Chương 161: The Royal Ascot Race

Today was the Royal Ascot Race Day, the biggest social event of the London Season before the ball itself. Leo smiled at himself in the mirror. The morning coat fit better than he expected. He wasn't entirely sure what made it a "morning" coat instead of an "afternoon" coat, but Vicky had been very specific. Morning coat. Dove-gray waistcoat. Top hat carried until you reached the enclosure, then worn unless you were indoors, unless you were in a private box, unless someone important was speaking, unless...

He'd stopped listening around the third "unless."

"You're going to wear a hole in the mirror." Vicky emerged from the bathroom in a knee-length emerald dress, her hat pinned at an angle that Leo couldn't have achieved without copious amounts of spiritual glue. She stopped and looked him up and down.

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. You clean up fine." She adjusted his lapel with two fingers, frowning at it like it had personally wronged her.

"Pop quiz. A Viscount and a Baron approach you at the same time. Who do you greet first?" Leo opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He closed it. Vicky grinned.

"Perfect. That's the correct answer for ninety percent of today's situations." She pointed at him with the hat pin she'd been holding.

"When in doubt, smile and let me talk. You're tall and you look good in a coat. That's your whole job description."

The car Hilda had arranged dropped them at Ascot Racecourse an hour before the first race. Leo stepped out and stopped. The grandstand rose before him in white stone and glass, flags snapping in the wind. Cultivators in morning dress and elaborate hats streamed through the entrances. Then he looked up at the track in the sky. Translucent platforms of condensed spiritual qi formed a winding path through the air, looping and climbing in wide arcs. Gates of shimmering energy marked checkpoints along the route.

At the highest point, nearly a thousand feet up, the track twisted through a series of rings that pulsed with light. Above the main track, horses ran warm-up laps on smaller practice platforms. They were beautiful. Coats gleaming with spiritual luster, muscles moving beneath skin that glowed faintly. As Leo watched, one of them stamped a hoof against empty air and a disk of golden light flared beneath it.

"They generate their own platforms," he said. Vicky glanced up like she'd forgotten the track was there.

"Yeah. Qi discs under each hoof. The good ones can layer three at a time and bank through turns without losing speed."

"This is incredible." Vicky glanced at him. Something about his face made her grin.

"You look like a golden retriever seeing snow for the first time." She took his elbow and steered him toward the entrance.

"Those rings up top are formation gates. Miss one, five-second penalty. The corkscrew section wipes out at least two horses every year." She handed her invitation to a uniformed attendant and pulled Leo through before he walked into a column.

"I need you to look like you've seen a horse before, Leo. Can you do that for me? Just for today?" Leo followed her through the crowd, but his eyes kept drifting upward. The track curved and dipped, designed to test both speed and agility. Some sections ran nearly vertical. Others spiraled through tight corkscrews that would require precise footwork. For a moment, he understood why the aristocratic families clung to events like this. There was something here worth preserving.

Then he checked his wallet and remembered he didn't have enough money for next month's rent.

"Vicky." She was three steps ahead, nodding at someone she clearly didn't want to talk to.

"Vicky."

"What?"

"Can I borrow some money?" She stopped walking. Turned. Her eyes narrowed.

"Why?"

"I want to place a bet."

"With what odds? On which horse? Do you even know anything about spiritual horse racing?"

"No, but I figure if I study the spiritual fingerprints for a few minutes, I can probably identify some patterns in the..."

"Leo." Vicky held up a hand.

"You have a signing bonus. A very large signing bonus. From the NFL."

"Right, but..."

"Where is your signing bonus, Leo?"

"It's complicated."

"Is it?" She stepped closer.

"It looks like you're asking me for gambling money at a horse race, which suggests your very large signing bonus went somewhere. And the most obvious somewhere, given the context, would be..."

"I didn't gamble it away. I spent it on body refining." She raised an eyebrow, evaluated him for a second, then shook her head.

"The answer is no. There's no gambling here anyway." Leo blinked.

"What do you mean there's no gambling? It's a horse race."

"It's the Royal Ascot." Vicky spread her arms.

"A prestigious social event. A showcase of breeding excellence." She dropped her voice.

"Gambling is illegal and no one here has ever heard of it." Leo looked at the crowd. Cultivators in top hats discussed bloodlines and training regimens. Ladies in elaborate dresses compared the spiritual luster of different horses' coats. A group of elderly men in the corner waved calculators while excitedly discussing a racing form.

"That group over there is literally calculating odds."

"They're appreciating the sport."

"They have a chalkboard." One of the men glanced up, noticed Leo pointing, and froze. He elbowed the others. Calculators vanished into coat pockets. The chalkboard flipped to reveal a perfectly innocent sketch of a horse. The group scattered in four different directions, each man suddenly very interested in examining a different part of the grandstand.

"See?" Vicky squeezed his shoulder and turned him away.

"Respectable British institution. Zero gambling." She watched the last of the old men vanish around a corner, still clutching his calculator.

"That guy's been appreciating the sport for forty years. He appreciates it very aggressively." She headed for their box. Leo watched her go. Then he looked at the men in the corner. One of them was accepting a thick envelope from another while pretending to admire the view. No gambling. Right. He slipped into the crowd.

The lower levels of the grandstand were a maze of service corridors, equipment storage, and private rooms. Leo navigated by instinct and the occasional flash of divine sense, avoiding the staff bustling past with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. He was looking for the kind of people who appreciated the sport with chalkboards.

"Leo Chen." He turned. Wang Liyang stood at a corridor intersection, dressed identically to Leo. Same coat, same waistcoat, same top hat tucked under one arm. Somehow Liyang made it look natural, like he'd been wearing British formalwear his entire life.

"Liyang." Leo grinned.

"It's been a while."

"A year." Liyang clasped Leo's hand with both of his, the grip warm and genuine.

"I saw the draft coverage. The Giants. Congratulations."

"Heard you made a name for yourself in China after the Grand Formations Summit."

"All thanks to you." Liyang released his hand.

"And now you're escorting Vicky Walton to the Queen Charlotte Ball. Quite the assignment." Leo glanced back toward the grandstand above them.

"Can I ask you something? What's the point of all this?"

"The Ascot?"

"The ball. The Season. Everyone treats it like life or death. The Sun is running daily coverage. But isn't it just a fancy dance?" Liyang studied him for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"It's not a dance, Leo. It's a competition. Between the aristocratic families. There are too few spirit veins and too many mouths to feed. Aristocracy is always a competition. The Season just makes it formal."

"Competition for what?"

"Everything. Tabloid rankings. Presentation order before the Queen. Marriage prospects. Every interaction is scored, compared, remembered." Liyang's chin lifted slightly.

"Penelope is currently ranked third. She intends to finish first." Leo studied his former formations competition teammate. Liyang had once told him he'd never lost a competition in his life. He was the most competitive person Leo knew. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"That's why she picked you as her cavalier."

"She needed someone who knows how to finish first." Liyang smiled.

"We have a PR team back in China. Twelve people. They edit every photo, craft every post, optimize every hashtag." His eyes gleamed.

"The old families think lineage still matters. They're wrong. Followers are the new bloodline." Something about it sat wrong with Leo. The commodification of influence. He let it go. This was what he'd signed up for.

"By the way, you'll never guess who I saw near the stables. Our old formations teacher." Leo blinked.

"Morimoto? He's supposed to be in prison."

"Apparently not." Liyang shook his head.

"I don't know what he's doing here, but I'm certain it's illegal."

"That sounds like him." Liyang checked his watch.

"I should go. Penelope needs photos before the first race." He clasped Leo's hand again.

"Good to see you, Leo. If you need anything while you're in London, ask. I owe you." Leo nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind." Liyang walked away without looking back. Leo watched him go, then turned toward the stables.

He found Morimoto behind a stack of hay bales, examining a horse's hoof with a jeweler's loupe.

"Mr. Morimoto." The old man spun, loupe flying from his eye. He caught it and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Leo Chen." He adjusted his spectacles, the high-end Soviet pair from Berlin.

"What an unexpected pleasure."

"You're supposed to be in prison."

"The American judicial system, upon reflection, recognized that my contributions to formation accessibility outweighed the narrow technical violations they charged me with. I believe the phrase was 'time served.' Though I prefer to think of it as 'apology accepted""I don't believe you."

"Belief is not required. Only results." Morimoto held out his wrists. No tracking cuff. Just a very expensive watch. Leo stared at it. The old man was free.

"Why are you here?"

"I have always appreciated fine horses." Morimoto gestured at the stables around them.

"The Royal Ascot represents centuries of breeding excellence. A cultivator could learn much from studying the spiritual lineages on display."

"Still don't believe you." Morimoto just smiled at him. Leo thought for a moment. Morimoto. At a prestigious horse racing event. Hiding in the stables. Examining hooves.

"You're here to gamble." The old man's eyes widened. His hand shot out, grabbed Leo's arm, and shoved him into an equipment room. He followed, pulling the door shut behind them.

"This," he hissed, "is why your generation cannot be trusted with sensitive information. No operational security. None. I share one detail and you announce it to the entire venue."

"I thought there was no gambling at the Royal Ascot."

"There isn't. Officially." Morimoto checked the door, then traced a small circle in the air with his finger. Sound isolation spell art.

"Unofficially, I may have placed a substantial wager on the outcome of the third race."

"How substantial?"

"Everything I have." Leo stared at him.

"Everything?"

"I've run into some financial difficulties since my release." Morimoto adjusted his spectacles.

"My previous business model is no longer viable. I needed capital to restart operations."

"So you bet everything on a horse race."

"On a sure thing." Morimoto pulled a small case from his coat pocket. Inside, nestled in velvet, sat a set of formation-inscribed horseshoes and a red pill.

"I have developed a system." Leo looked at the horseshoes. The formation work was intricate. Speed enhancement. Spiritual qi amplification. Self-erasing arrays that would burn away during the race, leaving no evidence.

"You're rigging the race."

"I am correcting an injustice." Morimoto held up the red pill.

"This horse has been neglected by an elitist system that favors pedigree over heart. The racing establishment decided years ago that Ever Enduring would never win. Who are they to make that choice?" He tucked the pill back into his pocket.

"Today, he gets his chance."

"Ever Enduring." Leo considered the name.

"That doesn't exactly scream speed."

"The odds are forty to one."

"Forty to one! That's probably the slowest horse in the field! Everyone will know something is wrong when it wins!"

"They will suspect." Morimoto waved a hand.

"But they will not be able to prove. The formations are self-erasing. The pill will metabolize completely. By the time anyone thinks to investigate, there will be no evidence."

"And if someone complains?"

"Who will complain? Gambling is illegal at the Royal Ascot." Morimoto smiled.

"The only people who lose money are criminals. Are they going to report their illegal losses to the authorities? Explain how they know the race was fixed?" He spread his hands.

"We are untouchable."

"Pick a different horse."

"I cannot afford a different horse. The odds on the favorites are terrible." Morimoto began laying out his tools.

"I needed to maximize my return. Ever Enduring pays forty to one."

"How much are we talking about?"

"If Ever Enduring wins, my return will be approximately fourteen million pounds." Morimoto glanced at him.

"I will give you half. Seven million. For your assistance." Seven million pounds. It wouldn't make him debt-free, but it would make him significantly less debt-full.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Scholar's Finger. You will muddle the horse's spiritual sea. Nothing harmful, just enough confusion that its improved performance will seem inconsistent rather than suspicious. A horse that runs erratically but somehow keeps improving? That is the unpredictable magic of competition." Leo looked at the pill in Morimoto's pocket. The horseshoes. This was a terrible idea. But seven million pounds was seven million pounds.

And Hilda had been very specific about his responsibilities: keep Vicky on track through the Season, serve as an adequate cavalier, don't embarrass the family. She hadn't said anything about horse racing. Besides, as Vicky said. Gambling is illegal and no one here has ever heard of it.

"If this goes wrong," Leo said, "I'm blaming you."

"It will not go wrong."

"And if anyone asks, Wang Liyang is involved."

"Naturally." Morimoto straightened his spectacles.

"Mr. Wang, what a pleasure to see you again. No, I haven't seen Leo Chen today. Leo Chen? Never heard of him. Describe him to me again?"

Leo followed Morimoto deeper into the stables, past rows of gleaming thoroughbreds. They stopped at the last stall. Ever Enduring stood in the corner, facing the wall. Leo stared. The horse was fat. Not slightly overweight. The animal looked like someone had inflated a regular horse with a bicycle pump and forgotten to stop.

"Mr. Morimoto."

"Yes?"

"That horse is fat." Morimoto squinted at Ever Enduring.

"He has filled out."

"He looks like he swallowed another horse." Ever Enduring's ear flicked. Morimoto was already opening the stall door.

"Minor setback. The formations will compensate." He slipped inside and approached the horse.

"Ever Enduring. My friend. We need to discuss business." The horse continued staring at the wall.

"I understand you have been experiencing a difficult period. The racing establishment has written you off. Washed up. A cautionary tale." Morimoto produced the formation-inscribed horseshoes.

"But I see potential. You run fast, we both go home rich. This is a professional relationship." He extended his hand. Ever Enduring sniffed once. Then he turned his head away.

"He's not interested," Leo said.

"He's playing hard to get." Morimoto examined the horse's current shoes.

"Help me swap these out." Leo moved to Ever Enduring's front left leg.

"Hoof up." Nothing.

"Hoof up." Ever Enduring shifted his weight onto that leg, adding several hundred pounds to the equation. He turned his head just far enough to make eye contact with Leo. The look was unmistakable: I know exactly what you're doing and I refuse to participate. Then he looked away.

"That horse just told me to get lost, Mr. Morimoto."

"Ignore him. He's establishing dominance." After three more failed attempts, Morimoto produced a carrot. Ever Enduring's ears perked up.

"Ah. Now you're interested." Morimoto held it just out of reach.

"You want this? I give you the carrot, you let me change your shoes. Everyone profits." Ever Enduring lunged. His teeth closed on the carrot and yanked it free. He retreated to the corner, chewing smugly. Leo tried distracting the horse with a qi orb while Morimoto worked the rear hooves. It worked for ten seconds before Morimoto cursed.

"The shoes are spirit-forged. They're not coming off without tools."

"You didn't bring tools?"

"I brought formations."

"Formations are not horseshoe removers." Morimoto was quiet. Then: "I have a marker." He produced what looked like a child's marker, bright red, and knelt beside Ever Enduring's rear hoof.

"That's a marker."

"It's a spiritual ink marker."

"It looks like something you'd use to label lunch containers."

"The vessel is irrelevant." Morimoto uncapped it and began drawing.

"What matters is the ink." The marker squeaked against metal. Leo watched formations take shape that looked less like precision spiritual engineering and more like a toddler's refrigerator art. Voices echoed from the corridor. Getting closer.

"Someone's coming."

"I am aware." Squeak. Squeak.

"Two down."

"They're doing inspections."

"Then stop talking." Squeak.

"Three down." Squeak. Footsteps stopped outside the stall. The latch lifted. Morimoto grabbed Leo's collar and pulled them both behind the hay bales. They pressed flat against the wall as the door swung open.

"Routine check." A stablehand with a clipboard stepped into the stall. Ever Enduring turned. Slowly. Deliberately. He positioned his considerable bulk between the stablehand and the corner where Leo and Morimoto were crouched, then lowered his head and nudged the stablehand's clipboard with his nose. The stablehand laughed.

"Hungry, are we?" He scratched Ever Enduring's muzzle.

"Let me see your hooves, big fella." Ever Enduring leaned into the scratch with his full weight. The stablehand staggered. Four hundred pounds of excess horse pressed him gently but firmly toward the door.

"All right, all right." The stablehand scribbled something without looking.

"Uncooperative. Visual only." He gave the horse one last pat and left. The door clicked shut. Leo and Morimoto extracted themselves from behind the hay. Straw jutted from Morimoto's morning coat. A piece hung from his spectacles like a tiny antenna. Leo looked down at himself. His dove-gray waistcoat was now dove-gray-and-yellow. Straw dust coated his sleeves. A smear of something he hoped was mud ran down one trouser leg. Vicky was going to kill him.

He pulled a laundry formation from his breast pocket, pressed it flat against his chest and activated it. Spiritual qi rippled outward. Dust lifted. Straw fell away. The mud evaporated. In three seconds, his morning coat looked freshly pressed. Morimoto stared.

"What?" Leo straightened his lapels.

"Give me that."

"It's my last one." Morimoto snatched the slip from Leo's hand before he could pocket it. He pressed it against his own coat. Three seconds later he stood immaculate. Spectacles gleaming. Not a strand of straw in sight. He tucked the spent slip into his breast pocket.

"Laundry formations." He adjusted his sleeve.

"Is there a market for these?"

"Give that back. It's used."

"The array structure isn't. I only need the design." Morimoto patted the pocket.

"Consider it a consulting fee."

"I didn't consult you on anything."

"And yet here we are, in business together." Morimoto turned back to Ever Enduring.

"Final step." He pulled the small blue pill from his pocket and tossed it toward the horse's mouth. Ever Enduring's head snapped forward. His teeth closed on the pill mid-air with the reflexes of an animal who had never, in his entire life, refused food. He chewed. Swallowed. His eyes widened slightly. Morimoto extended his hand.

"Pleasure doing business." Ever Enduring looked at the hand. Looked at Morimoto. Slowly he lifted one hoof and placed it against Morimoto's palm. They shook.

"Professional relationship," Morimoto said, and walked out of the stall. Leo paused at the stall door. Ever Enduring stood in the corner, watching him. Leo studied him. He stretched out his divine sense, searching for some flicker of comprehension behind that broad, overfed face. Ever Enduring's spiritual sea was flat and calm and utterly unreadable. Either this horse understood everything, or it understood nothing. Leo shrugged. He shaped a ball of Scholar's Ink between his fingers and lobbed it underhand.

It struck Ever Enduring square on the forehead and sank in without a trace. The horse didn't flinch. He held Leo's gaze for one more second, then turned back to the wall. Leo straightened his coat and walked out into the corridor. It would all work out. Probably.