The Wall Called the Emperor
Japan was peaceful.
That was the first thing I noticed after completing my first full career as Mr. C.B.
Not the races.
Not the crowds.
Not the academy.
The peace.
Morning training began beneath clear blue skies. Horse girls laughed on their way to class. Trainers argued over race plans while sharing coffee. Fans waited outside the gates hoping for autographs from their favorite runners. Every season carried its own rhythm.
Junior Year belonged to mile racing.
Classic Year slowly shifted toward medium distance, demanding more stamina without abandoning speed.
Senior Year...
Senior Year was where legends were born.
Long-distance races separated champions from history itself.
It was beautiful.
Unlike my time as Marzensky, I actually got to experience Japan.
Back then...
Japan had rejected us before we ever had the chance.
After the foreign racing restrictions, Marzensky and I had crossed the ocean and built our legend somewhere else.
America became our home.
Canada became our proving ground.
Japan had simply become another place on the map.
Mr. C.B. changed that.
For the first time...
I was living the Japanese career.
Not watching it.
Not reading about it.
Living it.
And honestly...
I loved every second of it.
...
Until Senior Year.
Then Rudolf appeared.
My first career ended with a C+.
For most players...
That would have been a success.
Three full years completed.
Retirement reached.
Career finished.
A respectable ending.
I wasn't satisfied.
Retry.
The second run ended with a B.
Better stats.
Cleaner races.
Improved skill activations.
Still...
Not enough.
Retry.
Another B.
Retry.
C+.
Retry.
Low B.
Retry.
Another B.
Retry.
At some point...
I stopped counting.
Not because the careers were bad.
Because they weren't.
I'd long since left behind the days of failing Maiden races.
Those belonged to beginners.
F grades.
Gone.
Junior Year failures?
Almost nonexistent.
Classic Year collapses?
Rare.
Most of my careers comfortably reached Senior Year.
Most finished.
Most earned respectable grades.
The problem...
Was that respectable wasn't why I was here.
The system had another ending.
One hidden above the others.
B+.
Happy Ending.
For Mr. C.B...
That meant something deceptively simple.
Remain undefeated.
Beat history.
Retire as the complete legend she was meant to become.
Every road toward that ending...
Ended the same way.
Symboli Rudolf.
The first time I raced her...
I thought I understood the matchup.
Mr. C.B. was one of the greatest End Closers Japan had ever produced.
Patient.
Efficient.
Brilliant at conserving stamina.
Every stride built toward one devastating finish.
So naturally...
I challenged Rudolf exactly the way history expected.
I stayed near the back.
Saved stamina.
Read the field.
Waited for the final corner.
The opening appeared.
Ultimate Skill activated.
Acceleration surged.
My body exploded forward.
Perfect.
Everything felt perfect.
Then Rudolf moved.
Not after me.
With me.
Like she'd been waiting for exactly the same signal.
Her acceleration wasn't frantic.
It was overwhelming.
Every step hit the turf with unbelievable force.
I pushed.
She pulled away.
Second place.
Retry.
Maybe I'd attacked too late.
I adjusted.
Second.
Retry.
Earlier activation.
Second.
Retry.
Outside lane.
Second.
Retry.
Inside lane.
Second.
Retry.
Higher stamina.
Second.
Retry.
Higher speed.
Second.
Retry.
Power build.
Second.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every failure became another notebook page inside my head.
This wasn't frustration anymore.
It was research.
What happened if I attacked two hundred meters earlier?
Second.
What happened if I drafted behind the leaders?
Second.
What happened if I entered the final corner wider?
Second.
Different support composition.
Second.
Different skills.
Second.
Different prep.
Second.
The result refused to change.
Then an uncomfortable thought crossed my mind.
Maybe...
Mr. C.B. wasn't meant to be a pure End Closer.
History said she was.
The community said she was.
Every guide said she was.
I stopped caring.
Next run...
Front Runner.
People would've called it blasphemy.
I called it testing.
The race felt completely different.
Instead of reading the field...
I controlled it.
Instead of conserving...
I dictated the pace.
Instead of waiting...
I forced everyone else to react.
...
Rudolf still beat me.
Retry.
Leader strategy.
Second.
Retry.
Pace Chaser.
Second.
Retry.
End Closer.
Second.
Retry.
Front Runner again.
Second.
Every style.
Every philosophy.
Every build.
Every idea.
The Emperor remained standing.
Eventually...
I realized something terrifying.
I wasn't losing because I was making mistakes.
I'd already fixed those.
My lines through each corner became cleaner.
My pacing became sharper.
My skill timing improved.
My understanding of Japanese racing deepened with every career.
The races themselves...
Were nearly flawless.
Yet Rudolf still finished ahead.
She wasn't punishing bad decisions.
She was outperforming good ones.
That was infinitely scarier.
Life outside racing continued peacefully.
Cherry blossoms bloomed.
Summer festivals arrived.
Students graduated.
New runners enrolled.
People laughed.
People cried.
People retired.
Nobody remembered any of it except me.
Every reset erased another three years.
Another academy life.
Another group of friendships.
Another farewell ceremony.
Sometimes...
I'd finish a perfectly respectable B career.
Stand on the retirement stage.
Smile.
Wave to the cheering crowd.
Accept the flowers.
Receive congratulations.
Then quietly press Retry.
No one else would understand.
Why throw away a B?
Why abandon a successful career?
Because success wasn't the same as satisfaction.
Somewhere beyond those endings...
There was another route.
I knew it existed.
The system wouldn't have created a Happy Ending if reaching it were impossible.
That meant one thing.
The problem wasn't Rudolf.
The problem was me.
I simply hadn't discovered the correct answer yet.
Months became years.
Years became dozens of careers.
Dozens became hundreds.
Eventually...
I couldn't even remember how many times I'd watched Mr. C.B. retire.
The memories blurred together.
Only one thing remained crystal clear.
A pair of emerald eyes waiting near the finish line.
Every time.
Without fail.
Symboli Rudolf.
The Emperor.
The wall separating a good career...
From the career.
Some players would have stopped.
Taken their B.
Moved on to another character.
Started a new challenge.
I couldn't.
Every loss taught me something.
Every reset removed another wrong answer.
Every defeat narrowed the possibilities.
I wasn't trying to prove I was the best player anymore.
I was trying to prove the Happy Ending wasn't a lie.
That somewhere...
Hidden beneath all these careers...
There existed one perfect sequence of decisions.
One race.
One strategy.
One version of Mr. C.B.
Capable of defeating the Emperor.
And until I found it...
I'd keep resetting.
No matter how many beautiful Japanese springs...
I had to leave behind.
The Arima Kinen track never felt like simulation.
Not anymore.
The turf wasn't just ground, it was resistance. Every stride carried weight, every corner demanded a decision before it could be completed.
And at the center of it all stood Symboli Rudolf.
Not leading.
Not chasing.
Just present.
Settled just ahead of mid-pack, perfectly comfortable, watching the race unfold like it already belonged to her.
That was what made her dangerous.
She didn't need the front.
She didn't fight for early control.
She simply stayed close enough that every major move in the race had to pass through her awareness.
The bell rang.
The race began.
And immediately, the pace formed around her.
Not because she set it at the front,
But because she absorbed it.
Runners ahead pushed early, trying to define tempo.
Rudolf didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
She stayed just behind them, letting them establish rhythm first.
That was her pattern.
Let others spend energy defining the race.
Then take it when it becomes unstable.
Mr. C.B. watched from mid-pack.
Calm.
Waiting.
She knew this pattern too well.
Rudolf always looked passive early.
That was the mistake most runners made.
They thought she was waiting.
She wasn't.
She was measuring collapse timing.
The race stretched into its middle phase.
Runners began to separate.
The front group tried to maintain pressure.
The mid-pack started to fracture.
And Rudolf stayed exactly where she always stayed:
Just behind the leading rhythm, never fully committing, never wasting motion.
But everything near her began to subtly tighten.
Strides became less clean.
Corners slightly heavier.
Not visible enough to call out.
But enough to break timing confidence.
Mr. C.B. felt it.
That was the Tyrant's real strength.
Not speed.
Not acceleration.
Instability pressure.
Rudolf didn't lead races.
She waited for them to become imperfect.
Mr. C.B. dropped slightly deeper.
Not retreating.
Positioning.
She needed space.
Because Rudolf's danger zone wasn't early race.
It was the moment she decided the race was "ready."
And that moment came late.
The field entered final transition.
The point where endurance stopped mattering and decision-making became everything.
Rudolf moved.
Not forward dominance.
Not explosive leadership.
Just a clean step into higher gear from her mid-pack pocket.
Instantly, everything around her changed.
The race didn't accelerate because she sprinted.
It accelerated because she removed hesitation from the field ahead of her.
Runners in front of her cracked first.
Not from being weaker.
From being too tightly bound to the pace they had forced earlier.
And Rudolf passed them one by one.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
Just inevitability unfolding.
Mr. C.B. narrowed her eyes.
Now.
This was the phase.
Rudolf's true state wasn't "leading."
It was closing control.
She didn't dominate early.
She closed the race space once it became unstable enough to claim.
That was the Tyrant phase.
And it was starting.
Rudolf entered final straight range in clean form.
No wasted movement.
No panic.
Just full commitment.
And for a moment, it looked finished.
Because once she reached this phase unchallenged,
She normally ended it.
But Mr. C.B. had already positioned for this.
Not behind.
Not ahead.
Just outside Rudolf's direct rhythm line.
She had stayed in the space most runners ignored.
The space where you weren't being directly controlled.
Only observed.
Rudolf surged.
Full authority phase.
The kind of acceleration that made races feel like they collapsed forward.
The gap opened instantly.
The crowd reacted.
"It's over, Symboli Rudolf is pulling away!"
Mr. C.B. didn't chase immediately.
She waited for the second beat.
The moment after full commitment.
Because Rudolf's dominance wasn't a single burst.
It was a sequence.
And between those sequences,
There was a crack.
Rudolf's stride shifted into full extension.
And for a fraction of a second,
Her control wasn't adjusting anymore.
It was executing.
That was the opening.
Mr. C.B. moved.
Not directly into her back.
Not from behind pressure.
Not from the side lane.
From the timing gap itself.
She entered the space where Rudolf had already committed to a stride cycle but hadn't yet completed it.
Not overtaking strength.
Not speed matching.
Breaking rhythm alignment.
For the first time, Rudolf's motion flickered.
Not broken.
But disrupted.
Her eyes shifted slightly.
"…So you found it."
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Mr. C.B. was now beside her.
Not ahead.
Not behind.
Inside the only unstable zone that mattered.
Final straight.
Both of them fully committed.
Rudolf surged again.
Harder.
Cleaner.
But the race was no longer clean.
Mr. C.B. wasn't matching power.
She was refusing synchronization.
Refusing to fall into a single readable rhythm.
Step by step.
Stride by stride.
The gap stayed frozen.
Neither growing.
Neither collapsing.
Until the final meters.
Mr. C.B. cut one final step through the smallest remaining instability in Rudolf's stride cycle,
and crossed.
First.
Silence for half a beat.
Then the stadium erupted.
Mr. C.B. slowed immediately after the line, breathing hard.
Not celebration.
Just survival.
Rudolf crossed moments later.
Stopped.
Looked at her.
Long.
Measured.
No anger.
No shock.
Just recalculation.
"…Interesting," she said quietly.
Then she turned away.
Because she understood now.
This wasn't a runner who beat her early.
And it wasn't one who outran her late.
It was one who won by refusing to stay inside her timing structure.
Mr. C.B. stood still, chest rising.
She had won.