Satou Kazuma wanted to lie down in the dust and let a steamroller run over his head.
The roar of the Kochi Regional crowd was a deafening wall of sound, but to Kazuma, it sounded like the funeral knell for his peaceful, stress-free life.
His hands hovered near his pockets, clutching the useless, crumpled betting slip that was supposed to net him four hundred and fifty thousand yen for an exact fifth-place finish.
Instead, he was currently being dragged toward the podium by a hundred-and-ten-pound pink torpedo who was bouncing so hard her sneakers barely made contact with the earth.
“Trainer!
Trainer!
Look at the big shiny cup!” Haru Urara squealed, pointing wildly toward a gold-plated trophy that was almost as tall as her torso.
“They gave us a cup!
And a certificate!
And look, there’s a guy with a giant camera!”
“I see him, Urara,” Kazuma muttered, his voice hollow, his soul hovering somewhere three feet outside his body.
“I see all forty of them.”
The press pen was an absolute mob.
Local sports journalists, regional racing correspondents, and even a scout from the national *Uma Musume Weekly* magazine had descended upon the track apron like a swarm of hungry locusts.
A maiden race in a quiet prefecture wasn’t supposed to draw this kind of attention, but the narrative unfolding before their eyes was pure, unadulterated media gold.
Haru Urara—the girl with the worst entrance time trials in Tracen Academy history, the runner every senior trainer had quietly written off as a hopeless novelty—had just swept her debut race by three full lengths.
And standing right beside her, wearing a dusty, sweat-stained green tracksuit that looked like it belonged in a secondhand bin, was the twenty-six-year-old rookie trainer who had pulled off the miracle in less than a month.
*Why?* Kazuma screamed internally, his eyes twitching as a barrage of camera flashes blinded his left retina.
*Why does my Luck stat hate me so much?!
Is it a crime to want a quiet life?!
I did the math!
I calculated the drag!
I picked the optimal furlong pace!
All those three girls had to do was run in a straight line, but no!
My Luck stat had to bend the laws of physics, trip the entire front pack, and catapult this idiot straight into first place!*
“Satou-sensei!
Over here!
Please look at camera three!” a reporter shouted, thrusting a foam-covered microphone directly into Kazuma’s face.
“An incredible, dominant victory!
What was your strategy going into the final turn?
Did you anticipate the front-runners drifting wide?”
Kazuma stared blankly into the camera lens.
The sheer depth of his despair was so profound that it manifested as an aura of stone-cold, enigmatic stoicism.
“I told her to stay in fifth,” Kazuma said flatly.
“She didn’t listen.”
The journalist blinked, then burst into an enthusiastic, admiring laugh.
“Hahaha!
A masterful piece of understatement!
You allowed her to run free!
You trusted her instincts when the gap appeared!”
*No, I wanted the money for the massage chair,* Kazuma wept in the dark, silent cavern of his mind.
*I wanted to eat station ramen in peace.
Now I have to fill out sixteen pages of victory verification forms and pay a regional winning tax.*
“Satou-sensei!” another journalist piped up, shoving a notepad forward.
“Tracen Academy records show that Urara-chan had zero contract offers during draft week.
Many senior trainers openly stated her stamina was a lost cause.
Yet, under your guidance for a mere three weeks, she displayed flawless breathing control and an explosive turn of foot!
What secret training regimen did you employ?
High-altitude simulation?
Custom caloric balancing?”
Kazuma looked down at Urara, who was currently trying to see her own reflection in the side of the reporter’s shiny camera lens, completely unaware of the tactical interrogation happening above her head.
“We jogged,” Kazuma said, his tone dripping with deadpan exhaustion.
“And I fed her dried sweet potatoes so she wouldn’t stop to talk to birds.”
The press corps went completely silent for two seconds, before a chorus of furious pen-scratching erupted across the crowd.
“Sensational…” a veteran scout whispered, his eyes wide with reverence.
“A return to core fundamentals!
He stripped away the over-engineered modern telemetry and focused purely on psychological trust and instinctive motivation!
He didn’t force her into a rigid mold—he met her at her level!”
“Satou-sensei!” a young female reporter asked, her eyes shining with genuine emotional weight.
“Many trainers blame their athletes’ baseline genetics when results fall short.
But your victory today proves something profound, doesn’t it?
That there are no useless or failed Uma Musume—only trainers who lack the empathy, patience, and competence to unlock their true potential!”
Kazuma’s mouth opened slightly.
*Wait, what?
Where did you even pull that philosophical garbage from?!
I just bribed her with root vegetables so I wouldn’t have to run twelve kilometers!*
“Look at him…” the reporter whispered to her cameraman, catching the quiet, dumbfounded look on Kazuma’s face and misinterpreting it as deep, humble reflection.
“He isn’t taking an ounce of credit for himself.
He puts the runner first.
What an inspiring young man.
He’s going to revolutionize the way junior trainers view their responsibilities!”
“Satou-sensei, what is your next objective?!” another voice called out.
“Are you aiming for the Regional Dirt Crown?!
The National Series?!”
Kazuma took a long, slow breath, closing his eyes as his stomach turned into a cold knot of administrative dread.
He could already hear the phone in his office ringing off the hook.
He could already see Symboli Rudolf giving him that terrifying, approving nod.
His dream of a lazy, low-profile career was officially dead, buried, and cremated under a mountain of unwanted media acclaim.
“My next objective,” Kazuma said, his voice trembling slightly with suppressed agony, “is to go to the station, eat pork belly ramen, and sleep for eighteen hours.
Please step away from the podium.”
“So grounded!
So humble!
A true sportsman!” the crowd cheered, as the flashbulbs exploded in a blinding wall of white light.
Beside him, Haru Urara grabbed the hem of his dusty green jacket, pulling it gently.
She looked up at him, her pink ears twitching happily, her big brown eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered adoration.
“Trainer,” she whispered, her smile wider than the Kochi sky.
“We did it!
We really did it!”
Kazuma looked down at her, the cold, miserable weight in his chest slowly giving way to an exasperated, helpless warmth.
He reached out, his hand settling on her head, messing up her twin tails without a care for the cameras catching the moment.
“Yeah, yeah, torpedo,” Kazuma grunted softly.
“We did it.
Now help me carry this stupid trophy before my back gives out.”
The local train back to the academy was quiet, save for the rhythmic *clack-clack, clack-clack* of the steel wheels against the rails.
In the corner booth of the regional car, Haru Urara was fast asleep.
Her head rested against Kazuma’s left shoulder, her short pink ears flopping limply over her forehead.
In her arms, wrapped tightly like a precious blanket, was the golden Harukaze Maiden Stakes trophy.
Every few minutes, she would let out a tiny, contented snore, her tail giving a faint, subconscious twitch against the plush green seat.
Kazuma sat frozen, staring out the window at the dark countryside slipping past.
His left arm was completely numb from acting as a pillow for the past two hours, but he didn’t dare move and wake her up.
In his right hand, he held his smartphone.
The screen was glowing brightly in the dim cabin, displaying the official Tracen Academy Intranet Portal.
The front page was an absolute disaster zone.
**[SPECIAL BULLETIN: UNRANKED ROOKIE HARU URARA CLAIMS DEBUT VICTORY IN KOCHI!]**
**[ARTICLE: “NO FAILED RUNNERS” — TRAINER SATOU KAZUMA’S REVOLUTIONARY PHILOSOPHY STUNS REGIONAL CIRCUIT.]**
**[FACULTY FORUM: 142 NEW UNRead MESSAGES FROM SENIOR TRAINERS REQUESTING TACTICAL CONSULTATIONS.]**
Kazuma closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the seat, groaning in total silence.
*It’s over,* Kazuma thought bitterly, inwardly weeping.
*My life is completely ruined.
The entire faculty thinks I’m some kind of saintly sports philosopher.
Senior trainers are going to ask me for seminars.
The board is going to offer me budget upgrades.
Do you know what budget upgrades mean?!
They mean audits!
They mean receipts!
They mean I can’t buy carrots at the local market lottery stand anymore without filing a seventeen-page requisition form!*
He looked down at his phone again.
There was a direct message from the Student Council Office, signed personally by Air Groove:
> *Satou-sensei.
The President and I watched the live broadcast from Kochi.
Your runner’s tactical execution was exemplary, but more than that, your post-race interview has sparked a profound discussion among the faculty regarding trainer accountability and athlete empathy.
President Rudolf extends her highest commendations.
Please report to the main office on Monday to discuss your team’s expanded budget allocation and race calendar.*
>
“Expanded budget allocation…” Kazuma whispered, feeling a physical pain in his spleen.
“That’s just code for ‘more work.’ They’re going to make me enter Grade 3 races.
They’re going to make me buy custom turf shoes.
I’m going to have to run eight kilometers a day just to keep up with her new baseline!”
He looked at his Luck stat in his mind, cursing it with every curse word he had learned across two lifetimes.
*You couldn’t just give me fifth place, could you?
You had to go and turn me into an inspirational icon.
I hate you.
I hate you so much.*
“Mmm…
Trainer…”
Urara stirred softly in her sleep, her nose rubbing against the sleeve of his green jacket.
She let out a small, sleepy sigh, clutching the heavy gold trophy closer to her chest.
“Pork belly…
extra bamboo shoots…”
Kazuma stopped his internal cursing.
He looked down at her small, dirt-smudged face.
He remembered the first day he had seen her—sitting face-first in the soil of the secondary dirt loop, covered in mud, laughed at by the junior students, completely alone in a school designed for champions.
He remembered her crooked signature on the contract, her wild, uncontrolled sprints that burned her out in thirty seconds, and the way her eyes had lit up over a simple slice of dried sweet potato.
She hadn’t won because he was a tactical genius.
She hadn’t won because of some revolutionary sports philosophy.
She had won because, for the first time in her life, someone had stood by the fence, held a scratchy silver watch, and told her that she didn’t need to be a monster to deserve a place on the track.
She had run because she trusted him.
And when the gap had opened on that final turn, she hadn’t run for glory or trophies—she had run straight toward the man in the dusty green jacket who promised her ramen.
Kazuma let out a long, slow breath.
The frustration in his chest didn’t disappear—he was still deeply, profoundly annoyed about losing his 150-to-1 lottery payout—but the sharp edge of his misery softened into something warm, quiet, and hopelessly resigned.
He carefully shifted his weight, reaching out with his right hand to pull the small wool blanket over her shoulders, tucking it neatly around her pink ears so the draft from the train window wouldn’t catch her.
“Sleep tight, you troublesome torpedo,” Kazuma muttered softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.
“Enjoy the victory now.
Because starting Monday, I’m making you do twice as many planks for ruining my fifth-place payout.”
Urara didn’t wake up, but as if hearing his voice in her dream, her pink tail gave two quick, happy taps against the velvet cushion.
Outside the window, the dark fields gave way to the twinkling distant lights of Tokyo.
The road ahead was no longer quiet.
It was going to be noisy, chaotic, filled with intrusive reporters, pushy faculty members, and high-stakes expectations that Kazuma had spent twenty-six years trying to avoid.
He was going to complain every single morning.
He was going to curse his sore knees, groan about the early alarms, and threaten to eat her snacks in front of her face every time she stopped to look at a bug.
But as Kazuma settled back into his seat, letting his head rest against the window frame while the pink-haired girl slept peacefully against his shoulder, he knew one thing for certain.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Team Kazuma was just getting started.