Chapter 15. The Thoughts Of Opponents Around Before The Dubai Turf
As Discreet Cat surged into the final straight, Kawamura Hirokazu instinctively lifted his head—then let out a long, heavy sigh.
Because the outcome was already decided.
At the very front, Discreet Cat ran alone.
It had to be said—she hadn't relied on a pace-setting strategy in this UAE Derby. From start to finish, she maintained a standard forward-running position, sitting comfortably in fourth. Then, as they exited the final bend, she merely accelerated—lightly, almost effortlessly—
—and in that instant, the race was over.
She broke away cleanly, leaving the rest of the field behind as if they belonged to a different tier altogether.
Behind her, both Passion Flare and Invasor were already showing cracks.
Passion Flare wasn't surprised.
But Invasor—Was unraveling.
Shuta An had been correct in his earlier assessment: Invasor had won the Uruguayan 2000 Guineas.
But even he had overlooked something. His unfamiliarity with South American racing meant he had missed two crucial details— Gran Premio Nacional. Gran Premio Jockey Club.
The remaining two legs of Uruguay's Triple Crown.
In other words—Invasor was a contender for undefeated Triple Crown Uma Musume, stepping onto the international stage for the very first time.
And yet—On the stage where she should have declared her dominance to the world—
She was being utterly, mercilessly dismantled.
"Damn it!"
Her breath shattered as she pushed harder, faster—beyond her limits.
"Why can't I catch up?! Why—!"
She drove her body forward, as if willing to trade away tomorrow's stamina for one more ounce of speed.
But it was meaningless.
Discreet Cat's figure only grew smaller.
More distant.
More unreachable.
And worse—Even Passion Flare, running ahead of her, was gradually widening the gap.
For Passion Flare, the objective was clear.
Second place meant everything.
A vacation. Qualification. Reward.
But the pressure surging from behind—Invasor's relentless pursuit—left her no room to relax. She clenched her teeth, forcing every last drop of strength out of her body. Because she understood—
The moment she eased, even slightly, she would be overtaken.
And third place—Would mean losing everything.
She would not accept that outcome.
Not here. Not now. Not within these final seconds.
Perhaps it was the shock.
Perhaps it was her condition.
But in the end—One second after Discreet Cat crossed the finish line—Passion Flare followed.
Second place.
A full horse length ahead of Invasor.
—
"Now she really can go on vacation."
Tojo Hana's voice carried a hint of amusement as she glanced at Kawamura Hirokazu.
"How do you feel?"
Kawamura stood slowly, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"Honestly, even with second place, I still feel a bit lightheaded."
He exhaled.
"I'm not discouraged by the loss. Discreet Cat is…undeniably strong."
A pause.
"But I think Passion Flare has just become one of the top contenders for this year's Japan Dirt Derby."
"I agree."
Shuta An's voice cut in calmly. At once, everyone in the room turned toward him. Among them all—His evaluation carried the greatest weight.
"With that, I'll have much more confidence in my preparations."
Kawamura bowed slightly, then turned and hurried out of the room.
—
"Even without a win, it's still a result worth celebrating," Tojo Hana said softly. "Next is Taiki Shuttle's Al Quoz Sprint…and now that it's my turn, I'm getting nervous."
"Then you'll be nervous twice tonight," Kitahara said with a grin. "Nishizaki-kun won't escape either."
"That's true."
Nishizaki Ryu shrugged.
"To be honest—I have no idea whether Spe can defeat El Condor Pasa."
"Neither do I." Tojo Hana met his gaze directly. "Special Week's improvement during training has been remarkable. Honestly, if her current form were taken back to last year's Arima Kinen, she would very likely win."
"That's the past."
Nishizaki lowered his head slightly.
"What matters now is the present."
"Regardless of the Dubai Sheema Classic's result, El Condor Pasa will be racing overseas for the entire year," Tojo Hana continued. "If Special Week loses, she'll likely remain in Japan."
She hesitated—just briefly.
"And if her main rival becomes Grass Wonder…then she shouldn't lose consecutively, perhaps."
Even as she said it, uncertainty lingered in her voice.
For a Trainer—especially one from a team as selective as Rigil—admitting that their Uma Musume might not dominate was never easy.
And yet—Facts were facts.
During recent training, Special Week's condition had been exceptional. So exceptional that Tojo Hana couldn't ignore the feeling—
She was like Nemesis of Greek myth.
A force born from defeat. A presence shaped by vengeance.
It was just that—
The one she sought to overcome—Was not here in Dubai.
Had El Condor Pasa not crushed her in last year's Japan Cup—
Perhaps now, Special Week would already be poised to become the first Japanese Derby Uma Musume to claim a G1 victory overseas.
—
The Al Quoz Sprint offered little suspense.
Despite her own tension, Tojo Hana could only watch as Taiki Shuttle dominated effortlessly—defeating every opponent with ease, even easing her pace before the finish line, securing victory without a single complication.
—
In the Dubai Golden Shaheen, however—
Bamboo Ere could only finish sixth.
Yet Trainer Shibasaki showed no visible disappointment.
For dirt sprint races, the domestic level simply could not compare to international competition. This race had always been about experience.
More importantly—Their true target lay elsewhere.
The newly proposed Japan Breeder's Cup series. Among them, the Japan Breeder's Cup Sprint—a newly established domestic G1.
For Bamboo Era, this represented her closest path to a long-awaited title. Before this, her options had been harsh. Either gamble on turf aptitude and challenge the Short Distance Championship—Or stretch beyond her ideal range to contest the Mile Nambu Cup.
Neither path suited her.
Not for a runner who specialized purely in dirt sprints.
"I don't know who proposed the JBC Series—"
Shibasaki Hiroshi exhaled softly, almost in relief.
"But to us they're a true benefactor."
After the Al Quoz Sprint, only three races remained on this year's Dubai World Cup Race Day.
The third from last—The Dubai Turf.
"Silence Suzuka has completed her exhibition and is the first to step onto the turf."
The commentator's voice carried unmistakable focus.
"This race marks her return since last year's Tenno Sho (Autumn). In that race, Silence Suzuka set an astonishing runaway pace—covering the first 1000 meters in 57.4 seconds—before later being diagnosed with a fracture."
A brief pause.
"Fortunately, the injury was not severe enough to threaten her career. Even so, many fans—including myself—have been wondering—can Silence Suzuka truly return to her peak form?"
The tone shifted, turning more optimistic.
"However, her team—Sadalsuud—has a proven record in rehabilitation. Oguri, for example, missed the first half of two consecutive seasons due to injury, only to return in the latter half with unstoppable momentum."
"So, there is every reason to believe that Silence Suzuka can do the same."
Another pause.
"But ultimately…the answer will come in ten minutes. Until then, let us quietly watch the world's foremost runaway leader."
Silence followed.
Not just in the broadcast—
But inside Shuta An's private box as well.
Tojo Hana was still downstairs, celebrating Taiki Shuttle's consecutive victory. Left behind were only the remaining Trainers.
Their gazes converged.
Kitahara. Nishizaki Ryu. Kawamura Hirokazu. Shibasaki Hiroshi.
Each of them had questions—Yet none spoke.
Shuta An, however, simply smiled. Then, instead of addressing their unspoken thoughts, he posed one of his own.
"What do you think is the 1000-meter pace I set for Suzuka this time?"
"59 seconds."
Kitahara answered immediately.
"After what happened last time, I assume you'd play it safe."
"Is 59 seconds really 'safe' for Miss Silence Suzuka?" Kawamura countered. "Wouldn't 60 seconds be more appropriate? I mean—by our timing standards. If it's too fast, the pressure for a comeback race might be too high."
Shibasaki, the least experienced among them, remained silent.
Shuta An waved his hand lightly.
"58 seconds." The room froze. "That's the line I set."
"58 seconds?!" Kitahara blurted out. "Isn't that too fast?! This is her comeback race!"
"I performed a full palpation on Suzuka. This pace is within acceptable limits."
His tone left no room for doubt.
"And more importantly—I cannot ask her to run a 'normal' pace."
"Why?" Nishizaki Ryu voiced the question lingering in everyone's mind.
Shuta An's expression shifted—subtle, but layered.
"Because the fans want to see her runaway. And more than anyone else—she wants it herself."
A quiet exhale.
"All I can do…is make sure she doesn't push it to an extreme like 57.4 seconds again."
A brief silence followed.
"But as she regains confidence in her body—" he added, almost to himself, "she'll eventually want to challenge that kind of speed again."
His hand slowly clenched.
"So before that happens—I've already prepared everything necessary on the logistical side."
"They're entering the gates."
The commentator's voice cut in, pulling everyone's attention back to the track.
—
Gate one.
Naturally, Silence Suzuka stepped forward first.
Before entering, she lightly stomped the turf—feeling its response beneath her feet.
"Perfect."
A faint smile curved her lips.
"This is a speed-favoring track."
Dry. Firm. Responsive.
An ideal stage.
Last year, she had already delivered a remarkable performance here. But today— She wasn't here just to win again.
"Last year, I ran the first 1000 meters in 61 seconds—" Her gaze sharpened. "They called it a beautiful wire-to-wire victory."
A pause.
"But this time—I'll show them the real me."
With that, she stepped into the gate.
—
Thinking this, Silence Suzuka stepped forward at the staff's signal and entered the starting gate.
Because of her slender physique, the confined space felt unusually spacious. Standing calmly within it, she turned her head slightly toward gate number two.
There stood Mackook, an Uma Musume from the United States. Her best result overseas had only been a fourth-place finish in a Listed race—hardly the kind of record that would draw Suzuka's attention.
To Silence Suzuka, she was not an opponent worth worrying about.
Even if Mackook committed fully to contesting the lead, the 1000-meter opening straight at Meydan Racecourse was more than enough for Suzuka to unleash her pace and leave her behind without difficulty.
Mackook understood this perfectly.
Even so, her gaze remained fixed on Silence Suzuka, sharp and unwavering. She knew that the moment the gates opened, she had to accelerate immediately—apply pressure, disrupt the rhythm, do anything to interfere with Suzuka's runaway.
This decision, however, was not born from her own ambition.
As an Uma Musume who had never even reached the top three in a Listed race, her presence here was not about personal glory. She had been brought to this stage to serve a role.
Her Trainer, K. McLaughlin, had entered her into the race with a clear objective—to exhaust Silence Suzuka early and create favorable conditions for his true contender, RiverUsk.
And Mackook was not alone in this task.
From gate three, her mate DesertShot stood ready as well. Both had been given the same instructions: either pressure Suzuka relentlessly from behind or seize the lead at all costs, forming a pincer that could disrupt the defending champion's rhythm.
It was a calculated strategy.
Yet for DesertShot and Mackook, it came at a cost. Cast in the role of "sacrifices," neither could muster genuine enthusiasm for the plan. Still, McLaughlin had offered them a powerful incentive—if RiverUsk won the Dubai Turf, each of them would receive a $100,000 bonus.
For runners of their level, such a sum was difficult to obtain through prize money alone. Add to that the rare opportunity to compete on an international stage, and hesitation gave way to resolve.
In this race, they would do everything in their power to trouble Silence Suzuka.
There had even been a moment when McLaughlin considered going further—ordering them to foul her outright on the track.
But that thought never materialized into action.
The reason was simple.
The Trainer of Silence Suzuka had a close relationship with Secretariat. And more importantly, there were precedents—figures like Bob Baffert, backed by powerful interests from the West Coast Tracen Academy, who had still been forced to swallow their anger after crossing the wrong person.
Faced with that reality, McLaughlin chose restraint.
No matter how calculated his tactics were, there were lines he did not dare to cross.
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