Chapter 8 - Japan's Foreign uma holding rule
The maiden races went smoothly.
Too smoothly.
That was the problem.
Winning one race could still be luck.
Winning two meant people started watching.
Winning repeatedly meant expectations started attaching themselves to you whether you wanted them or not.
And Marzensky kept winning.
Not dramatically.
Not through miracle comebacks or emotional final stretches.
She just… ran correctly.
Every race looked cleaner than the last.
Less wasted movement.
Less panic adjustment.
Less unnecessary acceleration.
She wasn't overpowering races anymore.
She was understanding them.
That scared me more than raw talent ever could.
Because talent creates highlights.
Understanding creates eras.
The atmosphere around us changed after the second major win.
Reporters lingered longer.
Other trainers started pretending not to stare.
The race staff spoke more carefully around us.
People had started noticing something dangerous:
Marzensky wasn't unstable anymore.
And an optimized Marzensky was horrifying.
Then the notification appeared.
[ASAHI HAI FUTURITY STAKES ELIGIBILITY CHECK]
I froze instantly.
The Asahi Hai.
Not some local title.
Not a stepping stone.
THE juvenile mile championship.
A real G1.
A real historical race.
The kind of race that permanently changes how history categorizes you.
For a second, I genuinely forgot to breathe.
Because up until now, despite everything, part of my brain still treated this world like structured progression.
Like systems.
Like route optimization.
But the Asahi Hai wasn't route progression.
It was history.
Actual racing history.
The same race I had read about in another world.
The same race tied to legendary names.
And suddenly Marzensky wasn't just "my runner" anymore.
She was approaching a historical event.
The eligibility panel continued loading.
Then stopped.
A new message appeared underneath.
[APPLICATION DENIED]
I blinked.
"...What?"
I reread it immediately.
Then slower.
Then again.
Foreign Uma Musume are prohibited from participating in domestic Japanese G1 races during this era.
Silence.
The cafeteria noise around me suddenly felt very far away.
"...No."
I checked the conditions again.
No hidden requirement.
No fan threshold issue.
No ranking restriction.
Just history.
Foreign runners were banned from Japanese G1 participation during this period.
Including the Asahi Hai.
Which meant:
No juvenile G1 route.
No classic crown route.
No official Japanese historical progression at all.
I stared at the screen feeling something cold settle into my stomach.
Because this wasn't a difficult challenge.
It wasn't even a race problem.
It was institutional rejection.
Marzensky could win.
That wasn't the issue.
History simply refused to let her try.
I leaned back slowly in my chair.
"...That's disgusting."
Marzensky looked over from nearby.
"What happened?"
I turned the screen toward her silently.
She read the restriction calmly.
Then handed the device back without visible emotion.
"I see."
That answer somehow irritated me more.
"You're not angry?"
She tilted her head slightly.
"Would anger change it?"
"...No."
"Then it is simply reality."
That was the difference between us.
Marzensky accepted systems naturally.
I didn't.
Because I came from a future where information constantly taught people that every rule had loopholes if you looked hard enough.
But this wasn't a game exploit.
This was historical discrimination written directly into the era itself.
And suddenly I understood something terrifying:
No matter how optimized our route became, history still had the authority to say no.
For the first time since entering this world, I genuinely felt small.
I looked back at the race listings again.
Every meaningful Japanese G1 route was effectively locked.
Not because we lacked ability.
Because the era itself refused to acknowledge foreign greatness properly.
My first instinct was immediate.
America.
Of course America.
Largest stage.
Open competition.
No Japanese restrictions.
If Japan wouldn't let Marzensky race properly, then we'd force history somewhere else.
So I opened the American listings.
And immediately regretted it.
Seattle Slew.
My body physically locked up.
Not metaphorically.
Actually froze.
The name alone triggered something primal in my brain.
Because before now, history still felt manageable.
Adaptable.
But Seattle Slew wasn't manageable.
She was one of THOSE names.
The monsters history never argued about.
Undefeated.
Dominant.
Proven.
Not theoretical greatness.
Absolute greatness.
And suddenly the reality of this situation hit me properly.
I was considering taking my FIRST successful run in another world and throwing it directly into one of the most historically violent racing eras imaginable.
Absolutely not.
No.
NO.
I leaned away from the screen instinctively.
"NUH UH."
Marzensky blinked.
"...What?"
"I am NOT fighting that thing."
I pointed directly at Seattle Slew's listing like the screen itself was dangerous.
"That is a historically undefeated apex predator."
Marzensky looked at the screen calmly.
Then back at me.
"You think we would lose?"
THAT WASN'T THE POINT.
That was exactly why this was terrifying.
Because maybe we could win.
MAYBE.
And maybe was not acceptable against something historically validated across generations.
This wasn't some random strong competitor.
This was a living piece of racing mythology in her PRIME.
And me?
I was still trying to figure out how much this world even tolerated historical distortion.
One bad collapse could destroy the entire route evaluation.
Grades mattered.
Endings mattered.
This wasn't a story where I could recklessly challenge monsters for character development.
A single major failure could permanently damage the run quality.
And Seattle Slew wasn't just dangerous physically.
She was psychologically dangerous.
The kind of opponent that changes how people think about racing after facing her.
I stared at the American listings in genuine horror.
Then noticed something worse.
Affirmed.
Alydar.
The entire era was basically concentrated historical violence.
"...Who designed this hell."
Marzensky laughed quietly.
Actually laughed.
Meanwhile I was completely serious.
People from the future romanticized legendary eras too much.
Living inside them felt different.
History stopped feeling inspirational.
It started feeling predatory.
And Seattle Slew felt like the kind of predator that punished arrogance instantly.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not for the first run.
Maybe later.
Maybe after growth.
Maybe after understanding this world properly.
But right now?
I wasn't trying to prove myself against history.
I was trying to survive long enough to become part of it.
So I backed out of the American listings immediately.
Japan had rejected us.
America looked homicidal.
Which left one realistic option.
Canada.
I paused on the Canadian Triple Crown listings for a long moment.
Different surfaces.
Different pacing.
Different environments.
Technical.
Adaptation-focused.
Not easy.
Never easy.
But survivable.
Most importantly:
No historically undefeated monster waiting to erase us on entry.
I exhaled slowly.
"...Canada."
Marzensky looked over again.
"We're leaving Japan."
Not a question.
A statement.
"Yeah."
"Because of the restrictions?"
"Partly."
"And partly because you're afraid."
"...Correct."
She looked mildly amused by how quickly I admitted that.
"You say that very easily."
"Because I enjoy surviving."
That earned another small laugh from her.
But my fear was real.
Because this entire experience had finally taught me something important:
Historical monsters were not romantic when you stood inside their era.
They were terrifying.
And I was absolutely not arrogant enough to challenge one in my first completed run just because the option existed.