"Is it true what they're saying? That America is in a total state of upheaval?"
"You're just now catching on, you moron?"
I was in the middle of my duties as the Chief Overseer for Nemesis when I tossed the question toward Sunday Silence, who was raising a racket right next to me. I was following up on a lead I'd heard over the phone from Twin Turbo; Sunday confirmed it was the gospel truth.
"I told you before, didn't I? In Japanese terms, I'm basically Oguri Cap. I wasn't born into some prestigious dynasty—I was just a regular girl from an ordinary family."
"You did. And that story is exactly what the Japanese public eats up. It's the classic narrative hook. It helps that Oguri-senpai actually lived the dream, coming from the regional circuits to the big leagues as this terrifying, ash-gray monster."
I'll never forget how shocked I was when I first researched the Japanese racing scene. In America, it was "Pedigree Supremacy." It wouldn't be an exaggeration to call it a world of pure aesthetics, where data derived from appearances meant everything. If your gait was slightly off, or if you carried even a faint scar from a past accident, you were discarded. Sunday herself had been treated like garbage in that world.
But Japan was different. While not perfect, they reached out to those who showed genuine resolve. It wasn't rare for a girl to amass a sea of fans through sheer grit, even if the results weren't always there.
"You already know how it was for me," Sunday continued, her voice hardening. "But when it came to Easy Goer, the vitriol reached a whole new level. It got so ugly that the trainers and the Old Man himself were constantly filing grievances. Looking back, I'm still amazed the Old Man bothered to look out for me at all."
Easy Goer. She was Sunday Silence's lifelong rival and her polar opposite. Born into an ultra-prestigious bloodline, her beauty and strength were so profound she was hailed as the second coming of Secretariat. And yet, Secretariat had ignored Easy Goer to become the guardian of Sunday Silence instead. It was a massive scandal; the media called it a lapse in judgment, even went so far as to claim Secretariat had lost her mind.
"Sure, that obsession with bloodlines makes American girls strong, no doubt about it," Sunday spat. "But a race isn't a math equation. You don't win just because your parents did."
"And I suppose you're the living proof of that?"
"Yeah. And the Old Man was worried about that mindset. He wanted to throw a wrench in the gears of the status quo. He used me to do it."
The history books told the rest: Sunday Silence and Easy Goer clashed four times. Sunday won three of them, clinching the Dual Crown and the Breeders' Cup Classic in record time, ultimately being named Horse Girl of the Year.
Looks, temperament, pedigree, luck—she had lacked every single advantage, a girl who had every reason to hate the world. Yet she lived a career that was the literal embodiment of the American Dream, earning a legion of fans. But Sunday never once played the part of the idol. Even as the star of her era, she looked upon the cheering crowds with cold, cynical eyes, as if viewing them with utter contempt.
"And right in the middle of all that noise," Sunday said, a smirk playing on her lips, "you showed up in America."
"Oh? So this is where I enter the story?"
"Yeah. The Chairwoman over here had asked me to lend a hand, and I was mulling over what to do when you strolled in."
It was the existence of "Rampage" that had finally swayed Sunday. The undefeated, world-fastest girl who had conquered the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe. Secretariat had taken an interest in her, but Sunday's curiosity went deeper. Though Rampage was now famous as a member of the Mejiro family, Sunday—who had followed Rampage's races from the very beginning—saw through the facade instantly. She knew Rampage was just another girl from an ordinary home.
"So you spilled the beans right before we left for Japan?"
"That's the long and short of it. I left a recording with the Old Man. He sent me off with a smile, telling me to do my best in Japan."
"I see… so you've decided on Japan as well. Well, if that is your choice, I have no right to stop you. Go well, Sunday. I truly enjoyed our days together."
As Sunday told it, Secretariat's expression as she watched her leave with the recording was as serene as a father watching a beloved daughter finally stand on her own two feet. Afterward, Secretariat handled the press in Sunday's stead, releasing the recording and laying bare the raw truth of why Sunday Silence had chosen to turn her back on America.
"The American racing world hasn't stopped shaking since. You've got one side saying they should follow Secretariat's lead and evolve, and the other side screaming that 'American Tradition' shouldn't be touched. They're at each other's throats."
"There's always someone fighting the tide, no matter the world," I sighed.
"And then Lady and Dyna started tearing up the dirt circuits. Since they're winning, it's making things even more complicated."
"Oh boy."
Lady and Dyna were both from completely ordinary backgrounds—the antithesis of the pedigree supremacy America championed. Their success added fuel to the fire. It was already being predicted that this year's Breeders' Cup would be a powder keg, as the establishment sought to settle the score once and for all.
"The turf side is going to be a mess too, thanks to the girls coming over from Japan… serves 'em right," Sunday chuckled darkly.
"Maybe America should just implement the 'Finals' system to settle things," I suggested. "It would certainly make the hierarchy clear, in a way."
"I was thinking the same thing. Honestly, if America adopts it, the rest of the world will follow suit."
"Ugh, don't say that. I hate the thought... We already have way too many 'Legend' candidates from overseas wanting to join the races this year. And they've all got their excuses lined up—study abroad programs and what-not—so I can't even reject them."
"Sounds like a nightmare. I'm entering, by the way."
"I'm pretty sure this is all your fault to begin with…"
While America burned with fervor, back in Japan, a certain "Tyrant" was wallowing in agony. Had the race system I created somehow turned into a legitimate global standard while I wasn't looking? What started as a shallow whim had grown into a massive, pounding headache.
"Sigh… Rice… please come home soon…"
"A-choo!"
"Oh? Did you catch a cold, Rice?"
"No… I think it's just my Big Sister cheering for me."
"Hahaha, well, that's good news then. In that case—go out there and win, Rice!"
"Right! Palmer-san, Trainer-san… Rice is heading out now!"
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