The reality was that Agnes Flora's initial reception abroad had been lukewarm at best.
While she had spent her career trading blows with Rampage, by the time she transitioned to the overseas circuit, she was already in her fourth year as a Senior—a seasoned veteran. The local critics were harsh, dismissive even, labeling her an "old-timer" on a "commemorative retirement tour." Those stinging words had, more than once, ignited a cold fury within her. It was true that in her first overseas outing, a third-place finish was the best she could muster.
But then…
"Agnes Flora! It's Agnes Flora! She's surging forward—where did that late kick come from?! The flower we thought was swallowed by the pack has bloomed in spectacular fashion! Agnes Flora takes first!"
"Agnes Flora is running away with it! Can she hold? She can! A flawless performance! Is this truly the power of a veteran Senior? She has utterly dismantled our nation's rising stars!"
By the time she reached the gates of the Arc de Triomphe, she had adapted beautifully, securing seven wins out of ten starts. The mockery had vanished, replaced by a gaze of wary awe. No one could claim that the rival of the "Dictatorial Tyrant" was a mere fluke.
Now, Flora stood upon the very stage she had long admired. This was the Arc—the world's greatest race, where a certain Horse Girl had once executed a legendary "Great Escape" on the worst track conditions in history, shattering the world record in the process.
"Are you… nervous?"
"Do you really think this is enough to rattle me?" Flora replied coolly. "If you want to see me nervous, bring Rampage here."
"You really never change, do you?" Sakura Laurel chuckled.
"And here they come! This year's Arc de Triomphe feels different. Last year, Longchamp was transformed into a nightmare of mud and rain, the worst conditions in history. Yet, there was a Tyrant who stood undaunted by the prestige of the Arc, a girl who ran with a ferocity that seemed to turn the storm itself into her own strength. The Dictatorial Tyrant of the Japanese racing world: Mejiro Rampage."
That performance had already passed into legend—a world record set on a "dead" track that would be spoken of for generations. It was a feat no one could hope to replicate. Even last year's runner-up, Aubance, had left the track in tears, admitting she couldn't even get close to that monster. On her fourth attempt, Japan had finally left an unhealable scar on this distant, foreign soil.
"This year, new challengers have arrived from Japan! Leading the charge for the Classic generation is this year's Japanese Derby winner, Sakura Laurel! And alongside her—a name no fan of the Tyrant can ignore! Though she holds only two G1 titles, those victories were snatched from the world's elite. The girl who once defeated the Arc winner El Condor Pasa: The Great Bloom, Agnes Flora!"
Perhaps it was the shadow of their great predecessor, but Flora was surprised by how warmly they were being welcomed. She had expected hostility, given that a fellow countrywoman had essentially "stolen" the glory of the Arc the year before. But the reality was different. In terms of pure respect for Rampage's strength, the international community was perhaps even more fervent and sophisticated than the fans back home.
"The cheers for the Japanese challengers, Sakura Laurel and Agnes Flora, are echoing across Longchamp! What kind of performance will these two show us? Will Japan claim its second consecutive Arc victory? The world is watching!"
The cheers were relentless. In the stands, banners bore their names, and fans held up cheering goods shaped like cherry blossoms. Seeing it all, the weight of the moment finally sank in: they were truly here, at the pinnacle.
"Are you overwhelmed?" Flora asked.
"A little…" Laurel admitted. "Are you not, Flora-san?"
"Not really. To be honest, I feel like the Japan Cup was more intense than this."
Laurel stared at her in shock. For Laurel, the Arc was the stage she had dreamed of—the stage she now needed to conquer to prove she could beat Narita Brian. Yet Flora, standing in the tunnel, claimed the Japan Cup she had already won was the harder ordeal.
"To be perfectly honest, I didn't come here just to 'win' the Arc," Flora said. "In fact, you could say I'm just here to keep you company."
"That's a very long way to travel just for 'company,'" Laurel countered.
"That's why… I'm here to challenge her world record."
Rampage's record. That was the only thing that mattered to Flora. The prestige of the Arc, the title of 'World's Best'—none of it compared. She had come all this way for the sole purpose of challenging the ghost of the girl who had run this race before her.
"That is my only reason for running. There is someone I have to beat… just like you, Laurel-chan."
"…I see. I'm here because I want to beat Brian-chan. We're the same, aren't we?"
"Exactly. Now, let's go—to the race that proves we can overcome the ones we chase."
"Yes!"
Flora felt the weight of the gazes from the elite Horse Girls surrounding her. Some likely looked down on Laurel as a reckless youth; others likely viewed Flora as a relic who didn't belong on this stage. Flora didn't care. As long as they were looking at her and not the finish line, they weren't a threat.
The only true enemies were those already at the gates, silent and focused.
'Oho, look at those faces. What's the matter, Flora? Looks like you've got some scary opponents today.'
(I don't care. Because today… I'm going to beat you.)
Flora made a vow to the "Imaginary Rampage" she had conjured in her mind. Today, she would finally surpass her.
Show me what you've got, Flora.
"—! I just felt it… Rampage-san just sent me a cheer…"
"Eh?"
"I'm not afraid of anything anymore…" Flora murmured, a blissful, trance-like expression washing over her face.
"Wait, Flora-san? That's not a cheer, that's a total death flag! You're in a 'Heaven State' before the race even starts!"
The words Rampage had whispered while watching the broadcast thousands of miles away had somehow reached her. As Flora entered the starting gate in a state of pure, ecstatic delirium, Laurel couldn't help but feel a sudden, mounting sense of dread for the race to come.
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