The air at Tokyo Racecourse seemed to retain the menace of that day. The suffocating pressure had not disappeared when the race ended. As time passed, it fermented into an even more feverish form of worship.
Special Week's crushing debut victory was more than the conclusion of a race. It resembled a massive bomb dropped into a tranquil lake. With Tokyo at its center, the shock wave rapidly spread across Japan's entire racing world, creating an earthquake of extraordinary proportions.
This was no passing rumor. The impact appeared upon every electronic screen and throughout every major media outlet.
Over the following weeks, social media seemed to be completely conquered by that brown-haired girl. Twitter trends, popular searches, even the covers of gossip magazines available at the convenience store downstairs—her image was everywhere.
"Look! Special Week is on the cover of this week's *Racing Weekly*!"
Several girls crowded around a convenience-store magazine rack, pointing excitedly at the close-up photograph on the cover.
"Seriously? Didn't she only just debut? This treatment is ridiculous. You'd think she had won the Arima Kinen."
"What do you know? It's the 'star' effect. I watched the recording. That wasn't a race—it was a slaughter! That acceleration on the final straight was absurdly powerful!"
"Aaaah, I'm already a fan! That feeling of absolute strength is irresistible!"
It was as though an invisible hand had forcibly carved the name "Special Week" into the country's collective consciousness in the shortest possible time.
This was the Association's work.
As the enormous institution governing this world, it desired the birth of a "new star" more than anyone. It longed to witness the next undefeated Triple Crown legend and use her to revive an increasingly sluggish market.
Thus, a single debut race was packaged as the "descent of a miracle," an event worthy of the history books.
Deep inside online forums, fanatical supporters boiled like magma.
"That was practically a miracle from the Three Goddesses! I refuse to believe anyone hasn't watched the recording!"
"Absurd! Completely absurd! She created that huge margin through raw leg stats alone? She's the living embodiment of a stat monster! I'm hopelessly in love!"
"She's the 'Tyrant,' the absolute ruler of the track! She came to end this era. I can already see a new legend waving to us!"
One radical fan even posted a blood-oath-like declaration online:
"Special Week is the future Emperor of Tracen! Who agrees? Who objects?"
The fever spread through Tracen Academy like a virus.
"Special Week! Please wait!"
"Special Week! Could I have your autograph?"
Every day after class, the doorway to Special Week's classroom became completely blocked. Countless expectant eyes watched her as though she were a premium carrot cake releasing an irresistible fragrance.
"Um, could everyone let me through? I need to train." Special Week held her schoolbag and wore a courteous but distant smile as she tried to squeeze through the crowd.
"Train? Where are you going, Special Week? We can go together!" A short-haired girl approached excitedly. "I specialize in sprints. I might not be as fast as you, but I can help with your conditioning!"
"I'm a middle-distance runner! I have great stamina, so I can be your training partner!" another girl interjected, unwilling to be outdone.
Special Week felt profoundly dizzy.
"Thank you for inviting me, but I'm accustomed to running alone." She lowered her head slightly. Her voice was gentle, yet her refusal admitted no argument. "Besides, I have my own rhythm."
"Oh, don't be so distant! We're all classmates. We should help one another!"
"Exactly! Special Week, why not join our club? We have a dedicated massage therapist and specially prepared nutritional meals!"
Even after being refused, the students' enthusiasm did not diminish.
This atmosphere of universal attention and praise was a sweet poison called vanity. Like a frog being boiled in gradually warming water, it could easily corrode a newcomer's will and make her lose herself in false admiration.
Special Week understood that all of it was merely an accessory produced by strength.
In this world, only the power one personally possessed was the finest result and praise earned through effort. Everything else—cheers, applause, adoration—was fleeting smoke.
She would never be seduced by the colorful world before her. On the road toward becoming the "strongest," these passionate cheers were no more than bursts of noise.
As usual, she made her detachment and lack of interest obvious. Like a slippery eel, she moved through the gaps in the crowd and quickly escaped their encirclement.
"Huh? How did she get away so quickly?"
"We'll definitely recruit her next time!"
Special Week ignored the dissatisfied calls behind her and quickened her pace until the voices disappeared at the end of the corridor.
She had no time to waste on other people's expectations.
Her ambition had only just begun. She needed to plan her next steps.
The dormitory room was empty when she returned.
The setting sun shone through the window and cast long shadows across the floor.
From Special Week's daily observations, Silence Suzuka went directly to team training after class and generally returned only after dinner.
"She certainly works hard..."
Special Week murmured and casually tossed her schoolbag onto a chair.
She sat down, opened her computer with practiced ease, and logged into the Association's website. Blue light illuminated her calm face as her fingers moved across the keyboard and she reviewed the available races.
"As expected, they're still unavailable..."
Special Week frowned at the rows of gray race names marked "Requirements Not Met."
As a newcomer, she had few options. Races such as this year's Japanese Derby and Arima Kinen could not be selected. The problem was not her strength; she had not fulfilled the prerequisites for entry.
The rules here differed completely from what she had known in her previous life.
In the real horse-racing world of her former life, entry restrictions were generally based on age and money. Under the game's rules, meanwhile, those races simply could not be entered during the first year.
In this reality, the rules were more direct and blatant. You could apply, but only after meeting a mandatory threshold of popularity votes.
The Japanese Derby, for example, required an umamusume to be within the first three years of her professional career and to reach a specified number of votes on the Association's website. Finishing in the top four of the Satsuki Sho granted priority entry.
Special Week opened her profile and looked at the "Popularity Votes" field.
"8,432 votes..."
She sighed softly.
For a newcomer who had just completed her debut race, the number was already impressive and continued to rise. For a top Classic like the Satsuki Sho, however, it was a drop in the ocean.
Historical records showed that the minimum number of votes needed to qualify for the Satsuki Sho had usually exceeded 10,000.
And those figures were from years ago. The modern threshold would be higher.
So many runners entered the Satsuki Sho each year that merely clearing the nominal threshold did not guarantee selection.
"Online attention is useless..."
Special Week switched windows and glanced at her social-media account. Her follower count was approaching one million, and the comments were filled with frenzied cries of "wife" and "miracle."
Yet scarcely any of those million followers converted into votes on the official website.
These votes represented real money.
Special Week understood how the system worked. The website might distribute free votes, but private trading still existed.
"¥10,000 per vote on the black market, and ¥100,000 through official channels..."
She remembered a forum thread about the popularity-vote trade and shook her head.
At those prices, purchasing 10,000 votes would cost a fortune. With that kind of wealth, why bother racing at all? You might as well buy the entire racing club.
Even buying votes on the black market was not worthwhile. If she won a race, its prize money would still be shared with her team. The cost and return of vote manipulation were completely disproportionate.
And if she lost? That would be even more miserable. In racing, people usually cared only about first place.
That was why idol-type umamusume worked so hard to hold handshake events and sell merchandise...
All for a few votes, they catered to idol fans, spoke words they did not mean, and smiled while shaking hands with people who adored them...
It sounded exhausting and impure.
And how much time would those activities consume?
How could someone obtain supreme strength through something so impure?
"I don't need any of that."
Special Week closed the social-media page, and her gaze sharpened again.
She looked at another section of the race schedule.
After clearing her debut race, an umamusume could accumulate popularity through fans, but another method existed: competing in races and claiming the "victory bonus votes" placed in the official pool.
This was the orthodox route for a professional seeking to build popularity.
In early Pre-OP and OP races, a victory usually awarded several hundred to over a thousand popularity votes. The top five finishers also received votes, but pitifully few compared with the winner.
Winning a GIII or GII race could award several thousand or even more than 10,000 votes.
And those were only the votes. The races also offered enormous prize money.
"So I only need to keep winning."
A confident curve appeared at the corner of Special Week's lips.
It was the simplest logic and the most direct path—precisely the kind of route she liked.
Even so, she had no interest in entering low-level races merely to crush weak fields. Running too many of them would provide little benefit. It might dull her instincts and allow her to sink into a false sense of superiority.
She did not approve of a high-volume racing campaign.
Besides, repeatedly racing was extremely hard on the body. She had transmigrated without a cheat and did not dare behave so recklessly.
As for the enormous wealth such a campaign could produce?
Don't make her laugh.
Her family did not lack that little bit of money.
Special Week remembered the packages sent from Hokkaido every month. They were packed with premium carrots equal to anything supplied specially to Tracen Academy, along with handwritten letters in which her mother fussed endlessly about her health and warned her not to play around.
Even at Central's Tracen Academy, few young ladies could enjoy such luxury.
Special Week cared more about fame and becoming stronger than prize money.
No amount of money was worthwhile if she destroyed her body earning it.
Her regular training was already inhuman enough. She did not need to take further risks.
She looked again at her current popularity total—over 8,000 votes.
"By next year it would definitely be enough... but not this year."
Special Week tapped her fingers lightly against the desk.
The Satsuki Sho and Japanese Derby required advance registration. By the time her popularity met their requirements, the entry deadlines would already have passed.
Year-end events such as the Japan Cup and Arima Kinen demanded even more votes. Their participants were generally powerhouses with several GI victories. Special Week could not yet match their experience or popularity.
"However I calculate it, there's only one choice."
Her attention finally settled on the two-year-old race series.
It contained several GI events populated mainly by rookie umamusume—battlefields prepared for the so-called "Rookie King."
These races imposed one strict restriction: entrants had to be within the first two years of their professional careers.
At the same time, their popularity requirements were extremely low.
At least by GI standards, the threshold was practically cheap.
The prize money, however, remained at a genuine GI level.
Drawing on her memories of the game from her previous life, Special Week scanned the unfamiliar names and eventually fixed her eyes upon one.
The Hopeful Stakes.
In the game she had played before, it was a race she selected in the first year almost every time—the battlefield where the Rookie King would be decided.
"You're the one."
She clicked the entry button without hesitation.
The cursor flashed as though confirming her decision.
"The Hopeful Stakes..." Special Week murmured, expectation shining in her eyes. "Now that the objective is clear, the road lies beneath my feet. Let me experience it for myself."
At the same time, the atmosphere on Rigil's training grounds at the other end of Tracen Academy was somewhat unusual.
"Trainer! I want to debut too! Now! Immediately! This instant!"
El Condor Pasa clung to Hana Tojo like an impatient spirit, her lively eyes burning with unprecedented fighting spirit.
"I can't lose to her! Absolutely not! Arrange my debut race as soon as possible, then put me in the same race as Spe so we can settle which of us is stronger!"
Hana helplessly rubbed her temples.
Ever since Special Week revealed that astonishing strength, El's sense of crisis had gone through the roof.
"El, calm down. Your physical examinations still require time, and your running style needs more precise refinement," Hana said. "Special Week's rate of growth exceeded our expectations, but you possess your own talent and your own way of running."
"No! I want to race Spe!" El puffed out her cheeks. "Grass has been distracted in training lately too. She must be thinking about Spe!"
Grass Wonder merely smiled gently from nearby, although something suspicious entered her eyes.
"El, Spe really is... extremely strong."
...
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