The mid-morning sun spilled through the tall glass windows of Tracen Academy’s Class 2-B, casting warm rectangular light across row after row of wooden desks.
Usually, the fifteen-minute break between modern history and athletic biomechanics was filled with loud, chaotic chatter about homework, weekend turf conditions, or the latest shoe releases.
Today, however, an unnatural, dense tension hung over the back corner of the classroom.
Gathered around Haru Urara’s desk were Special Week, El Condor Pasa, Grass Wonder, and King Halo.
Even a few other classmates from neighboring rows were leaning back in their chairs, their horse ears swiveling covertly to catch every single syllable.
In the center of this intense orbit sat Haru Urara, happily swinging her legs under her desk, humming a completely made-up song while using a bright pink pink eraser to clean a smudged picture of a carrot she had drawn on her notebook cover.
“Urara-chan,” Special Week started, her voice hushed, dropping into a dramatic whisper as she rested both hands on Urara’s desk.
Her eyes were wide, practically glittering with an unreadable mixture of awe, confusion, and deep internal restlessness.
“Can we…
can we ask you something really, really important?
About Satou-sensei?”
Urara stopped erasing, looking up with her big, innocent brown eyes.
Her short ears twitched curiously.
“Trainer?
Did he send more peanuts?!
Did they arrive at the dorm?!”
“No, no peanuts, *amiga*!” El Condor Pasa leaned over, adjusting her red mask with a rare, serious expression.
“We want to know about…
your life with him!
Outside of the morning track!
What is he *really* like when the cameras aren’t flashing and the track isn’t muddy?”
King Halo crossed her arms, crossing her legs tightly, trying her absolute best to maintain her aristocratic, elegant composure.
But the faint, persistent blush staining the tips of her ears betrayed her completely.
Ever since the interrogation at the Annex fence earlier that morning, her mind had been a raging storm.
*”Because she’s Haru Urara.
That’s it.”*
Those simple, utterly plain words had echoed in King Halo’s head through three hours of history lectures.
They didn’t make sense.
In the ruthless, high-stakes world of elite racing, trainers selected athletes based on pedigree, muscle fiber distribution, gate acceleration, and potential Grade 1 ROI.
But Satou Kazuma had thrown all of that into a trash can.
He had chosen Urara simply because she existed.
No grand dreams of legend.
No desire for glory.
Just a pure, absolute, almost terrifyingly raw acceptance.
The student council and the girls who witnessed the morning confrontation had sworn a silent pact to keep the interrogation secret from Urara—they didn’t want to burden her innocent heart with heavy adult politics—but the sheer, absurd honesty of his answer was driving them insane.
They *had* to verify it.
They needed to know if the man was truly that pure, or if he was just an unimaginable weirdo.
“Urara-chan,” Grass Wonder spoke up gently, her voice smooth but carrying a subtle, probing intensity.
“When you two are alone at the Annex…
what does Satou-sensei talk about?
Does he ever speak about his dreams?
About the future?
About making you a champion?”
Urara tilted her head so far to the left her pink twin tails nearly touched her shoulder.
She tapped her chin with her pencil, taking the question with utmost, deadly seriousness.
“Hmmmm…” Urara pondered deeply, her forehead scrunching up.
“Dreams?
Trainer talks about dreams a lot!”
The entire group leaned in simultaneously.
Five pairs of horse ears pinned forward in absolute, breathless anticipation.
“Really?!” Special Week gasped, clutching her hands to her chest.
“What does he say?!”
“He says his ultimate dream is to sleep for twelve hours without anyone knocking on his door!” Urara declared proudly, holding up a finger.
“And then he says if he wins the local lottery, he’s gonna buy a giant green couch that turns into a bed so he doesn’t even have to walk to his room!”
A heavy, stunned silence descended upon the group.
El Condor Pasa blinked behind her mask.
“That…
that is not an athletic vision, *amiga*.
That is the life plan of a lazy sloth.”
“What else?!” King Halo pressed, leaning over the desk, her voice rising in pitch.
“What about when you lose a time trial?!
What about when you mess up your stride?!
Does he yell?
Does he give you long, dramatic speeches about overcoming your limits?!”
“Nope!” Urara giggled, waving her hands.
“When I trip over my own feet, Trainer just sighs super loud, like a big old steam engine *PFFFFFFF!* Then he pulls a juice box out of his green jacket, hands it to me, and tells me to sit on his bench while he fixes my shoes.
Then he grumbles about how his knees hurt and calls the track ‘a torture field for middle-aged men’!”
Special Week’s jaw slowly dropped.
“He…
he doesn’t get mad?
Even when you lose?”
“Never!” Urara smiled, her eyes shining with that absolute, unshakeable warmth that made everyone’s chest ache.
“Trainer says as long as I don’t break my bones and my tummy is full, every race is a good race!
Oh!
But he gets super mad when the store runs out of strawberry cream rolls!
Last week, he stared at the bakery lady for three whole minutes with scary monster eyes because someone bought the last roll!”
Grass Wonder closed her eyes, letting out a quiet, trembling exhale.
It was true.
Everything he had said at the fence wasn’t a clever performance to impress Symboli Rudolf or Air Groove.
It wasn’t a carefully crafted psychological strategy.
Satou Kazuma was genuinely, fundamentally, utterly honest.
He didn’t care about the prestige of Tracen.
He didn’t care about turning Urara into a G1 weapon.
He treated her not as a sports machine to be refined, but simply as a little girl who deserved to run freely and eat cake afterward.
In an academy drowning in intense pressure, expectations, and cutthroat rivalry, his existence was bizarre, alien…
and painfully, dangerously beautiful.
“He really…
just cares about you…” Special Week whispered, her heart fluttering with a sudden, overwhelming wave of jealousy and admiration.
“Just…
as you are…”
“Yep!” Urara beamed, completely unaware of the romantic, existential existential crisis she was inflicting on her classmates.
“Trainer is the best!
Even if he’s always grumbling and complaining that his back aches, he always carries my big carrot plushie when my arms get tired!”
Across the classroom, King Halo slowly sank back into her chair, covering her burning face with both hands.
Her heart was beating so fast she felt dizzy.
*He’s an idiot,* King Halo thought, her mind spiraling into complete, chaotic ruin.
*A lazy, cynical, tracksuit-wearing idiot who only cares about strawberry rolls and naps…
so why…
why does hearing him talk like that make my heart pound so hard?!*
*ACHOO!*
A violent, thunderous sneeze echoed through the quiet corridors of the Tracen Academy Administrative Building.
Satou Kazuma slammed his forehead against his wooden desk, scattering a stack of newly printed budget forms across his floor.
He pulled a crumpled tissue from his green jacket pocket, aggressively blowing his nose until his nostrils were bright red.
“Dammit…” Kazuma cursed, rubbing his nose with the back of his sleeve, his dark eyes watering from the sudden nasal assault.
“Who is talking about me now?!
Is it that crazy blue-haired goddess from my old life trying to curse me from the afterlife, or is it another group of over-enthusiastic journalists?!”
*ACHOO!*
He sneezed a second time, slamming his fist onto his desk in pure, unadulterated rage.
“Curse them!
Curse all of them to the lowest depths of hell!” Kazuma shrieked internally, his mind exploding into a chaotic storm of paranoid fury.
He slumped back into his squeaky office chair, clutching his head with both hands.
His newly improved, upright posture completely collapsed back into his iconic, miserable NEET slouch as he glared viciously at the closed window of his office.
*It’s the sports media!* Kazuma concluded in his mind, his inner voice roaring with absolute conviction.
*It has to be!
Those bloodsucking, tabloid-writing vultures from National Sports Graphic are at it again!
They’re probably typing up a four-page article right now titled ‘The Secret Genius of Satou Kazuma: How a Mystery Trainer Unlocked the Dirt Torpedo’!*
He practically bit his own tongue in anger, grinding his teeth together so hard his jaw ached.
*”GENIUS?!”* Kazuma screamed in the dark, frantic void of his soul.
*”I’M NOT A GENIUS!
I’M A LAZY GUY WHO WANTS A FIFTH-PLACE STIPEND AND A NINE-HOUR NAP!
STOP WRITING INSPIRATIONAL FAIRY TALES ABOUT ME!
STOP CREATING EXPECTATIONS!
EVERY TIME YOU PEOPLE PRINT MY NAME IN A MAGAZINE, SYMBOLI RUDOLF HANDS ME ANOTHER FOUR INCHES OF FINANCIAL DISCLOSURE FORMS!”*
He looked down at his desk.
Sitting beside his computer was a fresh, white envelope bearing the official gold seal of the Tracen Board of Directors.
He didn’t even need to open it to know what it was.
It was an official inquiry regarding the upcoming **Niigata Regional Dirt Open**.
The board was “graciously inquiring” whether Team Kazuma intended to submit an early application for the Autumn Grade 3 Dirt Sprint circuit if they secured a third consecutive victory.
“G3…” Kazuma whimpered out loud, his face turning three different shades of ghostly white.
“They’re already eyeing G3…
My peaceful life is burning to ashes right before my eyes…”
He stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth across his small office like a trapped animal.
His brain, wired by years of surviving life-or-death situations through stubbornness and sheer pettiness, immediately began constructing a new, defensive strategy.
*No,* Kazuma growled, his eyes narrowing into two sharp, dangerous slits of pure malice.
*I refuse to be dragged into G3.
I refuse to attend black-tie galas.
I refuse to give speeches to corporate sponsors while wearing a uncomfortable suit!
Niigata is the line in the sand!*
He grabbed a red marker and aggressively circled the Niigata track diagram pinned to his wall.
*The 4:2 Suppression Cadence WILL work this time!* Kazuma vowed bitterly, stabbing the red marker against the paper until the felt tip squished.
*I don’t care if the track turns to gold!
I don’t care if the other eleven runners suddenly decide to take a mid-race nap!
I will personally design a stride-limiting rhythm so restrictive, so mathematically suppressed, that Urara will cross that finish line in FIFTH PLACE if it’s the last thing I do on this earth!*
He tossed the marker onto his desk, collapsed back into his chair, and rested his chin against his folded hands, looking like a dark lord plotting the downfall of a kingdom.
He was completely, gloriously, utterly blind to reality.
He didn’t know that the sneezes racking his body weren’t coming from sports journalists or tabloid writers.
They were coming from Class 2-B, where a dozen elite Uma Musume were currently swooning over his pure, unconditional devotion to Urara.
He didn’t know that Vice President Air Groove was currently in the student council breakroom, staring blankly at a teacup while her ears twitched in constant, flustered panic.
And he certainly didn’t know that President Symboli Rudolf was currently reviewing a stack of transfer applications from top-tier runners who were begging to leave their elite stables just to join “Team Kazuma.”
He thought his biggest enemy was a G3 racing invitation and a bad Luck stat.
“Let them talk,” Kazuma growled aloud to his empty room, a dark, petty smirk returning to his face as he reached for his thermos.
“Let the media print their rumors.
Let the board send their letters.
In two weeks, at Niigata, I will deliver the most gloriously mediocre Fifth Place in athletic history, and then I am going to sleep for three straight days.”
He took a long, triumphant sip of cold barley tea, completely satisfied with his own genius, blissfully unaware that the trap around his peaceful life wasn’t just closing—it was about to explode into a nationwide phenomenon.