him lacked the final measure of class, triumph always hovered just beyond reach. Technique could narrow the margin. It could not erase it.
This time, his partner would once again be Scarlet Bouquet. And over 2400 meters, she was unlikely to endure the final stretch against true stayers.
"A top-three finish," he murmured to himself. That was the ceiling he allowed his expectations to touch.
Ito Yuji, Scarlet Bouquet's Trainer, harbored no such restraint. Though he had once captured the Oaks before, no Trainer ever ceased craving another G1. When they met in the waiting area, Ito clasped Ann's shoulder with open confidence.
"Four years ago, Max Beauty brought me my first Oaks. Today, I'm counting on you to bring me the second, Shuta-kun."
"I'll do my best," Ann replied, a faint bitterness beneath the smile. There were truths one could not speak aloud.
As he stepped onto the stage, the weight of the day pressed against him. Tokyo Racecourse lay beneath a ceiling of thick gray clouds. The air felt swollen, heavy with impending rain.
He inhaled. It was suffocating.
"In conditions like this, I must be calmer than ever. No mistakes."
If Scarlet Bouquet lost, the explanation would be simple to him—distance limitation, raw class, finishing power. But the media would not dissect stride efficiency or lactate thresholds. They would attach the failure to his name.
He refused to be made the scapegoat.
When the gates sprang open, Ann broke from gate 14 and immediately guided Scarlet Bouquet toward the rear. Without hesitation, he cut sharply inward to the rail.
In the stands, Ito Yuji's expression hardened.
"What is he doing?" he muttered. "He never told me he planned to stay back. Scarlet Bouquet doesn't have a devastating late kick."
Yoshida Katsumi frowned as well, though his tone was softer. "Perhaps Shuta-kun sensed something."
He had already resolved not to blame the young rider regardless of the outcome. He understood Scarlet Bouquet's limitations.
Still, he would ask about this afterward.
Up ahead, Isono Roubles crossed the 1000-meter marker.
Ann calculated instinctively.
"Sixty-two seconds for the first thousand… on good turf. Ultra-slow."
His brows tightened.
"Matsunaga-senpai intends to steal it."
In a race governed by tempo, patience could be fatal. Ann increased his urging—not sharply, but with deliberate gradation. Move forward. Hug the rail. Conserve every inch of ground. Gamble that no one would close the inside.
From last place, Scarlet Bouquet slipped into the rear of the leading cluster. By the time they reached the midpoint of the final turn, Isono Roubles was already accelerating toward the straight.
Northern Driver and Twin Voice drifted outward, their riders preparing to launch wide.
A seam opened.
Ann took it without hesitation.
Yutaka Take, riding parallel aboard Tanino Crystal, saw the intention immediately.
"He's going to punch through the inside."
He moved to follow—only for Tanino Crystal to shy from the tightening pack, her temperament betraying him at the worst moment. Yutaka could not force her.
He watched, powerless.
"If he breaks through here…" A flicker of regret passed through him. "The others will curse themselves in the replay room."
Ann heard none of it.
Entering the straight, centrifugal force pulled the leaders slightly wide. Matsunaga struck Isono Roubles left-handed and intensified his drive.
Ann's lips curved faintly.
Right-hand whip. Scarlet Bouquet clung to the rail. Switch to the left.
One hundred meters—Northern Driver overtaken. A sliver of daylight opened.
Then the windmill motion—left arm swinging in full arc—while his right hand drove with relentless precision. He rose and sank in rhythm, thighs burning, core locked, turning raw physical strength into propulsion.
It was not elegant. It was violent. It was exactly precise.
Scarlet Bouquet responded.
One by one, rivals fell back.
In the stands, Yoshida Katsumi gripped the railing.
"Could it be…?"
For a moment, hope burned brighter than reason. But in the final twenty meters, the truth surfaced.
Scarlet Bouquet's stride shortened.
Isono Roubles still held half a head.
Ann could not measure the margin. There was no time. Instinct took over. He lifted the reins high, and in the final heartbeat before the wire, he hurled his weight forward, pressing Scarlet Bouquet's neck, forcing her to stretch to her absolute limit.
The finish flashed beneath them.
"Scarlet Bouquet has the advantage!" the commentator cried, though certainty had not yet arrived.
Whether that desperate lunge had rewritten fate—or merely narrowed defeat to something crueler—would be decided by the photo.
And in that suspended second, Ann understood again how thin the line was between redemption and inevitability.