The air didn’t smell like cheap ale, burning cabbages, or the distinct, looming scent of a giant toad’s stomach.
It smelled like fresh-cut grass, wet earth, and a faint hint of asphalt baking under a gentle afternoon sun.
Satou Kazuma sat on a wooden bench, leaning his head back until it pressed against the smooth slats, and closed his eyes.
In his right hand, he held a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee.
In his left rested a thick textbook titled *An Introduction to Equine Physiology and Tracen Regulations*.
For the longest time—years, honestly—he had forgotten what it felt like to just *sit*.
In his past life, the one before the accident, he had been a shut-in.
In the life after that—the one he rarely let himself think about anymore—he had been the deeply exhausted leader of the most dysfunctional adventuring party in history.
There had been no peace there.
If he wasn’t being blown up by an explosion spell, he was being dragged into debt, chased by undead, or dealing with a goddess whose crying face still gave him phantom headaches.
But that was gone.
The cards, the cheat skills, the “Steal” ability he had abused to high heaven, the adventure logs—all of it had vanished like mist when he woke up in this world as a scruffy orphan boy.
He had started over.
Truly over.
No grand destiny.
No Demon King.
Just a kid who grew up in a quiet foster home, went to a normal school, worked odd jobs, and found himself absolutely fascinated by the creatures that ruled this world’s sports pages: Uma Musume.
Horse Girls.
They weren’t monsters, nor were they demi-humans to be hunted or feared.
They were athletes, idols, and forces of nature, running with a fierce, beautiful passion that Kazuma had never seen in any world before.
He had watched them on a blurry television screen in the orphanage common room, and for the first time in two lifetimes, he had felt a genuine, burning ambition.
*I want to be a part of that.*
He had studied until his eyes bled.
He had passed the grueling Tracen Academy Trainer exams through sheer, stubborn will—and, if he was being honest, his absurd, statistical anomaly of a luck stat, which seemed to have carried over even if his magic hadn’t.
During the multiple-choice section, he had guessed on at least ten questions he hadn’t prepared for.
Every single one of them had been correct.
“Hey, look at that guy,” a voice whispered nearby.
“Is he one of the new rookie Trainers?”
“Looks like it.
He looks kind of…
dead inside, doesn’t he?”
“Or maybe just really tired.
I heard the rookie exam was brutal this year.”
Kazuma opened one eye.
A couple of junior students—girls with long, sleek ears twitching on top of their heads and tails swishing lazily behind them—were walking past the bench, giggling.
One wore the distinct silks of a long-distance runner, while the other looked like a sprinter.
He didn’t yell at them.
He didn’t complain about the younger generation being disrespectful.
He just took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee and let out a long, contented sigh.
“Dead inside?
Please,” Kazuma muttered to himself, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Compared to what I used to deal with, this is a luxury resort.
Nobody is trying to eat me.
Nobody is demanding I pay for a destroyed city wall.
I am perfectly, wonderfully fine.”
He stood up, stretching his limbs until his spine popped.
He adjusted the lapels of his green trainer’s jacket—a color he had insisted on, finding comfort in the familiar shade—and picked up his clipboard.
Today was Debut Selection day at Tracen Academy—the day uncontracted Uma Musume ran open trials on the track, hoping to catch the eye of a Trainer.
Most of the elite rookies had already been scouted, with high-profile trainers lining up to sign them.
Names like Special Week, El Condor Pasa, and Grass Wonder were already generating massive buzz in the faculty lounges.
Kazuma wasn’t looking for a superstar.
He didn’t need the stress of managing a triple-crown contender.
He just wanted a nice, steady contract with a girl who had a decent work ethic—someone he could guide through a respectable career, earning a stable paycheck so he could eventually buy a nice apartment and eat high-grade beef once a week.
“Keep it simple, Kazuma,” he told himself as he walked toward the main training tracks.
“No eccentrics.
No drama queens.
No one with an ego the size of a fortress.
Just a normal, hardworking girl.”
As he approached the grandstands, the sheer scale of Tracen Academy hit him again.
The dirt and turf tracks stretched out like massive green and brown ribbons, bordered by pristine white rails.
The stands were filled with senior trainers, scouts, and journalists.
Out on the track, the energy was electric.
He watched a few heat races.
He saw a crimson-haired girl with a fierce gaze—Vodka—absolutely tear up the straightaway, followed closely by a refined, elegant girl named Daiwa Scarlet.
The tension between them was palpable, their eyes locking the moment they crossed the finish line.
*Too much drama,* Kazuma thought, shivering slightly as he marked an ‘X’ next to their names on his sheet.
*Those two will give their trainer an ulcer within a month.
I’ve had enough ulcers to last three lifetimes.*
He moved down to the secondary dirt track, where the less flashy trials were taking place.
Dirt runners were usually sturdier and less glamorous, but incredibly reliable.
That was when he heard the noise.
It wasn’t the roar of a crowd or the thunder of rhythmic, high-speed hooves.
It was a loud, high-pitched, incredibly cheerful yell, followed immediately by the sound of a heavy *thud*.
“Woaaaah!
The dirt is so soft today!
Oof!”
Kazuma stopped in his tracks.
He walked over to the rail of the dirt loop, leaning over to look down.
A young girl was currently sitting face-first in the loose soil.
She had bright, bubblegum-pink hair tied into twin tails, short pink ears that were currently drooping and caked in dirt, and a tail that was wagging back and forth so fast it was creating a minor dust storm.
She wore the standard Tracen training uniform, but it was already covered in brown smudges.
“Ow, ow, ow…” She sat up, rubbing her nose, leaving a big smear of mud across her face.
Then, she looked up, saw the sky, and instantly grinned like she had just won the lottery.
“Wow!
The sun is super shiny too!
Today is a great day for a run!”
Kazuma stared at her.
His clipboard felt heavy in his hands.
*Oh no,* a voice deep inside his soul whispered.
*No, no, no.
I know this energy.
I recognize this specific brand of chaotic aura.
This is the universe trying to prank me again.*
The pink-haired girl scrambled to her feet, completely unbothered by her fall.
She noticed Kazuma standing by the rail, staring at her like she was a ghost.
Her eyes grew wide, bright, and utterly devoid of guile.
“Ah!
Hello, mister!” she shouted, waving both hands in the air so violently she almost lost her balance again.
“Are you a Trainer?
Look, look!
I can run really fast!
Well, sometimes!
But I really like running!”
Kazuma looked down at his list.
He flipped through the pages until he found the registered rookies for the dirt trial.
Down at the very bottom, written in slightly messy handwriting, was a single name:
*Haru Urara.*
He had heard rumors about her in the student archives.
Her time trials were…
legendary, but for all the wrong reasons.
She lacked stamina, her focus was non-existent, and she tended to stop mid-race if she saw a butterfly or a pretty flower.
In a school filled with apex athletes, she was an anomaly—a girl who loved to race but had never come close to winning.
“Hey, Urara-chan!” a staff member called out from the starting gate.
“The next heat is starting!
Get in position!”
“Okay!
Coming!” Urara cheered.
She turned to Kazuma, giving him a giant, muddy smile.
“Watch me, Mister Trainer!
I’m gonna go super-duper fast!”
She spun around and dashed toward the gate.
Within three steps, she tripped over her own shoelace, did a clumsy barrel roll, came up running anyway, and leaped into the starting stall with the enthusiasm of a puppy chasing a ball.
Kazuma stood by the rail, his mouth slightly open.
His brain told him to turn around.
Run.
Find a quiet, boring long-distance runner from the countryside who just wanted to eat rice and run five thousand meters in silence.
That was the safe path.
That was the path to a peaceful life.
But as he watched the gates open, seeing Haru Urara bolt forward with her tongue slightly out, a massive, ridiculous smile on her face even as the other runners immediately began to pull ahead, Kazuma felt a strange, familiar twinge in his chest.
She was hopeless.
She was a disaster.
But she was also entirely, beautifully honest.
There was no malice in her, no hidden agenda, no heavy burden of expectations.
She just wanted to run because it made her happy.
“Dammit,” Kazuma muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as his legendary luck clicked somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I swore I wouldn’t do this again.”
He raised his pen and drew a massive, messy circle around the name *Haru Urara*.
The office of the Junior Trainer division was relatively small, but it was quiet.
Kazuma sat behind a metal desk, looking at the official contract paper laid out in front of him.
Sitting on the other side was Haru Urara.
Her face was clean now, thanks to a wet towel Kazuma had handed her, but her pink ears were twitching in every direction, fascinated by a small bobblehead toy on the corner of his desk.
“Urara,” Kazuma said, rapping his knuckles on the table to get her attention.
“Yes!
Present!” She snapped to attention, her tail giving a sharp *thwack* against the back of her chair.
“Do you know what this paper is?”
“Um…” Urara tilted her head to the left.
Then to the right.
She squinted at the kanji.
“A drawing of a very straight line?”
“It’s a contract,” Kazuma sighed, rubbing his temples.
*Deep breaths, Kazuma.
She is not Aqua.
She does not owe millions of Eris.
She is just a kid.* “It means I become your official Trainer.
I manage your schedule, I plan your workouts, I cook your meals when you’re at the track, and I help you enter races.
In exchange, you listen to me and try your best.
Do you understand?”
Urara’s eyes lit up like twin stars.
“Wow!
A real Trainer?
For me?
But…
everyone else said I’m too slow.
They said I don’t look like a winner.”
Kazuma leaned back, crossing his arms.
His eyes narrowed slightly, a bit of his old, cynical self slipping through, but tempered by the warmth he had found in this new life.
“Let me tell you something, Urara.
I’ve met people who were ‘winners.’ They were strong, they had incredible powers, and they were the most miserable, arrogant, annoying freeloaders you could ever imagine.
I don’t care about ‘winning’ the way those suits upstairs do.”
He tapped the contract.
“I care about results, sure.
But more than that, I care about working with someone who doesn’t make me want to throw myself into a river.
You like running, right?”
“I love it!
It goes *whoosh* and the wind feels all cool in my ears!” She mimed running with her hands, nearly knocking over Kazuma’s pen holder.
“Good enough for me.
Sign here.
Or, well, write your name here.”
Urara grabbed the pen with immense gravity.
She held it like a sword, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she carefully, agonizingly wrote out her name: *Ha-ru U-ra-ra*.
The characters were slightly crooked and occupied way more space than they should have, but they were legible.
“Perfect,” Kazuma said, pulling the paper back and stamping it with his official seal.
“Welcome to the team.
Our team consists of exactly two people: me, the tactical genius who will ensure we don’t starve, and you, the pink torpedo.”
“Yay!
Pink torpedo!” Urara cheered, jumping out of her chair and doing a little victory dance.
“Does the pink torpedo get a snack?
Running made my tummy go *grrrr*.”
Kazuma reached into his bag and pulled out a fresh, crisp carrot he had bought from the cafeteria coop earlier.
He tossed it across the desk.
Urara caught it with both hands, her eyes widening in pure bliss.
“Carrot!
A big one!
Thank you, Trainer!” She took a massive, crunchy bite, her tail swishing happily.
“Alright, eat up,” Kazuma said, opening his notebook.
“Because starting tomorrow, we actually have to figure out how to get you around a track without you falling over your own shadow.
I looked at your baseline stats from the academy entrance logs.
Urara, your stamina is like a leaky bucket.”
“A bucket?” she asked around a mouthful of carrot.
“Yes.
A bucket with a giant hole in the bottom.
You bolt out of the gate like you’ve been shot out of a cannon, and then by the three-hundred-meter mark, you’re looking around for snacks.
We need to build up your base endurance.
Which means…
jogging.
Lots of it.”
Urara swallowed her bite and gave a firm nod.
“Okay!
I will jog until I am super long!
Like a noodle!”
“Please don’t become a noodle.
Just stay a horse girl,” Kazuma muttered.
He stood up, packing his things.
“Come on.
I’ll show you our designated locker room and the training fields we’ll be using.
Since we’re the lowest-ranked team right now, we get the early morning slots on the outer dirt track.
That means waking up at 5:00 AM.”
Urara’s face instantly fell into a comical look of pure despair.
“Five…
AM?
But the sun isn’t even awake then!”
“The sun doesn’t have to face the wrath of the Tracen Academy disciplinary committee if we miss our slot,” Kazuma said, walking past her and lightly tapping the top of her head with his rolled-up notebook.
“Move it, kid.
If you’re good, I’ll bring those sweet potato snacks tomorrow.”
“Sweet potato?!” Urara’s despair vanished instantly, replaced by absolute, unadulterated speed as she bolted out the door ahead of him.
“I’m going!
I’m already at the locker room!
Wait, where is the locker room?!”
“It’s the other way, you idiot!” Kazuma yelled, his voice echoing down the hallway as he sprinted after his new athlete.
For the first time in years, he realized he wasn’t running away from a monster.
He was just running.
And it didn’t feel bad at all.