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.
I stared at the rejection notice for a long time.
Then I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was absurd.
Japan had just told Marzensky she wasn't allowed to compete for greatness.
Not that she wasn't good enough.
Not that she hadn't earned it.
Not that she couldn't win.
Simply that history had already decided where she belonged.
Foreign.
Outsider.
Not welcome.
Something about that irritated me more than I expected.
I looked at the list of Japanese G1 races one final time before closing the screen.
Asahi Hai.
Satsuki Sho.
Tokyo Yushun.
Kikka Sho.
Locked.
Every meaningful route was closed before we were even allowed to step onto the starting gate.
For a moment I felt defeated.
Then another thought appeared.
If Japan didn't want Marzensky changing Japanese racing history...
Then maybe we'd just change somebody else's.
I opened the American race listings.
The first name that appeared made me pause.
Seattle Slew.
Even in my previous world, that name carried weight.
An undefeated champion.
A monster.
A horse that had become a piece of racing mythology.
The kind of name people remembered decades later.
I stared at the screen.
Then another name appeared.
Affirmed.
Alydar.
One legend after another.
The entire era looked less like a race schedule and more like a collection of final bosses.
Marzensky leaned over my shoulder.
"Strong?"
I laughed quietly.
"Very."
"Can we beat them?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Because the honest answer was simple.
Right now?
Probably not.
But that wasn't the important question.
The important question was what happened if we eventually could.
I looked back at Seattle Slew's name.
And for the first time, I wasn't seeing a monster.
I was seeing a mountain.
The kind people climbed because it existed.
The kind history remembered forever.
Marzensky followed my gaze.
Her eyes slowly narrowed.
Not fear.
Excitement.
Dangerous excitement.
The same expression she wore whenever someone finally gave her a challenge worth chasing.
I should have recognized it immediately.
Because I was starting to wear the same smile.
"We're going to America, aren't we?"
"Yeah."
"Because they're strong?"
"Yeah."
"And because you want to beat them."
I looked at the screen one final time.
At Seattle Slew.
At the legends waiting on the other side of the ocean.
At the monsters that had dominated racing history for generations.
Then I grinned.
"Not just beat them."
A strange feeling settled into my chest.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
The feeling of stepping onto a route so ridiculous that nobody would ever recommend it.
The kind of route gamers picked because it sounded impossible.
Because if Marzensky succeeded,
If she actually defeated names like those,
Nobody would ever be able to dismiss her again.
Not as a foreign runner.
Not as an outsider.
Not as a footnote.
History would have no choice but to acknowledge her.
What I didn't know then was that Seattle Slew wasn't a rival.
She was a wall.
The kind that doesn't care how talented you are.
The kind that doesn't care how hard you work.
The kind that sends you all the way back to the beginning.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Looking back now, I can laugh about it.
At the time?
Every failure felt like hell.
Entire three-year campaigns ending in defeat.
Entire careers discarded.
Entire timelines reduced to lessons for the next attempt.
All while chasing a Uma Musume the world called a god.
A title I spent years trying to prove wrong.
Years.
Not one set of three.
Not two.
More attempts than I care to count.
More races than any sane trainer would willingly endure.
More rematches than history was ever supposed to allow.
Because every time she beat us, I learned something.
Every loss revealed another answer.
Another weakness.
Another possibility.
And eventually...
The impossible became familiar.
The familiar became understandable.
And the god became beatable.
All because Japan told Marzensky she wasn't allowed to run.