Chapter 4. Invitation from the Waiting Area
On Friday, Shuta An returned to work. Mr. Kitahara was already there—earlier than him this time.
"Something on your mind, Mr. Kitahara?" The moment he stepped in, Shuta An caught the hesitation in his friend's expression and cut straight to it.
"Ann-san, do you think it's feasible for me to have Sabuno Hana Park challenge the G3 Al Quoz Sprint on Dubai World Cup Race Day?"
"Huh?!" Shuta An's reaction was immediate and unrestrained. "The Al Quoz Sprint? Mr. Kitahara…you're not running a fever, are you?"
He reached out instinctively, pressing a hand to his friend's forehead as if to confirm whether this was genuine reasoning or heat-induced nonsense. The idea itself was outrageous. Yes, the regulations technically allowed Classic-year Uma Musume to enter—but sprint races were brutal, reliant on physical clashes and raw strength. Matching up against older runners at that stage was already disadvantageous.
And late March? That was practically the earliest window for such a confrontation. This wasn't the Dream World—there were no weight adjustments to smooth over physical gaps. In reality, the disparity would be laid bare.
He didn't need to elaborate. His reaction alone said enough.
Mr. Kitahara exhaled, clearly aware of the rejection. "But there aren't any suitable races for Sabuno Hana Park in the first half of the year—" His tone dipped, frustration evident. "Should I push her up to 1600 meters?"
"Think again." Shuta An's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening. "Are there really no short-distance races available? Mr. Kitahara—you didn't forget the graded schedule, did you?"
The moment the question left his mouth, something clicked. His heartbeat spiked—an idea, abrupt and dangerous in its elegance, surfaced without warning.
"Let me think—" Mr. Kitahara muttered, tapping his temple as he searched his memory.
Shuta An didn't wait. He returned to his desk, flipped open his computer, then moved to boil water as if nothing had happened—though his mind was already racing ahead. The kettle hadn't even finished settling when—
"The Oka Sho prep race!" Mr. Kitahara suddenly snapped upright. "Hochi Hai Fillies' Revue—G2, Hanshin turf, 1400 meters!"
"There you go." Shuta An raised a brow, tone light but pointed. "A graded race. And the Triple Tiara route is a once-in-a-lifetime shot, isn't it? Even if she skips the Oaks and Shuka Sho later, taking a swing at the Oka Sho isn't exactly a bad decision."
"But Mejiro Dober will be there, right?" Mr. Kitahara's lips twitched. "I can't shake the feeling you're nudging me into entering Sabuno Hana Park for a reason."
"Giving your runner a proper shot at facing mine on equal terms, and you still think I'm scheming?" Shuta An replied evenly, his expression composed to the point of being unreadable.
Which only made it more suspicious.
Mr. Kitahara hesitated, then scratched his head, conceding with an awkward laugh. "Alright, alright—I'm overthinking it. Still, I'll need to ask Sabuno Hana Park what she wants."
"As you should." Shuta An made a casual OK gesture, tearing open a tea bag and dropping it into his thermos. "We can enter them by force, sure—but what happens on the track depends entirely on them. If the race doesn't sit right with her, it's meaningless."
Mr. Kitahara nodded, convinced, and hurried out of the office.
The door closed.
Only then did Shuta An let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"That was reckless," he muttered under his breath. "But if it works—"
The idea had come together instantly the moment the question was raised—crude, unpolished, but disturbingly effective.
Sabuno Hana Park's style was straightforward: either take the lead or sit just behind the front-runner and apply pressure. In contrast, Mejiro Dober thrived from behind, relying on timing and late acceleration.
And this year's Oka Sho had one major problem.
Kyoei March.
A pure front-runner. Aggressive. Capable of dictating a punishing pace from the very start. On Hanshin's mile layout, that kind of runner was a nightmare matchup for a closer like Dober.
But if Sabuno Hana Park made it through the Hochi Hai Fillies' Revue and entered the Oka Sho, the dynamics changed.
Two scenarios.
First—she challenges Kyoei March directly for the lead. That alone would force the pace into overdrive. And unlike a specialist runaway like Silence Suzuka, Kyoei March wasn't untouchable under pressure.
Second—Sabuno Hana Park, cautious in her first mile attempt, controls her tempo instead of overcommitting. In that case, she becomes a perfect reference point—a moving target Dober can lock onto and exploit.
Either way, Dober benefits.
And then…the third scenario. Unlikely, almost absurd.
Kyoei March relinquishes the lead. Sabuno Hana Park takes over—and slows the pace.
A dream setup. The kind you don't plan for because it borders on fantasy.
"If it actually plays out like that—" Shuta An's lips curved faintly, "I'll owe Mr. Kitahara more than just thanks."
—
Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Sabuno Hana Park sat quietly with a picture book borrowed from the library, flipping through its pages in the afternoon light.
Footsteps approached—hurried, uneven.
She looked up. "Trainer? Did something happen?"
"It's like this—" Mr. Kitahara didn't waste time. "Hana, what do you think about challenging the Hochi Hai Fillies' Revue? If we place in the top two, we'll aim for the Oka Sho. The Triple Tiara only comes once—it'd be a waste not to try."
"No problem." She nodded without hesitation. "But before that, I'd like to run one more race to adjust my condition."
"Then the Queen Cup. Late February, Tokyo, 1600 meters, G3." Mr. Kitahara's response came quickly, his thoughts already aligning. "We'll use it to test your mile adaptability. Regardless of the result, it won't affect the Fillies' Revue entry. If it doesn't go well, we abandon the Oka Sho and return to sprint focus."
He clenched his fist, conviction returning. "I've also asked a friend to compile suitable turf sprint G1 races in Australia. We'll aim there first—build results before taking on Taiki Shuttle at the end of the year."
"I'll follow your lead, Trainer." Sabuno Hana Park answered simply, her tone steady, without the slightest resistance.
—
For the next stretch, Shuta An found himself unusually unoccupied, settling into a rare period of ease. Even in the Dream World, the rhythm slowed—until a commission from Shadai Race Horse Club broke the lull. What made it noteworthy wasn't the job itself, but the context: this would be his first time riding one of their racehorses in a graded race this year.
"Northern Conduct," Yoshida Zenya explained without pretense. "A three-year-old colt from Shadai Farm. We originally intended to keep Oka Junichiro on this race, but we heard you didn't have a mount for the Kyodo News Service Hai. So we adjusted. You're our main rider, Shuta-kun. If we have a runner, the ride should go to you."
There was no embellishment, no polite masking—just a clear statement of priority.
After accepting the mount, Shuta An went straight to work. He reviewed Northern Conduct's past races, isolating patterns, extracting tendencies, stripping the horse down to usable data.
"Temperamental. Best suited for closing. Extremely sharp acceleration response…but collapses under sustained fast pace."
He leaned back slightly, brows lifting—not in concern, but in quiet assessment. From his perspective, none of these flaws were fatal. They were variables—manageable ones.
"What matters is the draw," he muttered. "Inside is ideal. Easier to restrain. Outside—and this one might bolt."
If Northern Conduct forced the issue and took the lead, the race was effectively over before it began. That much was certain.
"I'll identify the pace-setters later and sit behind them," he concluded. "If necessary, I can flip the script—but only on my terms."
—
February 16th.
After overseeing the Sadalsuud team's training during the day, Shuta An returned home early and went to bed without delay. When he opened his eyes again, he was already seated in the jockey waiting room at Tokyo Racecourse.
Six rides today.
But only one that mattered.
"The Kyodo News Service Hai" he thought, gaze steady. "That's the only race with a real winning line."
The others weren't weak mounts—but they lacked conviction. Northern Conduct, on the other hand, felt complete. Reliable.
"Mihono Bourbon won last year's Asahi Hai—his strength is unquestionable. But 2000 meters is still an unknown record for him." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Northern Conduct doesn't have that problem."
Still, that comparison was academic. Mihono Bourbon's saddle wasn't even in contention. His rider was already fixed—an insider. Shuta An had no entry point there.
Which meant— Northern Conduct wasn't just Shadai's candidate for the Classic season.
He was Shuta An's.
"At least for now—you're the best option I've got." He rose from his seat, the decision settling cleanly. "Let's take the second graded race of the year."
"Ann-san, go easy on me out there," Shibata Masato called, tone half-joking, half-probing.
Shuta An glanced back, unfazed. "I wouldn't relax against you, senior Shibata. In fact—" his voice sharpened slightly, "—you're the one I'm watching most in this race."
That landed.
Shibata blinked, visibly caught off guard. His mount, Air Jordan, wasn't even among the top favorites. Third choice, yes—but already drifting past tenfold odds.
Shuta An offered no explanation. He simply turned and left.
—
At the paddock, the atmosphere shifted.
As last year's champion jockey—and the consensus top active rider—Shuta An naturally became a focal point. Trainers, owners, and representatives approached one after another, conversations layered with intent beneath their courtesy. Connections mattered. And a rider like him wasn't someone you ignored.
He understood the game and played it smoothly—approachable, composed, never overcommitting. Today's casual exchange could easily become tomorrow's winning partnership.
Most approached him with the same calculation.
Most—but not all.
"Hello, Shuta-kun. I'm Iizuka Yoshitsugu, a Trainer from Mihono."
The man's presence was subdued, his demeanor worn by time rather than dulled by it.
Shuta An inclined his head immediately. "Mr. Iizuka. Nice to meet you."
"It should be me saying that," Iizuka replied with a faint shake of his head. "Compared to your record—mine is hardly worth mentioning. Twenty years in the industry—three G2 wins. Not a single G1."
Shuta An didn't entertain the self-deprecation. "Then perhaps this year changes that." His gaze held steady. "You're here because you want to offer a ride, correct?"
Straight to the point.
Iizuka gave a small, awkward smile. "Was it that obvious? Yes. I have a horse—won the OP Fuyo Stakes last year. We're aiming for the Classic route. Next stop is the Spring Stakes."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"His current jockey debuted only last year. I don't believe he can secure a Satsuki Sho ticket under that level of pressure. So…I'm looking for someone else."
"And you came to me." Shuta An's tone remained even. "Then I'll be clear as well—if I take the ride and secure the ticket, I won't stay on for the Satsuki Sho."
No ambiguity. No room for misinterpretation.
Iizuka didn't hesitate. He lowered his head. "That's acceptable. As long as we qualify, I'll handle what comes after."
"Then contact my agent," Shuta An said, closing the matter cleanly.
Relief flashed across Iizuka's face. "Thank you, Shuta-kun. I'll make sure he's in peak condition."
He hesitated just a fraction before adding—
"His name is Rice Shower."
"Rice Shower." Shuta An repeated it quietly, almost to himself.
A name meant to bless.
Whether it would deliver on that promise—that was something the track would decide.