The human body is a surprisingly adaptable machine—a fact that Satou Kazuma deeply, passionately resented.
It was 5:00 AM on the Tuesday before the race.
The morning air over the secondary dirt loop was brisk, smelling faintly of autumn leaves and damp clay.
Kazuma stood at the outer railing, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.
His lungs didn’t feel like they were full of broken glass anymore.
His hamstrings, while still tight, didn’t emit a sickening strain every time he took a long stride.
He hadn’t magically turned into an Olympic athlete; he was still a twenty-six-year-old former shut-in who preferred fried food and nine hours of sleep.
But after three weeks of forced daily jogging alongside a human-shaped pink torpedo, his body had reluctantly surrendered to the new routine.
His baseline stamina had crept up from “pathetically frail” to “moderately functional.”
“Trainer!
Look!
I’m doing the breathing thing!”
Haru Urara came pacing down the straightaway at a crisp, perfectly regulated clip.
Her small feet beat a precise, rhythmic cadence into the dirt: *patter-patter, patter-patter*.
Her chin was tucked low, her short ears were pinned back slightly to cut through the drag, and her breathing was a steady, rhythmic cycle: *in-in, out-out*.
She wasn’t wildly weaving across the track.
She wasn’t looking at birds.
She was holding a steady, low-intensity pace that kept her heart rate completely stable.
*Look at that,* Kazuma thought, checking his stopwatch.
*Four laps, zero speed spikes, exact lap-time variance within 0.8 seconds.
The girl actually has a motor.
It’s a low-horsepower motor, sure, but it runs as smooth as a fresh Japanese luxury sedan.*
“Good pace!
Keep it locked there!” Kazuma called out, falling into step right beside her on the outer lane for the final two hundred meters.
He didn’t even sound like he was dying.
“Hold that rhythm until the white post, then glide to a walk.”
“Aye-aye, Captain!” Urara chimed, maintaining her form until they crossed the marker, transitioning smoothly into a light stroll.
She wiped a line of sweat off her forehead with her sleeve, grinning ear to ear.
“Trainer, I didn’t see any jelly air today!
The air stayed nice and fluffy!”
“That’s because you didn’t sprint like a maniac in the first thirty seconds,” Kazuma grunted, tossing her a damp hand towel and a small pouch of dried fruit.
“Your baseline stamina is finally holding water.
The bucket still has a few tiny leaks, but it’s not dumping its whole contents on the ground anymore.”
Urara caught the pouch, her pink tail swishing violently with delight.
“Yay!
Leak-proof bucket!”
Before Kazuma could hand her the water bottle, a shadow fell across the dirt track entrance.
A junior student council page—a tall girl with sleek black ears and an official red armband—stepped through the gate, holding a gold-embossed envelope in her gloved hand.
“Satou Kazuma-sensei?” the girl asked, executing a crisp, formal bow.
Kazuma froze, his survival instincts instantly going on high alert.
*Gold embossing?
Official seal?
Did the academy find out I used the staff lounge microwave to heat up canned fish?
Is this a fine?
Am I being audited?*
“That’s me,” Kazuma said cautiously, stepping in front of Urara like a protective, highly suspicious stray dog.
“If this is about the missing garden hose near the annex, I found it like that.”
“President Symboli Rudolf requests your presence in the Student Council Office immediately,” the page stated, handing him the envelope.
“Please report before the third period.”
Ten minutes later, Kazuma stood inside the grand, oak-paneled Student Council Office.
The room smelled of polished mahogany, old leather, and expensive black tea.
Behind a massive carved desk sat Symboli Rudolf, the “Emperor” herself.
Standing to her left was Air Groove, the Council Vice President, holding a thick leather-bound dossier and glaring at Kazuma with an intensity that could melt iron.
Kazuma stood in the center of the room, wearing his slightly faded green tracksuit with the sleeves rolled up, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
He looked less like an elite trainer and more like a guy who had accidentally wandered into a bank vault while looking for the restroom.
*What is this setup?* Kazuma complained inwardly, his mind racing through potential accusations.
*Is this a trial?
Do they know I passed the trainer exam by guessing on ten consecutive multiple-choice questions?
No, my Luck stat made those answers legally correct.
They can’t prove anything!*
“Satou-sensei,” Symboli Rudolf began, her voice smooth, resonant, and carrying the natural weight of an absolute ruler.
She gestured toward a plush leather chair.
“Please, sit.”
“I’ll stand,” Kazuma replied flatly.
“My knees lock up if I sit in fancy chairs after a workout.”
Air Groove’s brow twitched.
“Show some respect in the presence of the President, Satou-sensei.”
“It’s fine, Air Groove,” Rudolf said, raising a slender hand.
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her laced fingers, her sharp amber eyes locking onto Kazuma.
“I will be direct, Satou-sensei.
Your file came across my desk during the post-exam allocation phase.
You scored in the top ninety-eighth percentile on the tactical theory section of the national Trainer Examination.
You passed on your first attempt at the age of twenty-six—a feat achieved by less than three percent of applicants nationwide.”
Kazuma blinked.
*Top ninety-eighth percentile?
Ah.
My Luck stat didn’t just guess those ten questions right…
it gave me the hardest, highest-value essay questions too, didn’t it?
Damn it.*
“Furthermore,” Rudolf continued, tapping her silver pen against the desk, “your background shows no institutional affiliations, no corporate sponsorships, and no family ties to traditional racing stables.
You are, by all metrics, a pure, uncorrupted tactical mind.
A trainer of your caliber could easily have taken on a high-spec rookie—a girl with G1 talent, someone capable of challenging the Triple Crown or the Japan Cup.”
Air Groove opened the thick dossier, reading in a sharp, demanding tone.
“Yet, upon receiving your certification, you bypassed every elite draft, ignored three corporate scouting offers, and explicitly registered a single, unranked runner: Haru Urara.
A girl whose baseline statistics are, frankly, the lowest in the entire academic registry.”
Air Groove set the file down, looking at Kazuma as if he were a complex mathematical puzzle that refused to resolve.
“Why?
What is your true objective, Satou Kazuma?
Are you testing a radical new training methodology?
Are you attempting a publicity stunt?
Or do you see something in her that the entire faculty has missed?”
Kazuma stared at the two highest-ranking students in the academy.
In their minds, they were looking at a brilliant, enigmatic, renegade genius—a master strategist who had deliberately chosen the weakest runner in the academy to prove some profound, revolutionary point about the true nature of racing.
They assumed his calm demeanor was the cold confidence of an elite mind operating on a plane far above normal sports logic.
In reality, Kazuma was internally screaming.
*Genius?!
Strategy?!
I just wanted a quiet job with zero stress!* Kazuma cursed silently, rubbing the back of his neck.
*If I take a G1 runner, I have to deal with intense press conferences, ten different corporate sponsors asking why she isn’t drinking their branded energy juice, and constant pressure to win!
Do you know how much work a Triple Crown campaign is?!
It’s hell!
It’s pure, unadulterated administrative torture!*
He took a slow, deep breath, maintaining his absolute best poker face—a skill honed through two lifetimes of dealing with chaotic situations.
“I don’t care about G1 trophies,” Kazuma said, his voice flat, dry, and entirely devoid of grandiosity.
“And I don’t care about the Japan Cup.
I chose Urara because she’s the only one here who doesn’t give me a headache.”
Air Groove gasped softly, her eyes widening.
Rudolf’s sleek ears twitched forward, her amber eyes shining with intense interest.
“Go on.”
“Elite runners are full of ego, drama, and impossible expectations,” Kazuma continued, stepping forward and speaking with absolute, raw honesty.
“They want glory.
They want legacy.
They want to burn themselves out to prove they’re the best in the world.
I don’t want any of that.
Urara just wants to run, eat snacks, and smile.
She listens to me.
She doesn’t complain when I tell her to slow down.
I am her trainer, and she is my runner.
I’m not taking any other Uma Musume, and I’m not changing my team.”
The room went dead silent.
Air Groove stood frozen, processing his words.
In her mind, she translated Kazuma’s blunt, lazy refusal into something astonishingly noble: *He rejects the superficial glamour of top-tier racing.
He views the obsession with G1 glory as a toxic distraction from the pure, uncorrupted bond between a trainer and an athlete.
He chose Haru Urara not because she was easy, but because her heart is untainted by ambition—making her the ultimate canvas for true sportsmanship.*
“A bond…
unburdened by the weight of expectations,” Air Groove whispered, her sharp stance softening, a look of profound, solemn respect washing over her face.
“You…
you truly intend to walk the hard path with her, without seeking personal fame.”
Rudolf let out a low, quiet chuckle—a sound of immense satisfaction.
She leaned back in her chair, a bright, approving smile gracing her features.
“I see,” Rudolf said, her tone filled with deep warmth.
“A trainer who seeks neither power nor prestige, but simply the pure joy of the track alongside the runner he chose.
You are a rare soul, Satou-sensei.
Tracen Academy is fortunate to have you.”
*Wait, what?* Kazuma thought, blinking in utter confusion.
*Why are you looking at me like I’m a saint?!
I literally just told you I’m too lazy to manage an elite team!*
“We will not detain you any longer,” Rudolf said, bowing her head slightly.
“Go prepare for your race in Kochi, Satou-sensei.
The Student Council will be watching your team’s progress with great interest.”
“Uh…
right.
Thanks,” Kazuma muttered, turning around and walking out of the office as fast as his legs could carry him before they tried to promote him or give him extra work.
As the door clicked shut, Air Groove let out a long breath, adjusting her glasses.
“President…
he is an extraordinary man.
His cynicism is merely a mask to hide a fiercely protective, completely self-sacrificing dedication to that girl.”
“Indeed,” Rudolf agreed, looking out the window toward the training tracks.
“Satou Kazuma understands something many of us forget: the finish line is meaningless if you lose yourself along the way.”
Outside in the hallway, Kazuma leaned his head against the cold plaster wall, groaning loudly into the empty space.
*Why does everyone in this school overthink everything?!* Kazuma screamed in his own head.
*I just want my fifth-place sweet potatoes and my lottery payout!
Is a peaceful, low-effort life really too much to ask for in this universe?!*
The morning of the departure for Kochi arrived with a crisp, clear autumn sky.
Kazuma stood at the local train platform, carrying a battered green duffel bag over his shoulder.
Beside him, Haru Urara was practically vibrating with excitement, wearing a small pink backpack shaped like a rabbit and holding a paper bag containing four homemade sweet potato sandwiches Kazuma had fried the night before.
“Trainer!
The train has big yellow eyes!” Urara squealed, pointing at the regional express engine pulling into the station.
“Is it taking us to the race?!
Is it?!
Is it?!”
“Yes, it’s taking us to the race,” Kazuma said, grabbing her by the hood of her jacket before she could run directly into the side of the slowing train car.
“Stay behind the yellow line, torpedo.
If you fall on the tracks, I’m not pulling you up until I finish my coffee.”
“Hehehe!
Trainer is funny!” Urara giggled, stomping her feet in a joyful little dance.
The trip to Kochi took four hours.
While Urara spent the first two hours staring out the window, shouting every time she saw a cow, a bridge, or a particularly large truck, Kazuma sat in the green velvet seat beside her, his trusty pocket notebook open on his lap, meticulously analyzing the official weather and track condition reports for the Harukaze Maiden Stakes.
*Weather: Clear.*
*Track Condition: Dry Dirt (Fast).*
*Field Size: 12 Runners.*
“Dry dirt,” Kazuma muttered under his breath, scratching his chin with his pen.
“Good.
No mud to slip in.
That keeps the baseline pace predictable.”
He flipped the page to his custom tactical matrix.
In a standard twelve-runner field, achieving a specific rank like **5th Place** was actually a masterclass in chaotic probability.
If Urara ran too slow, she would fall into 11th or 12th place, missing the sweet spot.
If she ran too fast, she would breach the top 3, triggering news coverage, faculty praise, and the horrifying possibility of being assigned a high-profile mentor by the board.
To land precisely in 5th place, Kazuma had calculated that Urara needed to run the 1300-meter dirt oval in exactly **1 minute, 24.5 seconds**.
“It’s a delicate balance,” Kazuma whispered to himself, his eyes narrowing with dark, analytical intensity.
“Runner #3 and Runner #7 are aggressive sprinters; they will burn out by the 800-meter mark and fall back.
Runner #12 is a late-surger who will overtake the trailing pack on the final turn.
If Urara maintains her *in-in, out-out* breathing and holds a steady 13.2-second furlong pace, the natural attrition of the field will automatically deposit her into 5th place like a leaf falling onto a river.”
It was a masterwork of low-stakes tactical engineering.
Supported by his 150-to-1 regional betting slip currently sitting safely in his wallet, Kazuma felt an unprecedented wave of confidence.
*My Luck stat can’t mess this up,* Kazuma reasoned triumphantly.
*Luck gives people what they want, right?
And what I want is a comfortable, modest 5th-place finish!
It’s a completely reasonable, mathematically grounded desire!*
The Kochi Regional Dirt Track was a far cry from the pristine, multi-million-yen facilities at Tracen Academy.
The wooden grandstands were slightly weathered, smelling of fried squid, toasted rice cakes, and old beer.
The dirt loop was a rich, dark brown, bordered by simple white plastic fences.
Yet, despite its modest scale, the air was alive with the raw, earthy energy of local racing enthusiasts, farmers, and families enjoying a sunny afternoon.
Inside the paddock area, Kazuma was helping Urara secure her official race number bib: **Number 5**.
“Look, Trainer!” Urara pointed at the bright pink fabric pinned to her chest.
“It’s a five!
Just like the number on your board!”
“It’s a sign,” Kazuma smirked, patting her shoulder and checking the safety pins one last time.
“The universe is aligning with our strategy.
Remember the plan: open gate, let the crazy girls run ahead, tuck into the slipstream, count your breaths, and cruise across the line in fifth.
What do we do after?”
“Pork belly ramen at the station!” Urara shouted at the top of her lungs, causing two nearby regional trainers to turn and stare in absolute bewilderment.
“Lower your voice, you idiot,” Kazuma grunted, though his lips twitched into a small smile.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his grandfather’s silver pocket watch, and held it up so she could see the scratched glass face.
“I’ll be standing right by the fence at the final turn.
Look for the green jacket and listen for the tick-tock.”
Urara’s pink ears perked up, her big brown eyes shining with absolute, unwavering trust.
She reached out, lightly touching the metal watch with her index finger.
“Okay, Trainer!” she said softly, her voice filled with a calm, happy focus that had been completely absent three weeks ago.
“I’ll run real steady!
Like a clock!”
“Go get ’em, torpedo,” Kazuma said, giving her a gentle nudge toward the paddock tunnel.
As Urara trotted toward the track alongside the eleven other runners, Kazuma walked over to the spectator fence near the final turn.
He leaned his elbows on the wooden rail, pulling his green jacket tight against the afternoon breeze.
Around him, local spectators were chatting casually, clutching their betting programs and drinking hot tea from paper cups.
Nobody knew who Satou Kazuma was.
Nobody cared about his 98th percentile exam scores or his non-existent G1 ambitions.
Here, under the warm Kochi sun, he was just a guy in a dusty jacket watching his runner step onto the dirt.
The twelve horses entered their starting gates.
*Clang!*
The gates burst open with a metallic roar.
“AND THEY’RE OFF!” the track announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers.
“A clean break for the Harukaze Maiden Stakes!
Number 3 blasts out to take an immediate three-length lead, followed aggressively by Number 7!”
Kazuma watched through the light dust cloud.
Just as practiced, Haru Urara didn’t sprint wildly into the lead.
She dropped back smoothly, her short pink ears tucked low, her feet hitting the dirt in a steady, rhythmic cadence: *patter-patter, patter-patter*.
She slotted herself perfectly into the middle pack, sitting comfortably in 7th place behind the heavy draft of the front-runners.
Kazuma checked his pocket watch.
*13.1 seconds for the first furlong.
Perfect.
She’s right on the mark.*
*Tick-tock.
In-in, out-out.*
Through the backstretch, the plan unfolded with terrifying precision.
Number 3 and Number 7, having overexerted themselves in the opening sprint, began to visibly tire, their strides shortening as the dry dirt drained their stamina.
As they drifted wide, the middle pack surged forward naturally.
At the 800-meter mark, Urara effortlessly moved up two positions.
*Position: 5th Place.*
A dark, glorious grin spread across Kazuma’s face.
His heart hammered in his chest with absolute, triumphant thrill.
*It’s happening!* Kazuma cheered inwardly, gripping the wooden rail so hard his knuckles turned white.
*Look at that position!
Look at that pace!
She’s locked into fifth!
The 150-to-1 payout is mine!
The massage chair is mine!
The high-grade carrots are mine!
My Luck stat has finally delivered a normal, sensible, perfect outcome!*
Then, the universe remembered it was dealing with Satou Kazuma.
As the pack entered the final sweeping curve—exactly fifty meters from where Kazuma was standing—disaster struck in the most absurd, statistically impossible manner imaginable.
Runner #2, currently sitting in 2nd place, suddenly took a minor, awkward step on a soft patch of dirt, losing her footing and veering wildly to the outside.
In doing so, she clipped the heels of Runner #4 (3rd place), who stumbled sideways into Runner #1 (1st place).
Within a span of two frantic seconds, the top three runners in the race tangled together in a chain-reaction stumble, drifting wide off the optimal racing line and coming to a near-complete standstill as they regained their balance.
The entire inside rail was suddenly, completely, horrifyingly wide open.
“WHAT A CHAOTIC TURN!” the announcer screamed into his microphone.
“THE LEADERS HAVE DRIFTED WIDE!
THE INSIDE LANE IS COMPLETELY CLEAR!”
Kazuma’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull.
His jaw dropped so low it almost hit the wooden railing.
“NO!
NO!
NO!
STAY IN FIFTH!” Kazuma shrieked at the top of his lungs, completely abandoning his cool, cynical facade.
“DON’T LOOK AT THE INSIDE!
STAY IN THE SLIPSTREAM!
URARA, STOP!”
Urara came sweeping around the final turn.
She didn’t hear the crowd.
She didn’t see the tangled mess of runners drifting wide.
But as she rounded the bend, her brown eyes instinctively locked onto the fence—and there, standing right by the rail in his bright green jacket, screaming frantically while waving an old silver pocket watch in the air, was her Trainer.
To Kazuma, his movement was a desperate, panic-stricken command for her to slow down.
To Haru Urara, seeing her Trainer standing under the bright sun, holding the watch and pointing toward the finish line, was the ultimate signal of love, trust, and absolute encouragement.
Trainer is cheering for me!
Urara’s brain translated instantly, her heart swelling with an overwhelming, radiant burst of pure joy.
He wants me to go all the way to the end!
Her pink ears snapped straight up.
Her tail gave a violent, joyful swish.
Her breathing locked into a powerful, rhythmic surge: IN-IN, OUT-OUT!
“SUPER PINK RACE CAR MODE!” Urara squealed at the top of her lungs.
She didn’t just maintain her pace; she unleashed every single drop of stamina remaining in her leak-proof bucket.
She darted into the wide-open inside lane like a pink lightning bolt, her small feet flying across the dry dirt, passing the tangled, recovering front-runners as if they were standing still.
“LOOK AT NUMBER FIVE GO!” the announcer went absolute wild, his voice cracking over the speakers.
“HARU URARA ACCELERATES THROUGH THE INSIDE!
SHE HAS TAKEN THE LEAD!
UNBELIEVABLE!
HARU URARA IS CLEAR BY TWO LENGTHS!
THREE LENGTHS!”
Kazuma stood at the railing, his face pale, his hands trembling, watching in absolute, horrified slow motion as his modest 5th-place finish, his 150-to-1 betting slip, and his peaceful, low-profile life dissolved into a cloud of pink dust.
“CURSE YOU, YOU EVIL, OVER-DELIVERING LUCK STAT!” Kazuma roared mentally toward the heavens, tears of sheer administrative terror welling in his eyes.
“I WANTED FIFTH!
FIFTH IS A NICE NUMBER!
WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!”
WHOOSH.
Haru Urara crossed the finish line first, her arms thrown wide, her pink twin tails flying in the wind, a giant, radiant, sun-defying smile plastered across her face.
“HARU URARA WINS THE HARUKAZE MAIDEN STAKES!” the announcer thundered over the cheering crowd.
“A STUNNING, UNPRECEDENTED FIRST-PLACE VICTORY FOR TEAM KAZUMA!”
The crowd burst into applause.
Local photographers rushed toward the track entrance with their cameras flashing.
Urara came to a happy, bouncing stop near the winner’s circle.
She turned back toward the fence, waving both hands violently at Kazuma, her eyes sparkling like stars.
“TRAINER!
LOOK!” she yelled, her voice carrying over the roaring crowd.
“WE WON FIRST PLACE!
WE’RE THE BEST!”
Kazuma slowly pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets.
He looked at the winning ticket in his pocket that was now completely worthless.
He looked at the local news cameramen sprinting toward him with microphones.
He thought about the mountain of official victory paperwork, the mandatory regional press interviews, and the impending flood of Tracen faculty phone calls that were about to ruin his sleep for the next six months.
He let out a long, slow, utterly defeated breath.
Then, he looked at Haru Urara—muddy, sweaty, hugging her participation trophy like it was made of solid gold, laughing under the bright autumn sun with a joy so pure it could melt a heart of stone.
Kazuma rubbed the back of his neck, a tired, helpless, utterly affectionate smile breaking through his cynical scowl.
“Damn it, kid,” Kazuma muttered softly, stepping through the track gate to go face the cameras with her.
“You really are terrible at following tactical instructions.”