The cool breeze blowing from the Sea of Japan swept across the Niigata Racecourse, carrying the faint, salty tang of the coast into the Annex team’s temporary prep stable.
Out on the track, groundskeepers were finalizing the damp dirt surface, packing down the clay for the afternoon’s regional open card.
Inside the quiet stall, Satou Kazuma sat on an overturned wooden crate, a pair of digital calipers in one hand and a high-precision torque wrench in the other.
At his feet, Haru Urara was swinging her legs happily from the edge of a grooming bench, her new high-traction running shoes already strapped firmly onto her small feet.
Next to her, Rice Shower sat motionless on a wooden stool, her hands neatly folded in her lap, watching Kazuma inspect every single horseshoe nail with the intensity of a bomb technician defusing a live warhead.
“Trainer…” Rice Shower spoke up softly, her dark horse ears twitching as Kazuma adjusted the third cleat on her left heel.
“Rice’s shoes…
are already tight…
You’ve checked them four times…”
“Four times isn’t enough,” Kazuma grunted without looking up, his mechanical pencil ticking off another line on his laminated safety checklist.
“A loose cleat on wet clay alters foot-strike force distribution by twelve percent.
Twelve percent extra torque on an unconditioned ankle equals an inflammation risk.
An inflammation risk equals an injury.
And an injury equals a pile of medical liability forms four inches thick that I will be forced to fill out by hand.”
Urara giggled, swinging a juice box back and forth.
“Trainer is super picky today!
But he bought us cold pear juice, so it’s okay!”
“Drink your juice and shut up, torpedo,” Kazuma muttered, though his hands remained incredibly gentle as he wiped a stray speck of dirt off Rice’s leather ankle strap.
While Urara’s preparation for the Niigata Dirt Open was already locked in—complete with his meticulously calculated, completely hopeless 4:2 Suppressive Cadence—Kazuma’s mind was currently consumed by a far darker, far more dangerous puzzle sitting right in front of him.
*Rice Shower.*
Over the past week, Kazuma had spent his late nights diving deep into the confidential medical archives of Tracen Academy.
He had bypassed three separate administrative passwords just to read the long-term career histories of high-tier endurance runners.
What he found had chilled his cynical, shut-in blood to the bone.
Unlike Urara, whose low-density muscle structure naturally protected her from pushing past her absolute physical limits, Rice Shower possessed a terrifying, double-edged gift.
She was a pure, high-grade distance runner built with a monstrous, silent spirit.
She had a heart that refused to yield, an endurance threshold that defied human biology, and a hyper-obsessive desire to please those around her.
In the world of horse racing, a girl like Rice Shower was a diamond.
But in Kazuma’s eyes, she was a walking, ticking time bomb.
Because in this world, an Uma Musume who possesses an elite spirit will run even when her tendons are screaming.
She will run through stress fractures.
She will run through torn ligaments.
She will push her body past the point of structural failure just to reach the finish line, to fulfill a promise, or to avoid being a disappointment.
And when an elite runner’s bone shatters under full sprint at sixty kilometers per hour…
her career is instantly, permanently over.
There are no second chances.
There is no magic healing potion.
The track simply takes them, leaving behind a broken dream and a wheelchair.
Kazuma set the torque wrench down on the concrete floor with a heavy *clank*.
He stood up, towering over the small, dark-haired girl.
“Rice,” Kazuma said, his tone dropping into a low, icy, absolute register that instantly cut through the quiet room.
Rice Shower flinched slightly, her deep blue eyes looking up at him with timid wonder.
“Y-Yes, Trainer…?”
“I have spent the last three days searching for your official debut race,” Kazuma said, pulling a folded blue document from his tracksuit pocket and tossing it into her lap.
“I found a 1,800-meter Junior Turf Maiden in Hanshin next month.
The track is flat, the turf is well-maintained, and the field consists entirely of low-tempo pace runners.
It is the safest possible environment for your mechanics.”
Rice’s eyes widened as she clutched the document against her chest.
“My…
my debut…?!
Really…?
Rice gets to run in a real race…?”
“Yes.
But under one absolute, non-negotiable condition,” Kazuma stated, leaning down until his dark, tired eyes were level with hers.
He jabbed a blunt finger against the blue paper.
“Listen to me very carefully, because if you break this rule, I will personally ban you from the Annex track forever.”
Rice swallowed hard, nodding frantically.
“R-Rice is listening!”
“If you feel pain during a race—any pain, whether it’s a twinge in your calf, a sharp pull in your ankle, or a tiny ache in your knee—you stop,” Kazuma declared firmly.
Rice blinked, her horse ears drooping in confusion.
“Stop…?
But…
but in a race…
if you stop…
you lose…
Everyone will be disappointed…
The audience…
the trainers…”
“I don’t give a damn about the audience, and I don’t give a single damn about the race,” Kazuma snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding, cutting off her words like a steel blade.
“I am not a bloodsucking sponsor, and I am not a glory-seeking stable owner.
I don’t run a sweatshop, and I certainly don’t treat my athletes like disposable victory trophies.”
He reached out, his hand settling firmly on top of her dark, wavy hair, giving her head a rough, solid, protective rub that knocked her blue rose accessory slightly askew.
“If you ever find yourself in a Grade 1 race, surrounded by fifty thousand screaming fans, with the whole world watching…
and your leg gives you a single warning sign…” Kazuma growled, a dark, terrifying, incredibly stubborn fire burning in his cynical eyes, “…I will physically jump over the track barrier, run onto the turf, scoop you up over my shoulder like a sack of Chiba sweet potatoes, and carry you off the field myself.
The race can go to hell.
The board can revoke my license.
The media can call me a disgraced coward.
But you will walk home on your own two feet, eat your dinner, and sleep in a warm bed.”
Rice Shower froze.
The prep room went completely silent, save for the distant sound of the track sprinklers outside.
Urara blinked, then smiled brightly, holding up her juice box.
“Yeah!
Trainer is super good at carrying heavy bags!
He carried two giant black bags of peanuts all the way from Chiba!”
Rice Shower looked up at Kazuma’s flat, annoyed, yet fiercely protective face.
The heavy, dark fear that had squeezed her chest for months—the terrifying weight of feeling like a jinx who was forced to run until she broke—simply evaporated into the cool morning air.
Tears welled up in her deep blue eyes, spilling over her soft cheeks, but for the very first time in her life, they weren’t tears of sadness or fear.
They were tears of an overwhelming, profound, unshakeable warmth.
“T-Trainer…” Rice sobbed softly, wiping her nose with her sleeve, her small hands clutching his green tracksuit sleeve with absolute, desperate trust.
“Rice…
Rice promises!
Rice will never hide her pain!
Rice will always tell Trainer!”
“Good,” Kazuma grunted, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and slapping it into her hands.
“Wipe your face.
If you cry any more, people will think I’m abusing my athletes, and Symboli Rudolf will send me another five pages of ethics violation forms.”
Thirty minutes before the start of the Niigata Dirt Open, Kazuma stood alone near the paddock tunnel, leaning his back against the cool concrete wall.
He was sipping his lukewarm barley tea from his thermos, watching the rival trainers lead their high-strung, pristine runners toward the saddling enclosures.
“A truly fascinating philosophy, Satou-sensei.”
Kazuma didn’t even turn his head.
He merely took another sip of tea as Vice President Air Groove stepped out from the shadows of the tunnel entrance, her hands clasped behind her back, her sharp eyes studying his profile with an intense, unreadable warmth.
“You’ve been spying on my prep stall again, Air Groove,” Kazuma deadpanned.
“I’m going to start charging the Student Council a viewing fee.”
“It is my duty to oversee team preparations for regional events,” Air Groove replied smoothly, though a faint, telltale flush touched the tips of her dark horse ears.
She stepped beside him, looking out toward the sunlit turf track in the distance.
“I overheard what you said to Rice Shower.”
“Then you know I’m an incompetent trainer who doesn’t care about victory,” Kazuma grunted, closing his thermos with a sharp *snap*.
“A real elite coach would tell her to push through the pain, sacrifice her body for the glory of Tracen, and bring home a shiny bronze trophy for the school display case.”
Air Groove stayed silent for a long moment.
The autumn wind rustled her hair, bringing the distant roar of the gathering crowd from the grandstands.
“Do you know how many promising runners leave this academy every year, Satou-sensei?” Air Groove asked softly, her voice carrying a deep, heavy sorrow.
“They arrive with bright eyes and grand dreams.
But they push themselves too hard.
They hide their injuries because they are terrified of falling behind.
And one day…
on a turn just like the one out there…
a leg gives out.
A bone snaps.
And their entire world comes crashing down in a single second.”
She turned to face him fully, her dark eyes shining with profound, unfiltered respect.
“In this school, trainers are taught to chase glory.
They are taught to build champions.
But you…
you build a sanctuary,” Air Groove whispered, her heart hammering strangely against her ribs as she looked at his messy hair, his cheap green tracksuit, and his stubbornly straight posture.
“You stand between them and the cruel, hungry expectations of the world.
You act as their shield, even if it means ruining your own reputation.”
“I’m not a shield,” Kazuma scoffed, rolling his shoulders lazily as he shoved his hands into his tracksuit pockets.
“I’m just a guy who hates tragic drama.
If a girl breaks her leg, everyone cries, the mood gets depressing, and I have to spend my weekends visiting hospitals instead of taking naps under the Annex tree.
It’s an absolute logistical nightmare.
Preventing injuries is just basic self-preservation.”
Air Groove let out a soft, breathtakingly gentle laugh—a rare, genuine sound that cut right through his cynical defense.
“You can lie to yourself all you want, Kazuma-sensei,” Air Groove said smoothly, using his actual name instead of his official title for the very first time.
She took a step closer, her horse ears twitching with a quiet, undeniable affection.
“But as long as you are their Trainer…
Rice Shower will never break.
And Urara will never lose her smile.
That is a victory far greater than any Grade 1 trophy.”
Kazuma stared at her, his right eye twitching violently as a sudden, uncomfortable heat rose up his neck.
*Why is she looking at me like that?!* Kazuma’s inner voice shrieked in absolute, blind panic.
*What is with that gentle, heartwarming expression?!
Stop looking at me like I’m a tragic paladin fighting for justice!
I am a NEET!
I am a trashy adventurer who uses Steal on underwear!
Stop romanticizing my laziness!*
“The race is starting,” Kazuma blurted out hastily, turning on his heel and walking toward the paddock exit at a speed that closely resembled a full sprint.
“I have to go stand by the rail and watch Urara execute her glorious Fifth Place!
Don’t follow me!”
Air Groove watched him scurry away, a small, radiant, thoroughly flustered smile remaining on her face long after his green tracksuit disappeared into the crowd.
“A truly hopeless man…” Air Groove whispered to herself, gently touching her own warm cheek.
“…and yet, I cannot seem to look away.”
Out on the Niigata dirt track, the starter’s flag waved in the crisp autumn air.
The twelve gates rattled, the crowds cheered, and Haru Urara shot forward onto the damp clay, her pink twin tails flying in the wind as she locked into her mechanically suppressed, carefully engineered stride.
Standing by the boundary fence, holding his stopwatch and his thermos, Satou Kazuma gritted his teeth, glaring at the track with absolute, stubborn determination.
He didn’t care about the fame.
He didn’t care about the trophies.
He didn’t care about the growing swarm of admirers in the Student Council or the elite dorms.
He was Satou Kazuma.
And as long as he breathed, his girls were going to run free, stay safe, eat their strawberry cakes, and cross every finish line on their own two feet—no matter how many grand plans he had to ruin to make it happen.