The flashbulbs at the Chiba post-race press pen were relentless.
They exploded in rapid, blinding waves of cold white light that reflected off the mud-splattered concrete, casting long, dramatic shadows against the interview backdrop.
Satou Kazuma stood behind the central microphone, his green tracksuit soaked through with autumn drizzle, smelling faintly of wet clay and his own suppressed panic.
Beside him, Haru Urara was perched on a wooden step-stool so her chin could clear the podium rail.
She was still wearing her mud-streaked racing silks, clutching her winner’s rosette in one hand and a half-eaten steamed bun in the other, her pink ears twitching happily at every camera click.
“Satou-sensei!
Over here!
*National Sports Graphic*!” A middle-aged reporter with thick glasses shoved a recorder past the security barrier, his eyes wide with feverish professional excitement.
“Two consecutive regional starts!
Two dominant, track-record-breaking victories in totally opposite conditions!
The rumors circulating through Tracen Academy are no longer just rumors, are they?!”
Kazuma’s right eyelid twitched.
His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets, his fingers tightly balled into fists to stop them from trembling.
*What rumors?!* Kazuma’s mind shrieked, a cold, violent torrent of curses cascading through his inner monologue.
*What insane, over-analyzed nonsense have you bloodsuckers cooked up now?!
I just wanted her to run behind the girl with the goggles!
The goggles snapped!
It was an equipment failure!
It was a statistical tragedy!*
“Satou-sensei!” another journalist shouted, nearly knocking over a microphone stand in her eagerness.
“Vice President Air Groove hinted earlier this week that you have designed a strict, six-month regional consolidation program!
Looking at today’s performance in the heavy mud, the evidence is undeniable!
Are we witnessing the birth of an absolute regional reign of terror?!”
Kazuma took a slow, agonizingly quiet breath.
He forced his facial muscles into a mask of stone-cold, unreadable stoicism—a defense mechanism honed through two lifetimes of dealing with chaotic, uncontrollable situations.
“The mud was heavy,” Kazuma said, his voice flat, dry, and utterly devoid of enthusiasm.
“We simply adapted.”
“An incredible display of humble confidence!” the reporter gasped, furiously scribbling in her notebook.
“You call a five-length victory in knee-deep clay ‘simply adapting’!
Sensei, the entire racing community is calling this the most fundamental *Zero to Hero* narrative of the decade!
A girl who was dismissed by every elite stable in Tokyo, a runner whose baseline metrics were labeled ‘hopeless’…
now standing as an undefeated regional phenom under your guidance!”
“She’s not a phenom,” Kazuma grunted, glaring directly into a TV camera lens with a look of profound, soul-crushing exhaustion that the media immediately interpreted as fierce, protective intensity.
“She’s just a kid who likes running.”
“Incredible…” A senior columnist from *Uma Racing Monthly* shook his head in pure reverence.
“He refuses to let the media hype corrupt her mindset!
He shields her from the weight of history!
But Sensei, look at the timeline!
If she continues this complete, undisputed dominance over the remaining five months of your regional protocol, she won’t just enter the G3 and G2 circuits next season—she will enter them as a terrifying, unstoppable favorite!
Do you believe Haru Urara has the potential to carve her name permanently into the history books of Tracen Academy?!”
Kazuma stared at the reporter.
In his head, the curse words he was directing toward his own Luck stat were so vile, so thoroughly unhinged, that they could have summoned a Demon King.
*History books?!
G3 and G2 terrifying favorite?!* Kazuma screamed internally, clutching his stomach as a sharp, acidic knot of administrative anxiety twisted his intestines.
*Are you people out of your minds?!
If she enters G3 as a favorite, I will have to deal with twenty-four-hour security details!
I’ll have to attend formal galas in a tuxedo!
I’ll have to explain to corporate sponsors why my athlete eats raw carrots off the floor!
I DON’T WANT TO BE A HERO!
I WANT TO BE A FIFTH-PLACE RECESSIVE STATISTIC!*
“I think,” Kazuma said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp as he leaned closer to the microphone, “that everyone needs to stop writing fairy tales and let us go to the locker room.
Her socks are wet.”
The press pen erupted into a sea of murmurs and frantic pen-scratching.
“So grounded!”
“He puts her physical comfort above the narrative!”
“What a masterclass in trainer ethics!
He isn’t training a racehorse—he’s raising a legend with absolute care!”
Beside him, Urara looked up from her steamed bun, her big brown eyes shining with complete, radiant worship.
She grabbed the hem of his damp green jacket, tugging it twice.
“Trainer,” she whispered loudly, her voice picking up clearly on three separate national broadcast microphones.
“The reporters said I’m a hero!
Does that mean we get the cake with the little red berries on top now?!”
Kazuma closed his eyes.
A single, heavy tear of pure financial and administrative despair threatened to leak from his right eye.
“Yes, Urara,” Kazuma muttered softly, his shoulders slumping in total surrender to his fate.
“We’re getting the cake.
We’re getting all the Strawberry roll cake in the prefecture”.
The station concourse was bathed in the warm, amber glow of early evening.
Raindrops still trickled down the massive glass walls of the terminal, but inside, the air was warm, rich with the smell of roasted coffee beans, toasted sugar, and fresh pastries.
Tucked into a quiet corner behind the bookstore was *Café de Flore*, a small, western-style bakery known for its quiet booths and its famous Triple-Layer Strawberry Cream Shortcake.
Kazuma sat in a plush, dark-green velvet booth near the back, his green jacket draped over the chair behind him to dry.
His hair was still slightly damp, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes carried the heavy, bruised dark circles of a man who had fought a war against the cosmos and lost by five lengths.
On the wooden table between them sat a ceramic teapot, a mug of black coffee, and a plate holding a slice of strawberry shortcake so large it looked like an architectural monument.
Fresh, bright red strawberries were embedded in layers of whipped cream and golden sponge cake, topped with a dusting of powdered sugar.
Across from him, Haru Urara was practically glowing.
She had washed the mud off her face and hands in the station restroom, her short pink ears were fluffier than usual, and her pink twin tails were neatly tied back with new ribbons she had bought at the station kiosk.
Her small hands gripped her dessert fork with absolute, solemn reverence.
“Trainer…” she whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the Strawberry roll cake.
“It’s…
it’s a strawberry castle…”
“Eat it before it falls over,” Kazuma grunted, taking a slow, long sip of his bitter black coffee.
Urara didn’t need to be told twice.
She plunged her fork into the top layer, scooping up a massive chunk of sponge, cream, and a whole strawberry.
She stuffed it into her mouth, her eyes instantly snapping shut as a look of pure, transcendent bliss washed over her face.
Her short ears flopped backward in complete surrender, and her pink tail gave a sharp, powerful *thwack* against the plush velvet cushion of the booth.
“Mmmph!
*SO GOOD!*” she squeaked, swallowing with effort before bouncing in her seat.
“Trainer!
It tastes like clouds and sunshine!”
“It tastes like forty-two hundred yen that I had to draw from our emergency equipment fund,” Kazuma grunted, though his eyes softened as he watched her happily scrape every speck of whipped cream off the plate.
He leaned his head back against the velvet headrest, staring up at the warm ceiling lights of the cafe.
His mind was still reeling from the press pen.
The narrative was completely out of his control now.
The entire regional racing world believed he was an unappreciated genius, a tactical mastermind conducting a secret, revolutionary *Zero to Hero* campaign.
The Student Council would undoubtedly have another three inches of paperwork waiting on his desk by Monday morning.
His dream of a quiet, low-stakes, fifth-place lifestyle was taking heavier damage with every passing week.
He hated his Luck stat.
He hated it with every fiber of his being.
It was a chaotic, malicious, over-delivering curse that refused to let him live in peace.
*And yet…*
Kazuma looked sideways at the girl across the table.
Urara was currently using her finger to dab a stray spot of whipped cream off her nose, her small face lit up with a smile so bright, so utterly free of malice, ambition, or burden, that it seemed to make the quiet cafe feel warmer.
She didn’t know about the media narratives.
She didn’t care about the *Zero to Hero* labels or the G3 predictions.
To her, today wasn’t about proving her doubters wrong or carving her name into history books.
Today was just about running as hard as her legs could carry her because she knew the man in the green jacket was standing at the rail, holding his silver watch, waiting to take her out for cake.
Kazuma let out a long, slow breath, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to melt away into the soft jazz music playing over the cafe speakers.
*Maybe…* Kazuma thought, a wry, self-deprecating smirk touching his lips as he took another sip of his coffee.
*…maybe seeing that stupid, giant smile on her face makes all the paperwork slightly less intolerable.
Just a little bit.*
“Trainer?” Urara asked, setting her fork down with a soft clink.
“What?”
“My eyes are getting super heavy…” she yawned, a long, squeaky sound that made her ears droop completely forward over her forehead.
“The cake made my tummy warm, and now my legs feel like cotton balls…”
“We still have a twenty-minute train ride back to the academy,” Kazuma said, pushing his coffee cup aside and sliding out of the booth.
He picked up his dry green jacket, pulling it back over his shoulders, and squatted down beside her seat.
“Get on.
If you fall asleep in the cafe, the manager will charge us a nap fee.”
Urara didn’t complain.
She flopped forward onto his back with the practiced ease of a child, her arms wrapping around his neck, her cheek pressing right against his collarbone.
She smelled like whipped cream, strawberries, and rain.
Kazuma grunted, his knees emitting their usual low click as he stood up, balancing her weight against his hip while grabbing her pink rabbit backpack and his battered blue clipboard in his free hand.
As they stepped out of the warm cafe and walked toward the train platform, the cool evening breeze blew through the station.
Urara’s breathing had already slowed into a deep, rhythmic cadence against his neck.
“Trainer…” she mumbled sleepily, her pink nose twitching against his jacket fabric.
“What is it now?” Kazuma asked quietly, stepping onto the quiet train car and finding a corner seat near the window.
“Next race…” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the electric train doors closing.
“I’m gonna run even faster…
I’m gonna bring you…
ten strawberry cakes…”
Kazuma carefully sat down, adjusting her small body so her head rested comfortably on his lap while her feet stretched out along the plush velvet seat.
He pulled his green jacket off one shoulder, draping it over her like a blanket to keep the cool train draft away from her face.
He looked down at her peaceful, sleeping face, her short pink ears twitching softly in her dreams.
Then he looked out the dark train window, seeing his own tired reflection in the glass.
“Ten cakes, huh?” Kazuma muttered under his breath, a sharp, stubborn, utterly unyielding glint returning to his eyes as the train set off toward Tokyo.
“Dream on, torpedo.”
He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing tightly around his grandfather’s silver pocket watch.
*Niigata Regional Dirt Open is in three weeks,* Kazuma declared to his own reflection, his mind already spinning new algorithms, new breathing ratios, and new tactical barriers.
*Dry track.
Twelve runners.
I don’t care if the media thinks you’re a hero.
I don’t care if the Student Council thinks I’m a genius.
And I don’t care if my Luck stat tries to drop a meteor on the front-runners.*
*Next race, Haru Urara…
you are getting Fifth Place if I have to physically tackle you at the finish line.*
He closed his eyes, resting his head against the glass, feeling the steady, rhythmic *clack-clack* of the train beneath them.
He was exhausted.
His back ached.
His Luck stat was a monster.
His future was a bureaucratic nightmare.
But as the pink-haired girl let out a tiny, contented snore against his knee, Satou Kazuma closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, ready for the next battle.