Chapter 12. Draw Ceremony
Wednesday's track scouting proceeded without incident, and more importantly, without uncertainty.
Meydan Racecourse's maintenance schedule had already been made public. The turf would be watered throughout Thursday, a detail that mattered—not as a variable to fear, but as a condition to be evaluated in advance. After completing her inspection, Silence Suzuka did not hesitate in giving her conclusion.
"Even if they water it all day, I can still run at my home-track level on Sunday evening."
There was no embellishment in her tone, only certainty.
"That's enough."
Shuta An accepted it immediately.
There was no need to question further, nor any reason to doubt her judgment. At this stage, false confidence served no purpose; if she said it, then it was because she had already measured the track against herself and found no discrepancy.
That alone resolved the issue.
—
The rest of the field reached similar conclusions, though through different frames of reference.
The European runners found the turf familiar, comparable to the better-maintained courses back home. The American runners noted the distinction from their usual dirt tracks, but none regarded it as a meaningful obstacle. As for Special Week and the others, their impression leaned closer to something else entirely—the turf reminded them of Hokkaido.
Different interpretations, same outcome.
No one rejected the track.
"Then there will be no excuses."
The thought surfaced naturally.
If the conditions were acceptable to everyone, then whatever result followed would be decided purely within the race itself.
—
Thursday evening marked the draw ceremony.
The venue was the Burj Khalifa.
Seventeen minutes by car from the hotel—close enough that timing was trivial, far enough to warrant preparation. Oguri and Berno remained behind, while Shuta An departed with Silence Suzuka.
Before leaving, Oguri made her position clear.
"My race is next week. There's no need to wait for me."
Her reasoning was straightforward, and more importantly, practical.
"Take Suzuka back to Japan early next week. Dober-chan's Oka Sho is coming up. If we stay too long, her preparation window will shrink."
Shuta An did not respond immediately.
He considered the timeline—not just the dates, but the margin for adjustment, the buffer required for opponent analysis, the room for correction if variables shifted.
"Understood." The answer followed cleanly. "I'll arrange your return tickets."
There was no point in stretching the schedule for sentiment. Preparation dictated priority.
Oguri, however, did not let the moment pass so clinically.
"This is Team Sadalsuud's first domestic Classic challenge," she said, lightly poking his cheek. "We want results, don't we?"
Shuta An did not deny it.
The word "Classic" carried weight—not abstractly, but in a way that directly intersected with his own record. He had trained elite runners, even those who would be remembered at the highest level of the Twinkle Series, yet within the domestic Classic circuit, his record remained blank.
A French Derby Trainer.
That was how he was labeled.
Accurate—but incomplete.
Only a Japanese Derby victory would erase that limitation.
However, not with Mejiro Dober.
The conclusion was already fixed.
This generation's Classic field contained Ines Fujin, and Shuta An had already witnessed, in the Dream World, what that meant—a wire-to-wire performance at Tokyo Racecourse that did not leave room for contest.
He would not gamble Dober's singular opportunity against that certainty.
Not when the alternative path still existed.
—
On the way to the Burj Khalifa, he shared a car with Nishizaki Ryu.
"Congratulations," Shuta An said, his tone measured but sincere. "I heard Mejiro McQueen debuted successfully."
Nishizaki glanced at him, mildly surprised.
"I didn't expect you to be following the Classic circuit."
There was a brief pause before he continued.
"She placed second in her one-win class. The first two Classics are likely out of reach, so we've decided to aim for the Kikuka Sho."
"I see."
Shuta An nodded, but the acknowledgment did not end there.
Internally, the comparison had already begun.
This development mirrored the trajectory he had observed before—but without his involvement, the margin for success shifted. Whether Mejiro McQueen could still secure her position under those altered conditions was not something he could determine with certainty.
The answer, for now, remained indeterminate.
—
Upon arrival, Shuta An exited first.
He opened the door for Silence Suzuka, placing a hand against the frame out of habit rather than ceremony. As she stepped out, her momentum carried her slightly forward—just enough that she brushed against him.
A natural movement.
One he did not respond to.
Not here.
The presence of reporters was too dense, their attention too sharp. Any unnecessary gesture would be captured, magnified, and circulated before the night ended.
So instead, he shifted slightly and lowered his voice.
"You're wearing it."
Silence Suzuka smiled, her expression carrying a hint of playfulness that contrasted with the setting.
"Of course. A gift should be worn when it matters, shouldn't it?"
She tilted her head slightly. "It suits me, right?"
"It does."
The answer came without hesitation. But even as he said it, his attention had already shifted outward.
"The cameras are watching. Stay aware. Be careful not to let them snap a picture of you in my arms, or it'll be big news tomorrow."
There was no need to elaborate further.
She understood.
—
When Silence Suzuka stepped onto the red carpet, a visible ripple of excitement spread through the reporters. Among all the winners from last year's Dubai World Cup Race Day, only Taiki Shuttle and Silence Suzuka had chosen to return in pursuit of consecutive victories. Compared to the previous year, the lineup for the main event—the Dubai World Cup—felt noticeably less star-studded. In that context, Silence Suzuka and Taiki Shuttle naturally became the brightest focal points before the races even began.
Following a step behind, Shuta An was largely ignored by the reporters. He didn't mind in the slightest. In the Twinkle Series, the spotlight was never meant for Trainers—the stage belonged to the Uma Musumes. That was simply how things were.
After entering the banquet hall, the two were guided to their assigned seats by staff. Shuta's gaze swept across the surroundings, quickly identifying that the nearby tables were occupied by Uma Musumes and Trainers who had also registered for the Dubai Turf.
"This year's seating is arranged according to race registration," he thought. "I assumed they'd group me with Kitahara and the others."
Before he could dwell further on it, a voice called out to him.
Turning toward it, Shuta An saw Sheikh Rashid bin Dalmouk Al Maktoum approaching. He immediately rose to his feet, stepped forward, and greeted him with a firm embrace.
"Long time no see."
"I hope Mr. Shuta is satisfied with the hospitality arrangements I've prepared," the Sheikh said with a warm smile. "Is there anything you've found inconvenient during your stay?"
"On the contrary, everything has been so grand that it almost feels overwhelming," Shuta An replied with a faintly helpless smile. "It's honestly a bit embarrassing. If you ever visit Japan or the United States, please allow me to return the favor properly."
"I look forward to that," the Sheikh said, before shifting the topic. "Then tell me—what do you think your chances are in this year's Dubai Turf?"
At that, Shuta An instinctively turned his head toward Silence Suzuka. Their gazes met for a brief moment before he looked back and answered without hesitation:
"With Suzuka, my chances are one hundred percent."
The Sheikh raised an eyebrow slightly. There was something unmistakable in that tone—confidence, but also something deeper. Still, given the circumstances, he chose not to probe further.
—
Not long after, the draw ceremony began.
"The Dubai Turf is third from last," Shuta An leaned closer and said in a low voice. "We'll be waiting here for a while."
"That's fine," Silence Suzuka replied softly, though her voice was so quiet he barely caught it.
Not far away, Annus Mirabilis kept stealing glances in their direction. Yet what caught her attention most wasn't Silence Suzuka herself—but the necklace resting against her collarbone.
"So beautiful—" she murmured under her breath. "I really like it—I wonder if I can find the same one."
Her fingers clasped together unconsciously. Though curiosity tugged at her, she hesitated, unwilling to interrupt the intimate atmosphere between Suzuka and her Trainer. Eventually, she forced herself to look away.
Shuta An, however, had already noticed. Leaning slightly toward Suzuka, he whispered:
"She seems very curious about your necklace. Her gaze keeps drifting to it."
Silence Suzuka paused. She didn't particularly want to engage in small talk with an opponent—but the meaning behind the necklace was something she cherished deeply. The thought of showing it, even subtly, stirred a quiet sense of satisfaction within her.
After a brief hesitation, she turned toward Annus Mirabilis.
On stage, the draw for the Godolphin Mile was underway. Hayate Fubuki secured gate five, and her Trainer, Kitahara, stepped forward with an unmistakably pleased expression.
Meanwhile, Silence Suzuka began speaking with Annus Mirabilis.
"As for the same design…I'm not sure if one exists," she said honestly. "I never really looked into it."
After hearing the style name, Annus Mirabilis nodded eagerly.
"Thank you, Miss Suzuka. I'll check it right away. This design really suits my taste."
A few minutes later, her expression dimmed.
"I really envy you…" she said quietly. "It turns out it's a one-of-a-kind piece."
"Eh?" Silence Suzuka blinked in genuine surprise. "I didn't know that."
Annus Mirabilis glanced briefly at Shuta An before lowering her voice.
"Miss Suzuka is very fortunate."
"…?"
Suzuka tilted her head, unable to fully grasp the implication behind those words.
One by one, the earlier races completed their gate draws.
"It's almost time for the Dubai Turf," Shuta An murmured. "Hopefully, gate one."
Though most of the surrounding Trainers couldn't understand Japanese, they didn't need to. Everyone present understood one thing: the closer Silence Suzuka drew to the inside, the worse it would be for the rest of the field.
"If she gets the inside gate…this becomes a race for second place," more than one competitor thought.
Names were called.
Numbers were drawn.
Yet Silence Suzuka's name had not appeared.
Beside her, Shuta An closed his eyes briefly, mentally rehearsing what he would say once called to the stage.
Then—
Her name was announced.
A guest performed the draw.
And in the next instant, the number appeared.
1.
Shuta An's eyes snapped open.
"Oh!"
Without restraint, he pulled Silence Suzuka.
"What a perfect gate! It doesn't get better than this!"
"Yes!" she replied, nodding vigorously.
For a front-running specialist like her, gate one was ideal. No need to angle inward, no risk of interference penalties—just a clean break and immediate control of the race.
Everything else would be decided by speed.
When Shuta An stepped onto the stage and took the microphone, his voice carried steady confidence.
"This is the gate Suzuka and I wanted most. For a comeback race, I think it's a very good sign. We were able to win last year, and this time, we aim to achieve the first successful title defense through our own efforts."
He paused briefly, then continued:
"This is also Silence Suzuka's final year in the Twinkle Series. I hope that this season, we can achieve results worthy of our fans' expectations, ease their concerns, and leave her name firmly etched into the history of the Twinkle Series."
Below the stage, Silence Suzuka watched him without blinking.
"Ann really does belong up there—" she murmured softly.
Beside her, Annus Mirabilis didn't understand the words—but the meaning was clear enough from her expression.
"Seriously…" she thought to herself, hands clasped again. "Is Miss Suzuka this strong because she's in love?"
A faint blush crept onto her cheeks.
"Maybe I should try it when I get back."