The human brain is capable of processing billions of calculations per second.
Satou Kazuma was currently using approximately ninety-nine percent of that processing power to declare war on a metaphysical concept.
It was 2:15 AM on Sunday night.
The small living room of Kazuma’s faculty apartment looked less like a home and more like the lair of a disgraced, paranoid mathematician.
Sheets of paper were taped to the walls, covered in blue and red whiteboard marker scribbles.
Graphs depicting wind velocity, dirt density, stride frequency, and energy expenditure curves were strewn across the floor.
On the low wooden coffee table sat four empty mugs, each bearing a dark, crusty ring of dried, instant black coffee at the bottom.
Kazuma sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing a gray undershirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking up in three different directions.
In his right hand, he held a red pen; in his left, a scientific calculator he had borrowed from the Annex office.
“Listen to me, you godforsaken, over-functioning, useless piece of statistical garbage,” Kazuma whispered, glaring at the ceiling as if his Luck stat were a physical entity floating near the light fixture.
“I know what you are planning.
I know how your sick, twisted mind works.”
He tapped the red pen violently against a fresh sheet of paper.
“If I aim for First Place, you’ll probably make her trip over a stray turnip.
But if I aim for Fifth Place—a sensible, modest, humble Fifth Place—you interpret it as a challenge!
You think, *’Oh, Kazuma wants a quiet life?
Let’s make three front-runners collide like bumper cars so his athlete wins by default!’* You think you’re helping me?!
You’re ruining my life!”
Kazuma took a sharp, bitter gulp from his fifth mug of coffee.
It was lukewarm, bitter enough to strip paint off a wall, and tasted faintly of desperation.
He couldn’t afford another miracle.
The Kochi victory had already turned his world upside down.
The press was sniffing around, senior trainers were looking at him like he was a sports prophet, and the Student Council had summoned him for a formal meeting tomorrow morning.
If Haru Urara somehow stumbled into another First Place victory in her next regional race, the academy board would officially classify her as a High-Potential Prospect.
High-Potential Prospect status meant mandatory entry into official Grade 3, Grade 2, and eventually Grade 1 events.
It meant televised press conferences, mandatory high-altitude training camps, brand sponsorship deals, and an army of corporate accountants scrutinizing his receipts.
It was the ultimate nightmare.
A death sentence for his peaceful, low-stress existence.
“I need an algorithm,” Kazuma muttered, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he began writing feverishly on the paper.
“A mathematically foolproof, Luck-resistant tactical framework.
A system so thoroughly engineered that even a cosmic fluke cannot push her past fifth place.”
He drew a massive, complex flowchart.
**[VARIABLE A: DIETARY CONTROL]**
* *Current State:* High-protein, high-carb pork belly stew with extra sweet potatoes.
* *Adjustment:* Reduce sweet potato intake by exactly 18.5% forty-eight hours before race day.
* *Tactical Effect:* Reduces explosive initial acceleration out of the gate by 4.2%.
Prevents her from accidentally taking the lead in the opening 200 meters.
* *Note:* *Do not reduce by more than 20%, or she will pout, sit on the grass, and refuse to put her shoes on.*
**[VARIABLE B: PACING METRONOME]**
* *Current State:* Rhythmic breathing (*In-in, out-out*).
* *Adjustment:* Shift breathing cadence from 2:2 to a 3:3 ratio (*In-in-in, out-out-out*).
* *Tactical Effect:* Caps her maximum velocity at exactly 12.8 seconds per furlong.
Even if the entire front pack collapses, her top speed will be physically capped below the threshold required to catch the leaders.
**[VARIABLE C: THE BUFFERS]**
* *Tactical Execution:* Train Urara to intentionally position herself behind two specific middle-pack runners who possess stable, highly predictable finishing times.
She will use them as a “shield.” If a gap opens on the inside rail, she will *not* shoot through it; she will maintain her distance behind her designated “shield” runners, crossing the line in an unbreakable, mathematically locked 5th position.
“It’s brilliant,” Kazuma laughed, a dry, slightly unhinged sound that echoed in the quiet room.
“It’s absolute perfection!
I am not teaching her to throw the race.
Throwing a race is illegal, unethical, and obvious.
I am teaching her *Precision Energy Conservation*!
It’s a legitimate, high-level sports philosophy that just happens to result in an eternal fifth-place ceiling!”
He leaned back against the sofa, holding the paper up to the light.
His brain felt like it was frying in a pan of hot butter.
The caffeine was humming in his ears, making his eyelids twitch in rhythm with his pulse.
He looked at the clock on the wall: **4:15 AM**.
He had to meet Symboli Rudolf and Air Groove in less than four hours.
“Let them summon me,” Kazuma sneered weakly, his head lolling back against the sofa cushions as his eyelids grew impossibly heavy.
“Let them offer me budgets.
I have the algorithm now…
my Luck stat…
can’t touch…
this…”
The red pen slipped from his numb fingers, rolling across the floor.
Within thirty seconds, the tactical genius of Team Kazuma was fast asleep at his coffee-stained desk, snoring softly into a pile of dirt-density charts.
The morning sun hit Kazuma’s face like a physical slap.
He woke up with his cheek pressed flat against a diagram of the Kochi race track, a line of drool smudging the 800-meter turn marker.
His neck felt as if it had been locked in an iron vice, his lower back emitted a sickening *crunch* when he tried to sit up, and his tongue tasted like he had been chewing on old coffee grounds.
“Gah…
damn it…” Kazuma groaned, rubbing his face aggressively.
He checked his wrist.
**8:15 AM.**
“SHIT!”
Twenty-five minutes later, Kazuma was sprinting across the central courtyard of Tracen Academy.
He hadn’t washed his face properly, his hair was a chaotic nest, and his green tracksuit jacket was zipped up wrong, leaving one lapel sticking up like a broken wing.
He didn’t even have time to grab his thermos.
He just burst through the double doors of the Main Administration Building, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs—not from physical exertion, but from pure, raw administrative terror.
He stopped outside the heavy oak doors of the Student Council Office, took three deep breaths, smoothed down his hair as best he could, and knocked.
“Enter,” Symboli Rudolf’s smooth, authoritative voice called out from within.
Kazuma pushed the door open, stepping inside.
The office was quiet, bright, and smelled of fresh lilies and polished wood.
Symboli Rudolf sat behind her grand desk, a subtle, enigmatic smile on her lips.
Standing beside her, as always, was Air Groove, holding a leather folder that looked dangerously thick.
“Good morning, Satou-sensei,” Rudolf said, gesturing toward the plush leather chair opposite her desk.
“You look…
uniquely energized today.”
“I was conducting late-night tactical analytics,” Kazuma replied smoothly, utilizing his lifetime of experience in lying through his teeth.
He sat down, though he kept his back rigid so he wouldn’t fall asleep in the comfortable chair.
“A trainer’s work doesn’t end when the sun goes down.”
Air Groove’s eyes softened slightly, a look of quiet respect passing across her sharp features.
“Working through the night to process your runner’s debut data…
your dedication is truly commendable, Satou-sensei.”
*If you only knew I was up late plotting a war against my own Luck stat,* Kazuma thought, maintaining a stoic, deadpan expression.
“Let us get straight to the point, Satou-sensei,” Rudolf said, lacing her fingers together on the desk.
“Your victory in Kochi was not merely a local success.
It was a proof of concept.
The Academy Board has reviewed the footage, your baseline training logs, and the post-race media coverage.
The consensus is unanimous.”
Rudolf picked up a pristine, gold-stamped document and slid it across the mahogany surface toward Kazuma.
“Effective immediately, Team Kazuma is being officially promoted from ‘Junior Probationary Status’ to ‘Standard Registered Team,'” Rudolf announced.
“With this promotion comes a three-fold increase in your monthly equipment budget, full priority access to the central dirt and turf training tracks, and…”
She tapped the second page of the document.
“…an official invitation to enter Haru Urara into the upcoming **Grade 3 Regional Junior Dirt Sprint** in Hanshin next month.”
Kazuma’s heart stopped.
*Grade 3?!* Kazuma’s internal alarms screamed in a deafening chorus of panic.
*Hanshin?!
That’s a national-level venue!
That’s where actual sports journalists go!
That’s where corporate scouts buy front-row seats!
If we go to Hanshin, my fifth-place algorithm will be put under a microscope!*
“I decline,” Kazuma said instantly, without a single second of hesitation.
Air Groove froze.
Rudolf’s eyebrows rose slightly in genuine surprise.
“You…
decline?” Air Groove echoed, looking at him in utter disbelief.
“Satou-sensei, do you realize what this invitation represents?
Most rookie trainers spend three years grinding in local Maiden circuits before receiving a Grade 3 dispensation!
This is an unprecedented fast-track offer!”
“And I don’t want it,” Kazuma said flatly, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“Urara is not ready for Grade 3.”
“Her time in Kochi was exceptional!” Air Groove argued, stepping forward and opening her folder.
“Her final furlong split was faster than the average Grade 3 regional qualifier!
The data proves she has the engine!”
“Data doesn’t run races, Air Groove-san.
Heart does,” Kazuma bullshitted seamlessly, pulling a profound-sounding philosophy directly out of thin air to cover his own cowardice.
“Urara ran well in Kochi because the environment was simple, quiet, and low-pressure.
If I throw her into a national Grade 3 event with thousands of screaming fans, flashing cameras, and high-spec runners pushing her, her focus will shatter.
She’ll get overwhelmed, her breathing will break, and she’ll lose the pure joy she just found.”
Air Groove stopped mid-sentence.
Her mouth stayed slightly open, her eyes staring at Kazuma as if he had just delivered a divine sermon on athlete psychology.
“You…
you are declining a major career advancement…
solely to protect her mental well-being?” Air Groove whispered, her voice trembling slightly with emotion.
“You refuse to use her as a stepping stone for your own reputation…”
*No, I’m declining it so I don’t have to fill out Grade 3 tax compliance forms!* Kazuma screamed in his own head.
*Stop making me sound like a martyr!*
Symboli Rudolf let out a long, quiet laugh, her amber eyes gleaming with deep admiration.
“Magnificent,” Rudolf said softly, leaning back in her chair.
“A trainer who understands that pacing a career is far more important than chasing immediate glory.
How rare.
How truly inspiring.”
“I just want us to stick to local regional dirt races,” Kazuma insisted, pushing the gold-stamped document back across the desk.
“Small tracks.
Quiet fields.
Modest rewards.
We build her base for another six months before we even *think* about high-tier events.”
“If that is your decision, Satou-sensei, the Council will respect it,” Rudolf said, nodding solemnly.
“We will decline the Hanshin Grade 3 invitation on your behalf and keep your team registered in the local regional circuit.”
Kazuma let out a massive, silent sigh of relief.
*Yes!
Safety!
Low stakes!
The algorithm lives!*
“However,” Rudolf added, a mischievous, highly dangerous glint appearing in her eyes as she pulled a fresh stack of papers from her drawer.
“Since you have declined the promotional fast-track, protocol dictates that you must complete the standard **Regional Stability Verification Course**.
It requires a few administrative updates to your training logs.”
She set the stack on the desk.
It was at least four inches thick, filled with dense, fine-print legal and analytical forms.
“Since you are focusing on long-term base building,” Rudolf smiled warmly, “you will need to file weekly biomechanical progress reports, daily dietary tracking logs, and local track permit renewals for every regional venue you plan to visit over the next six months.
Air Groove will assist you with the initial paperwork.”
Kazuma stared at the four-inch stack of white paper.
His face turned a pale, sickly shade of grey.
His eyes twitched.
His brain, already fried from five cups of coffee and zero sleep, officially short-circuited.
*Four inches of paperwork…* Kazuma thought, his soul leaving his body through his mouth.
*Weekly biomechanical reports…
daily tracking logs…
I avoided Grade 3…
but I walked straight into a bureaucratic hellscape…*
“Is something wrong, Satou-sensei?” Air Groove asked, offering him a rare, genuinely kind smile as she handed him a heavy black pen.
“You look a bit pale.
But don’t worry, I will be reviewing your reports personally every Monday morning to ensure your revolutionary methods are properly documented.”
Kazuma took the pen with a trembling hand.
He looked at Symboli Rudolf’s approving smile.
He looked at Air Groove’s earnest, respectful gaze.
He thought about his Luck stat, currently sitting in the cosmos, laughing its absolute head off at his endless misery.
“No,” Kazuma whispered, his voice completely dead inside as he signed the first page.
“Everything is fine.
I love paperwork.
Paperwork is my favorite thing in the world.”
Ten minutes later, Kazuma stumbled out of the Student Council Office, carrying a four-inch box of administrative forms under his arm, his green jacket crooked, his eyes hollow.
He walked slowly down the long, sunlit hallway of the main building, feeling like a ghost wandering through a palace.
“TRAINER!”
A loud, cheerful, incredibly high-pitched yell echoed from the end of the corridor.
Haru Urara came bounding down the polished floor like a pink cannonball, wearing her training kit, her twin tails flying, a giant, fresh carrot held in her mouth like a cigar.
She brought herself to a sliding stop right in front of him, her short ears twitching happily, her tail swishing so fast it generated a small breeze.
“Trainer!
Look!” she squeaked, taking the carrot out of her mouth and holding it up proudly.
“The cafeteria lady gave me a double carrot!
It has two legs!
It looks like it’s running!”
Kazuma stopped.
He looked at the four-inch box of soul-crushing paperwork in his arms.
He looked at the two-legged carrot.
He looked at the bright, ridiculous, completely untroubled face of his only athlete.
He let out a long, slow, utterly defeated sigh.
“Urara,” Kazuma said, his voice flat and tired.
“Yes, Trainer?!”
“Starting tomorrow…
we are practicing the 3:3 breathing cadence.
And if you pass fifth place in our next race…
I am making you help me fill out biomechanical progress reports for the rest of your life.”
Urara tilted her head, blinking innocently up at him before letting out a giant, sunny laugh that echoed through the grand hallway.
“Okay!
I don’t know what bio-mechanical means, but it sounds super fun!
Let’s go jog!”
Kazuma closed his eyes, a small, exasperated, completely unstoppable smile breaking through his exhausted scowl as he followed his pink torpedo out into the bright morning sun.