The Lasting Impact of Uma Musume is Deep, as Expected

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Sleep relinquishes its hold as I rise from it, the gloom of the room confirming that dawn has yet to grace the horizon. The clock's digits mark 04:30 with uncompromising clarity, a reminder that idleness finds no refuge here. I shift onto my side, exhaling in a measured breath that steadies the body — spine, shoulders, limbs, and even the faint twitch of my tail aligning into order.

Each muscle releases in turn beneath the stretch, a controlled indulgence permitted only for an instant, before duty will summon them back into taut command.

The bunk beneath me protests in a muted creak, but I allow no distraction; silence returns, as it must, when discipline dictates the hour.

I rise with measured intent, the quiet movement betraying no hesitation, and let my gaze fall upon the upper bunk. The girl there is slight — her frame narrow, her stature modest even by human measure, markedly diminished when set against my own. Sleep softens her outline, yet the thinness of her form is plain, angles etched even in repose. Strands of black hair spill without order across the pillow, save for one that juts upward, stubbornly unyielding — a small rebellion against symmetry, as though the very notion of discipline eludes her.

For now, her breathing flows evenly, her features eased into stillness. The usual torrent of chatter and ceaseless motion — that irrepressible liveliness that unsettles as much as it amuses — lies absent. In this rare quiet, she appears almost delicate, as though stripped of the force that defines her waking hours. I permit myself a moment's regard for the silence she so rarely bestows.

I step down from the bunk and set aside a fresh set of clothes — crop top and bloomers, garments chosen not for ornament but for function. The day begins as it must: with training. Legs, arms, and core, all honed without exception. Routine is no indulgence; it is necessity. Discipline preserves, conditioning sustains, and only through such rigor does one remain equal to the demands placed upon her.

The bundle of fabric rests beneath my arm as I ease the door open. The faint click of the latch resounds far louder than it should in the hush, and I pause before moving on. Each step toward the bathroom is precise, my tread light upon the boards. To disturb another's rest would be needless, and I have no inclination toward such carelessness. I remain, after all, a guest here — afforded space, yet never entirely belonging within it.

Though that is not the whole of it. To the adults, I am no more than tolerated presence, acknowledged yet set aside. But to my roommate, and to the boy in the adjoining room, I stand as something else entirely — a figure entwined with their days since kindergarten, a constant within their small histories. That bond, more than courtesy or obligation, is what secured their willingness to aid me.

Chiba does not sit conveniently beside Tokyo, yet the train shortens the distance to a mere half hour — assuming, of course, one arrives at the station on time.

I could walk the half hour required to arrive there, but efficiency dictates a simpler course. A certain human, useful whether by choice or not, can be relied upon. He will draw out his bicycle, settle into the seat, and bear me there without complaint worth noting.

He may wish to insist that it is not generosity but reluctant obligation that guides him.

I know better.

It is the quiet steadiness of his nature, the kind of unspoken reliability that repeats itself without fail.

For me, it is convenient. For him, it may be a burden unspoken, yet I see in it a steadiness that earns my regard. It is a reliability I value, and though he would never name it kindness, I know it as such.

I lay the clothes upon the narrow counter — a cropped top and bloomers, fabric thinned with use yet suited for what matters. They are light, yielding, chosen for function rather than display. I strip away the garments worn to bed, the action smooth, ingrained by countless mornings. There is no hesitation in it, no indulgence — only the practiced efficiency of routine.

The bloomers come first. I draw them up along my legs, pausing to guide my tail through the reinforced opening at the back. The cut is pragmatic, the stitching firm, the width sufficient to grant the tail its freedom without straining the seams. Once in place, the waistband rests with even pressure across my hips, the fit secure and balanced as intended.

The crop top follows. Cotton slips across my shoulders as I settle it, the fabric close enough to remain steady through motion yet never so tight as to impede the breath or the stretch. I roll my shoulders once, let the tail flick behind me — small tests, but they confirm the fit. There is no glamour in such attire, only design serving its function. Every stitch exists to move with me, never against me, and that suffices.

The bathroom mirror caught me as I adjusted the waistband, a final tug settling the opening neatly around the base of my tail. The fabric smoothed over my hips without pinch or slack, while the crop top left the midsection bare as intended. Not attire for ornament. Attire for movement.

My eyes lingered on the reflection. The ears set atop my head, the tail swaying behind me—those alone would identify me as uma. Yet what I looked for lay beneath. At rest, the outline could seem almost gentle, the surface too smooth, deceptively soft. To a careless glance, it might even suggest fragility.

I shifted. A turn of stance, the lift of an arm, and the illusion dissolved. The bicep hardened under the skin, the stomach tightened, and the lines of the core sharpened. My thighs bore their own truth, carrying the strength carved into them by endless laps and drills, the hours of work that demanded more than comfort ever would.

A flick of my tail dismissed the doubt. I studied what looked back not with vanity, but with recognition. Every contour, every trace of definition, spoke of training layered upon training, discipline laid down day after day. The body remained smooth at a glance, but beneath that surface was steel. This was not a gift. I earned it through my blood, sweat and tears.

---

Today is not merely another sunrise. It is the opening act of my reign—the day that we get to meet our trainers of Tracen Academy, the other half of the crucible where Umamusume are polished into champions. The air itself seems to hum, charged with the blend of excitement and unease that clings to all who step onto this path. Yet for me, it is not uncertainty. It is expectation.

This is no trivial formality. Trainers and Umamusume are not thrown together by chance; we choose, and we are chosen. They seek out those in whom they see potential, and we, in turn, judge whether they are worthy of guiding us toward glory. It is a union of conviction. For others, it may be daunting. For me, it is an opportunity—one more step toward the Twinkle Series, the only stage fit for a queen.

I feel my thoughts begin to spiral, pulled too far into the depths of what lies ahead, when a voice cuts through and pulls me back to the present.

"Xina-nee!"

The warning is scarcely a breath before the collision—small arms and boundless energy crashing into me with all the determination her little frame can summon.

I brace against the impact and tilt my gaze downward, met by the impish grin of a girl who's turned mischief into a craft. Her dark brown hair, so deep it nearly mirrors midnight, sways with her movements, the single white strand across her bangs gleaming like a flourish she alone could wear. Lately she has been restless, forever seeking new ways to tame or adorn that mane, and today her chosen weapons are blue ribbons. They defy her hands, of course, but the stubborn persistence with which she threads them in gives her more charm than any polished finish ever could.

She is hopelessly endearing in moments like these. Too young still for middle school, four years behind me, and yet she brims with a tireless energy that spills into everything she does.

Her blue eyes shine like jewels, wide and brimming with mischief, and the grin curling across her face carries that feline sharpness that forever keeps me guessing—whether she plots some scheme or is simply overjoyed to be at my side. Such is Vivlos, my imouto: innocence and impishness woven together into one irrepressible little being.

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself as I reach out, fingers sinking into her unruly hair. My hand falls into a familiar cadence of headpats, each stroke sending her into peals of delighted laughter. She leans against me, her small body nearly quivering with glee. And why should she not?

To her eyes, today is the dawning of my ascent as a runner—a moment that transforms the ordinary into something radiant, a cause grand enough to celebrate with all her boundless spirit.

"You're going to start winning, Xina-nee?" Vivlos chirps, her words bubbling with unfiltered excitement.

The corner of my mouth lifts; I'm ready to answer with the certainty she expects, when another voice slips between us—cooler, edged with fatigue.
"Nee-chan's only starting her training with a trainer today, Vivi."

My gaze turns toward the source. There she stands, a year above Vivlos, her presence quiet but unmistakable. Chestnut hair cropped short, the white blaze across her bangs cutting bold and clean, set against the lighter tone of her coat. She looks touched by the sun in a way neither Vivi nor I could claim, yet for all that brightness, there is no warmth in her words, only the weary caution of one who has already measured the world differently.

This is my other imouto, Cheval Grand. Where Vivlos charms through unrestrained energy, Cheval holds her worth in the opposite manner—so intent on seeming grave and composed, so determined to present herself as the elder spirit among us. And yet, it is precisely that effort, the earnestness etched into every gesture, that renders her all the more precious. What she believes lends her dignity only deepens her adorableness in my eyes.

"Vivi's merely excited on my behalf, Chevi," I answer with deliberate patience, letting the words fall as if to soothe her. Yet I am not so merciful as to stop there. With Vivlos still latched to my side, I step forward and draw Cheval into my arms as well. Her slight frame stiffens the instant I close around her, horror flashing across her features as though my embrace were some dreadful fate. She struggles not against me, but against her own betraying heart, trapped in that space between my affection and her refusal to yield to it.

Cheval Grand writhes just enough to keep her dignity intact, her shoulders rigid, her face fixed into the mask of composure she so desperately clings to. It is obvious to me she has no true desire to flee—merely the wish to believe she endures this with lofty tolerance rather than relishing it in secret.

When at last, I ease my hold, she breathes out a weighty sigh of relief. It lasts only a heartbeat before Vivlos springs upon her, relentless, denying Cheval Grand even that moment to collect and compose herself.

"This is fantastic! I hope Xina-nee gets some super handsome trainer," Vivlos chirps, her words spilling over with boundless enthusiasm.

Unlike our imouto's clinging embrace, this earns only a groan from Cheval, heavy with exasperation. "Xina-Nee shouldn't want handsome," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose as though she carries the weight of the world. "Xina-nee should want an experienced trainer."

They are trying to show me they care, in their own unique ways.

"What I want, and what fate will grant, are rarely the same," I reply with a low hum, letting the truth linger in the air a moment before sweeping it aside. My hand lifts in a casual but commanding gesture. "Now then—breakfast awaits. Come, both of you."

"Nee-chan," Cheval Grand interjects, her tone sharpened by that ever-present sense of responsibility, "you might have finished your training, but neither Vivi nor I have."

Her words strike true enough; I cannot deny them. To push into training straight after a meal would indeed be folly. Yet when I glance to the clock and see the hands resting at six precisely, I cannot help the thought that their day should already be in motion. For me, dawn is the call to stride forward. For them, it still seems an hour to linger.

"Oh?" I let amusement lace my tone, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at my lips. "Then perhaps the two of you should accompany me for a second round of training. Just half an hour—what do you say?"

Vivlos all but erupts at the suggestion, her fist shooting skyward as she unleashes a cheer, eyes blazing with unrestrained fire. She shines with a vitality that borders on reckless, every inch of her vibrating with the thrill of the challenge.

Beside her, Cheval Grand collapses into the role of tragic heroine, her head bowing as though crushed by some invisible weight. Her arms hang slack, her entire frame steeped in theatrical despair, as if I had pronounced a sentence too cruel for this world.

What a drama queen.

---

My morning didn't start so much as it was violently interrupted. One moment, I was enjoying the sweet, responsibility-free void of sleep. The next, something heavy crashed onto my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs in a pathetic wheeze.

"Haaachimaaaan," a familiar, whiny voice drawled. "Make me breakfast."

Of course. It was her. The source of the disruption, draped over me as if my torso was her personal futon. My senses, dragged kicking and screaming into consciousness, were assaulted by the lingering smell of a hard workout. It clung to her like a badge of honour, and to me like a punishment.

Her red eyes were already open and sharp, a stark contrast to her lazy posture. It was a deliberate, irritating mismatch. "Haaachimaaaan," she repeated, nudging her head against my stomach with just enough force to be annoying. "Breakfast."

"Take a bath first," I managed to croak, prioritizing oxygen over diplomacy. "You stink."

A dangerous shift in the atmosphere. Her eyes narrowed. "I stink?"

"Of a workout," I clarified, words tumbling out in a rush. "An hour, at least. You were supposed to sweat. Mission accomplished." My survival instincts, at least, were functional.

She seemed to accept this, a smug look on her face. "Safe, Hachiman. Safe."

"If you crush me, who makes your breakfast?" I muttered, clinging to the flimsy shield of logic. It wouldn't save me if she ever got serious—this is the same girl who treats gym plates like modeling clay—but it was all I had.

I must have been thinking something unflattering, because her tone went cold. "You're not thinking something uncharitable about me, are you, Hachiman?"

Time for a tactical retreat. I scowled. "If you don't get off me, I'll have to air out my entire bed to get rid of that smell." A half-truth, but a useful one.

"Alright, alright," she whined, pushing herself off me with a complete disregard for my personal space. "I'll take a bath. But you can't blame me for being excited."

I managed to sit up, my spine groaning in protest. "Yes. I can."

"Hey! Today's the day you become my trainer," she announced, as if this was a great honor.

...What? The word hung in the air. Trainer? I don't remember applying for a career change.

"How did you even get Tracen to approve that?" I muttered. I definitely attended Sobu High's opening ceremony this year.

She just giggled, a light, airy sound that was completely out of place. "I spoke with the 'Emperor.' She made the arrangements. You signed the forms yourself, remember?"

Ah. The forms. Right, the paperwork from earlier before the school year ended. My brain's still catching up to the fact that I'm conscious—not exactly prime time for remembering administrative details, especially when I was so rudely awakened..

Before I could wallow in my poor life choices, she wrapped me in a hug that felt less like affection and more like a hydraulic press. "You'll need to come straight from class. I'll be waiting!" she chirped.

"What if someone scouts you before I get there?" I gasped, the question a desperate bid for air.

She just laughed again. "I already spoke with the Student Council President," she said, her eyes gleaming. "I'm getting you as my trainer, Hachiman."

That's great. Fantastic. Now if she would just let go, I could focus on the more immediate goal: breathing.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Steam still clung to her hair, each strand clumping together like the last traces of life before rigor mortis set in. A freshly showered zombie—that's what she sounded like, groaning my name as if it were some kind of summoning ritual.

"Hachiman," she said once, voice soaked in false tiredness thick enough to drown in. Then again, slower this time, the sound scraping through the air as she dragged a chair across the floor with all the energy of a dying appliance. She slumped into it, cheek pressed to the tabletop like gravity had finally won its war against her will to live.

"I'm tired… and sleepy. Feed me."

Her mouth opened slightly, expectant, as if I'd start hand-feeding her like some sort of medieval servant. The audacity was impressive, in a tragic sort of way. I watched her in silence, wondering when exactly I'd become the designated caretaker for the undead.

Right. And I'm supposed to buy that.

She's not tired. Not in the way she wants me to think, anyway. Maybe her muscles ache a little, maybe the aftermath of her intense morning exercises still lingers—but this whole display? It's a production. Full script, practiced cues, dramatic flair included.

The drooping eyes that open just enough to look pitiful, the deliberately slow gestures that scream look at how weak I am, the sighs that seem to echo for no reason but to be noticed—each one hits its mark with suspicious precision. She's not running on fumes; she's running a con.

There's a kind of art in it, though. The way she toes the line between vulnerability and vanity. She's not just acting tired—she's performing the role of someone worth comforting. And the worst part? She knows I see through it. She's playing her part anyway; confident I'll still take the bait.

"Eat it yourself," I mutter, words coming out more like a grunt than actual speech. I spear a piece of grilled fish, scoop a bit of rice, and shove it into my mouth before she can complain further. The flavour bites back—too salty, like the ocean decided to take revenge on my taste buds. Guess my hand slipped again. Or maybe my subconscious just wanted to punish me for trying to cook at all.

"Hachiman," she groans, dragging my name out like it's the chorus of some tragic love ballad.

Then again, louder this time— "Hachiman." Her lip's part, her mouth opening wider in this absurd, silent demand, as if sheer insistence might summon generosity. The picture's almost pitiful, if you ignore the fact that it's completely intentional.

"I doubt your reputation would survive if anyone from your class saw you like this," I say, half under my breath.

It's almost jarring, seeing her like this. The same girl who treats training like a sacred ritual—always chasing the next record, the next limit—now reduced to a heap of lazy limbs and whiny noises. The contrast is so sharp it almost feels illegal.

The way she sulks, voice dipped in mock misery, her shoulders sagging like a spoiled cat expecting a head pat... it's a performance no one on the track would recognize. To them, she's discipline personified—relentless, composed, untouchable.

But here, with her cheek pressed to the table and her pride abandoned somewhere between her sighs, she's just... human.

Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. And if her classmates ever saw her like this? Yeah, her perfect little image would crumble faster than my social life did in middle school.

"Hachi-nii," another voice chirps, light and familiar, right before Komachi drifts into the room like she owns the place. She drops into the chair beside the Uma Musume with the ease of someone who's done this routine a hundred times. Without hesitation, she tips her head back and opens her mouth, copying the other girl's pathetic display with unsettling precision.

"Feed me, Hachi-nii," she says, all sugary tone and weaponized adorableness, while I'm still trying to survive my own breakfast.

Then comes the chorus.

"Hachiman."
"Hachi-nii."

In perfect sync, like a duet born from pure chaos. The timing's so flawless it's suspicious—makes me wonder if they actually do practice this nonsense when I'm not around. Not that it'd surprise me. At this point, it's practically their morning ritual: one part performance art, two parts torment-the-Onii-san.

And I'm the poor fool stuck with front-row seats every time.

I let out a long, weary sigh — the kind that carries the weight of years of suffering under domestic tyranny. There's no way out of this. Not from them, and definitely not from the inevitable parental lecture about "being considerate" that'll follow if I keep resisting.

They're leaving in five minutes. Which, in my case, translates to a five-minute countdown until my so-called peace treaty is enforced by divine parental intervention. "Just give them what they want, Hachiman," they'll say. As if surrendering to these two gremlins qualifies as maintaining peace.

"Feed us," the duet groans, voices blending together in mock agony.

I grunt — a noise somewhere between protest and acceptance. The kind of sound that says, I've already lost but let me pretend I had a choice.

"Alright, alright," I mutter, the words slipping out somewhere between defeat and despair. The chopsticks clack against the table as I set mine down — the sound of dignity hitting rock bottom. I reach for theirs instead, already regretting the decision before I even take a breath. With mechanical precision, I scoop up a bit of grilled fish and rice, my hand moving like it's performing a sacred ritual of humiliation.

The Uma Musume moves first, leaning in with all the lazy grace of a cat that knows it's about to be fed. Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parting just enough to make the whole thing feel… unnecessarily suggestive for a breakfast scene. She chews in slow motion, savouring every bite like it's some five-star delicacy instead of the same salty fish I've been choking down all week. A soft hum slips from her throat — equal parts satisfaction and self-satisfaction.

Then comes Komachi. Subtlety was never her thing. She opens her mouth wide with a dramatic "aah," takes the bite like it's an Olympic event, and flashes a triumphant grin that screams victory achieved. A single grain of rice clings to her cheek, defying gravity and manners alike. She doesn't notice. Or worse, she does — and leaves it there just to mess with me.

I let out a sigh through my nose, the sound more a quiet surrender than a breath. My hand moves automatically, alternating between the two of them like some underpaid caretaker at feeding time. Each motion feels slower than the last, my arm weighted by the sheer futility of it all.

They, of course, are thriving — trading smug little glances, muffled laughter bubbling between bites. The synchronization of their amusement would almost be impressive if it weren't so painfully at my expense. They know exactly how absurd this looks, which only makes it worse.

By the time I set the chopsticks down, my patience is hanging by a single, trembling thread — the last relic of sanity in this madhouse. I grab my own portion of grilled fish and rice and shovel it in, chewing with the grim efficiency of someone trying to drown irritation with salt and carbs.

"Komachi," I say, turning toward my ever-smug little sister, "go get dressed for school. I've got to drop the Gorilla sitting next to you off early today."

Normally, that word — Gorilla — would set her off like a triggered trap. I'd get the usual death glare sharp enough to slice through steel, maybe even a retaliatory kick that'd make me question the structural integrity of my ribs. And if she's feeling extra spirited, I'd get a live demonstration of her so-called athletic discipline—which, to the untrained eye, looks suspiciously like amateur wrestling.

But right now? Nothing. Not even a twitch. She's sunk deep into her post-meal euphoria, cheeks faintly flushed, a lazy smile curling at the corners of her mouth. The world could be burning down around her, and she'd probably just hum contentedly, too spoiled and satisfied to care.

If I didn't know better, I'd guess being fed turns even the fiercest competitor into a docile house pet.

"But Hachiman," Komachi whines, dragging my name out like she's been training her whole life for this exact performance. Years of practice, perfectly honed. It's the kind of tone that could probably get her out of a parking ticket — or into trouble, depending on the audience.

"But Komachi," I shoot back, mirroring her voice with all the exaggerated drama I can muster. "If you don't move now, you're walking. I'm not making a second trip after I hit the station."

She folds her arms, lower lip jutting out, eyes narrowed in that calculated blend of defiance and manipulation. It's supposed to make me cave — it used to, back when I was still gullible enough to think she played fair. Now, it just looks like a rerun of a show I've seen too many times.

After a long pause, she finally lets out a displeased huff, shoulders dropping in defeat. Without another word, she trudges toward her room, muttering something under her breath that probably isn't praise. Small victories still count, I guess.

"You spoil her too much," the Uma Musume remarks, tone light but carrying that smug undercurrent only the truly pampered can pull off.

I glance across the table at her — brown hair still a little mussed from her earlier dramatics, red eyes gleaming with the kind of confidence that only comes from being coddled far too often. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence heavy with unspoken sarcasm. Then I lean forward and flick her forehead.

She jerks back, letting out a token "Ow," though it's clearly just for show. With her freakish Uma Musume endurance, my finger might as well have been a breeze. The gesture isn't about punishment anyway — it's a reminder. Or maybe just my pathetic attempt to reassert what little authority I have left in this household.

"I spoil you too much," I say flatly.

She laughs — a small, breathy sound that tries for modesty but can't quite smother the smugness underneath. It's the kind of laugh people make when they've been caught red-handed and still think it's charming. There's a faint pink dusting her cheeks, though whether it's embarrassment or pride is anyone's guess. Probably both.

"Make sure you're ready," I say, pushing my chair back with a scrape that cuts through her giggles. "Today's your big day."

She tilts her head, smile still lingering — soft, unbothered, a little too bright for this hour of the morning. "Our big day, Hachiman," she corrects gently, voice dipping low, like she's testing the weight of the word our.

---

There's nothing like feeling the wind on your face as you're cycling to school, Well, technically, I'm not the one doing the cycling. I'm just comfortably perched on the back seat of Hachi-nii's bike while he does all the work. Now that's the life. My dear brother might grumble about a lot of things, but surprisingly, not about this. He just pedals away without complaint while I enjoy the morning breeze like some kind of princess.

Or at least, that's how it should be. It would be perfect if I didn't have to share my royal seat with an Uma Musume who clearly doesn't know the concept of "lightweight."

Seriously, I swear her weight isn't measured in kilograms—it's measured in pure muscle power. Calling her "heavy" might even be an understatement. My poor spine can already feel its future shortening under the "powerful build" of this Uma Musume sitting next to me.

Not that I'm unhappy about the situation or anything, but seriously, I'd really prefer if Hachi-nii kept that doting "Onii-san" energy where it belongs—on me, his actual little sister. Not on some equine interloper who thinks a tail and a winning smile give her free access to my brother's attention.

I honestly thought we'd escaped her gravitational pull years ago. Her family packed up and moved all the way to some town called Otofuke in Hokkaido—pretty much the definition of 'far, far away.'

I still remember the sweet, blissful relief I felt back then, convinced that an entire island, a few hundred kilometres of ocean, and plenty of farmland would finally keep her from popping up in our lives again.

…Clearly, I underestimated the persistence of Uma Musume.

Unfortunately, fate clearly has a twisted sense of humour. Tracen Academy just had to be in Tokyo—and Tokyo is only a single train ride away from Chiba. Close enough, apparently, for my peace, quiet, and personal space to get trampled all over again.

I still have no idea how our parents were convinced, but somehow they decided it was a wonderful idea to let the gorilla Uma Musume stay with us while she attends Tracen Academy. Something about helping her parents save on boarding fees. How generous, right? A noble cause for everyone—except the poor little sister now questioning her family's collective sanity.

Now, every single day feels like some kind of twisted game for Komachi Points. There's another girl under our roof, and she's acting like she's competing for the title of most spoiled imouto. She throws herself into the role with the energy of a hyperactive puppy—and absolutely zero understanding or more accurately care of personal boundaries.

And what's worse? She actually expects to be pampered by my Hachi-nii. The same Hachi-nii who's supposed to reserve all that precious Oniisan affection for me, his real Imouto.

The real insult? He doesn't even seem to mind! Nope, he just goes along with it—completely unbothered, like it's totally normal to have a Uma Musume built like a compact tank demanding head pats and attention. Honestly, at this point, I'm starting to wonder if my Nii-san has a weakness for chaos.

I mean, if Hachi-nii were really that irritated as he likes to pretend to be, he'd just ignore her completely—or better yet, tell that Gorilla to take her Umazing somewhere else. Not that I'd recommend that, of course. She can crush training weights with her bare hands like they're stress balls, and I'm pretty sure even Hachi-nii's wit wouldn't save him from that kind of retaliation.

But honestly, since when has my dear Nii-san ever been known for making wise decisions?

Yeah… last I checked—never.

Otherwise, there's no way Hachi-nii would've gone and befriended that shy Uma Musume back when he was still in elementary school.

Seriously, what was he thinking? Did it ever cross his mind that maybe—just maybe—there was a perfectly good reason no one else wanted to play with her?

I mean, come on, playing tag with an Uma Musume is basically signing up to be publicly humiliated. It's like volunteering to lose before the game even starts.

"Stop moving—and quit dangling your legs," Hachi-nii's irritated voice cuts through the air.

Only… he's not talking to me. Not to me, his adorable, perfect imouto, Komachi-chan. The betrayal hits harder than I'd like to admit. Does this mean I just lost a few Komachi Points? Because honestly, it feels like it.

"The wind feels so nice on my legs," the interloper says, completely unfazed—her tone this infuriating mix of smug and airy, like she's doing the world a favour by existing.

"Save it for when you're running," Hachi-nii shoots back, sounding way too casual about it. "Otherwise, you'll end up hurting yourself."

…Oh, sure. Give her safety advice. Meanwhile, I'm over here reevaluating my entire sibling ranking system.

Still, the sheer seriousness in Hachi-nii's voice makes it impossible not to laugh. I glance over at her—and somehow, the absurdity of it all hits us both at once. Before long, the two of us are giggling like idiots on the back of his bike, while poor Hachi-nii's suffering reaches new, world-class levels.

I can tell she's giggling because she thinks his mother-hen routine is adorable—like it's cute how fussy he gets when he's pretending not to care. Me? I'm laughing for a completely different reason. This gorilla of an Uma Musume is anything but delicate. The chances of her hurting herself are practically zero. The odds of her wrecking whatever unlucky thing her legs smack into, though? Yeah, that's the real safety concern here

"Do you two want to walk?" Hachi-nii snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through our laughter. "Because if you're going to keep squirming and giggling like a couple of middle schoolers, then by all means—be my guest."

It's definitely a threat, but one I know he'll never actually follow through on. Classic Hachi-nii bluff—plenty of bark, minimal bite.

"Hachi-nii," I say flatly, pointing at myself for emphasis, "I am a middle schooler."

He just grunts in response, which, honestly, is kind of impressive. I can practically see the effort it's taking for him not to tell me to shut up. So, in the spirit of fairness—and because I'm a generous little sister—I'll go ahead and award him a few Komachi Points for restraint.

Unfortunately, the sight of my middle school creeping into view means the ride's almost over. Time to hop off and say goodbye to Hachi-nii, leaving him to the tender mercies of that gorilla Uma for the rest of his commute.

Poor guy—he has no idea what kind of endurance event he's about to face. I almost feel bad for him… almost.

---

Tracen Academy rises ahead, bright against the morning air. Its walls catch the light cleanly, every line deliberate, every edge reminding me of the weight behind the name. This place has bred champions. You can feel it before you even reach the gate — that quiet pressure to prove you belong.

And today, I do.
Today, I finally make Hachiman my trainer.

The thought stirs something deep in my chest, quickening the calm rhythm I've kept since dawn. It's absurd how easily he does that to me. If I weren't trying so hard to look composed, I might already be grinning, or worse — bouncing on my heels like an impatient child. Hardly the image I wish to give him. So, I draw in a steadying breath, smooth the hem of my jacket, and pretend the anticipation doesn't burn so close to the surface.

He likes to call it "maturity" when I act reserved. I know better. He enjoys watching me break form — the moment when my composure cracks and something real slips through. That's when he gives in. So, for now, I'll wait. Calm, patient, content in the knowledge that soon, he'll be standing right in front of me.

Near the gate, Hayakawa Tazuna stands as though she has been there forever. Eyes closed, hands folded lightly before her, the morning sun glinting off the gold buttons of her uniform. The green fabric fits her perfectly; the yellow scarf moves gently with the breeze.

There's warmth in her smile — quiet, practiced, yet not insincere. She carries the school's dignity like it's second nature. Watching her, I find myself straightening without thinking, as though her composure demands my own.

They call her the director's secretary, but anyone who's paid attention knows that's not the whole story. Her presence runs through the academy like a pulse—quiet, constant, unseen yet unmistakably there. Even before she speaks, you can tell she knows more than she lets on. When her eyes lift to meet mine, that calm, all-seeing look almost convinces me of it.

Then something shifts. It's barely noticeable—her smile softens, falters just enough to break the rhythm of the moment. The change is small, but it cuts through the air like a misstep in an otherwise perfect stride. A faint chill coils in my stomach, instinct tightening before thought can catch up. Whatever she saw, whatever prompted that hesitation, it wasn't nothing.

"Hayakawa-san?" The name leaves me quieter than I mean it to, my voice steady but softened by the question sitting behind it. I take a few steps closer, studying her face for whatever it is she isn't saying.

"Ah, good morning." Her reply comes quickly, too practiced. The smile fits, but the sound of it doesn't — light on the surface, hollow underneath. Something's weighing on her. I can feel it even before she finishes speaking. It isn't directed at me, yet the air between us feels charged all the same, like the pause before thunder finds its voice.

That look—I've seen it before. It only shows when something serious is brewing, or when Director Akikawa Yayoi's "experiments" have once again tested the limits of everyone's patience. Either way, it never means the morning will stay calm for long.

"Is something wrong, Hayakawa-san?" I keep my voice even, measured — light enough not to press, though the unease in my chest tightens all the same.

She doesn't answer at once. Instead, her mouth lifts into a small, sorrowful smile — the kind that hides more than it reveals. Whatever weighs on her, she isn't free to share it. The look in her eyes says enough.

I already know what it means. That subtle stillness in her expression, that careful choice of silence — they never appear without reason. And if my instincts are right, if this tension has anything to do with me, then the morning is about to turn.

"The senior instructors would like to see you before class begins," she says at last. Her tone is calm, steady, professional — everything I expect from her. But her eyes... those calm, reliable eyes falter for just a heartbeat. Not pity. Something heavier. Sadness.

A knot forms low in my stomach, tightening until it steals the air from my chest. This isn't good. The thought strikes sharp and cold — expulsion, before the junior year has even begun? For an instant, my calm falters. I haven't even made my debut. The idea of it ending before it begins feels… unthinkable.

I draw in a slow breath, forcing the tremor back where it belongs. Straighten my spine. Lift my chin. Panic solves nothing. "Hayakawa-san," I manage, steady but careful, "am I in trouble?"

She meets my eyes, and something in her gaze softens. There's no evasion, no polite misdirection — she's never been the type to hide behind them.

"No," she says, quiet and certain. "You're not in trouble."

The words should have eased me. Instead, the pause before them lingers, and the faint strain beneath her calm tells me what I already feared. Whatever this is, it isn't simple — and it's not good.

I draw in a slow breath, before shaping my lips into something that might resemble a smile. It feels thin, too practiced, but it will have to do. "Then… where should I go?" My voice holds even, though the edge of strain curls beneath it.

"The secondary staff room," Tazuna replies after a small pause. Her tone stays calm, measured as ever, but her stance gives her away — a faint shift, a stillness too careful to be casual. She's pointing me toward something she wishes I didn't have to face. It feels less like direction and more like warning.

"Should I just call in sick?" The words slip free before I can stop them — lighter than I intend, an attempt at humour that lands closer to nervousness than wit.

Tazuna's composure softens into a quiet laugh, gentle and unguarded. The sound eases the tension between us, if only for a heartbeat. "I should've thought of that first," she says, amusement flickering briefly in her voice. Then her tone lowers, the warmth folding into apology. "But I'm not actually allowed to say more."

The way she says it — careful, regret threaded through restraint — twists low in my stomach. Whatever waits for me in that staff room isn't trivial. And from the look in her eyes, she knows it too.

The hallway feels longer than usual. Each step lands with a muted echo against the polished floor, the sound measured but weighted all the same. By the time I reach the secondary staff room, my hand hesitates midair, knuckles hovering just short of the door. I take one steadying breath, then knock.

Silence greets me. No papers rustling, no idle conversation — not even the faint scrape of a chair. The kind of stillness that doesn't belong in a place meant for work. They must be in a meeting, I tell myself. Everyone's occupied.

But the thought does little to settle the unease crawling up my spine. If the staff are elsewhere, then why summon me here at all?

"Come in," a voice calls — bright, practiced, just a touch too even. Not true cheer, but the imitation of it. The kind people wear when they need you to believe everything's fine.

I turn the handle and step inside.

A woman sits waiting, poised as if the moment had been staged in advance. Her hair falls in a sleek line to her shoulders, black fading into violet at the tips — a small rebellion in an otherwise immaculate presentation.

Rose-coloured eyes track me with a focus softened by grace, sharp enough to measure but never to cut. The cream knit cardigan, the white blouse beneath, the long skirt that sways just enough when she moves — every detail carefully chosen, each element designed to say approachable, refined, safe.

Her smile reaches me first — open, polished, deliberate. It fits the scene perfectly until I meet her eyes. They smile, too, but not in the same way. There's calculation behind the warmth, a precision that doesn't belong to sincerity. The two halves don't align, and the discord between them hums just beneath the surface.

I feel it immediately — that subtle wrongness that doesn't show in gestures or words, only in the air between them. Whatever she wants, whatever purpose sits behind that pleasant exterior, it isn't simple courtesy. And I've learned enough to know when someone's wearing charm like armour.

"Good morning, Gentildonna-chan."

The voice carries across the room before I can even close the door. Bright. Smooth. Too assured to be casual. She rises from her chair with the kind of confidence that doesn't request attention — it assumes it, and the room obeys.

"My name is Yukinoshita Haruno," she continues, each word flowing with a polish that sounds almost rehearsed yet never forced. "And I'll be your trainer for the next three years."

For a heartbeat, I simply stare.
Trainer?
For the next three years?

The words land like a blow. Something sharp twists in my chest before I can steady it. A grating screech follows — metal grinding against metal — and I realize too late that the sound comes from my own hand. My fingers have clenched hard around the door handle, the steel warping beneath the pressure.

When I finally look down, the handle sits twisted in my grip, bent as though it were no stronger than clay. The sight drags me back into myself. I release it slowly, forcing my breathing to match the rhythm I can control — the only rhythm that matters right now.

Haruno — if that truly is her name — pauses, eyes widening with a glint of surprise that borders on delight.
"Wow," she murmurs under her breath, as if the words were meant more for her than for me. "They really didn't exaggerate your strength."

I say nothing. The air between us feels uneven, as though the room itself has shifted off its axis. Whatever she expected from me, I have no intention of giving her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I turn sharply, grip steady this time, and pull the door closed with a force that makes the frame shudder. Her laughter trails after me, low and unbothered, like someone amused by the opening move of a game they already think they've won.

My pace quickens. I need to find Symboli Rudolf. She'll make sense of this—she must.

Because this isn't how it's meant to be.
Hachiman is supposed to be my trainer.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

I stop in front of the office doors, and the cold that runs through my legs is sharp enough to still me. My anger had carried me this far, hot and blinding, but it falters here. Beyond this threshold is Symboli Rudolf.

Not just an instructor.
Not just a senior.

The Symboli Rudolf.
The Emperor.
A name that still shapes the academy long after her prime years have passed.

My frustration doesn't disappear — it settles, condenses, sharpens into something tighter in my chest. I can be furious. I can be wronged. But if I lose my composure in front of her, I lose more than pride.

But—
Hachiman is supposed to be my trainer.

Clinging to that thought, I make myself move. The sting of it doesn't fade; it settles just behind my ribs, a steady burn I can hold onto. Each step toward the door tempers it, turns it from raw anger into something sharper, steadier. Resolve needs shape, not heat.

I stop before the carved wood and breathe once, easing the tension from my fingers before I raise my hand. The knock I give is measured — firm enough to announce myself, careful enough not to leave an impression in the lacquer. I know my strength too well to let it act before I do.

"Come in," comes the reply. A woman's voice — mature, composed, unshaken. The sort of tone that suggests the speaker is never caught off guard, never rushed.

Symboli Rudolf.

The weight of her presence reaches me even through the door.

I turn the handle and step inside.

As I step inside, the atmosphere shifts. The quiet here isn't empty — it's intentional. The kind of silence shaped by someone who expects the room to match their pace.

Light filters through crimson curtains in long, steady lines, warming the dark wood that frames the walls. The trim catches just enough shine to show how often it's tended; nothing in this room is accidental. Even the air holds a faint blend of tea and polished oak, grounding the formality in something lived in.

A low table sits between two deep red sofas, a porcelain set arranged with the kind of care that suggests ritual, not hospitality. Teapot, cups, saucers, even the small plate of sweets — everything placed as though its position matters. Behind it all, the desk waits — broad, commanding, softened only by a vase of pale pink flowers and the quiet order of documents arranged across its surface.

The room doesn't simply belong to Symboli Rudolf.
It reflects her — disciplined, measured, precise.
A space shaped by a will that expects to be obeyed.

Behind the desk sits Symboli Rudolf.

Her presence settles over the room before a single word passes between us — quiet, steady, the kind of authority that never needs to raise its voice. Her hair falls in long waves past her waist, dark chestnut fading into a clean white streak that draws the eye when she turns. Her ears flick once in acknowledgment, brown with pale tips, controlled even in that small motion.

Thin metal frames of her glasses catch the light as her gaze lifts to meet mine. Magenta eyes — cool, focused — studying without pressing. The calm in them is not softness; it is discipline. A single silver earring hangs from her right ear, the slim teal gem swaying ever so slightly as she angles her head.

Her clothing is unadorned: a fitted green long-sleeve, sleeves pushed just enough to suggest comfort rather than laxness. But the simplicity feels chosen, deliberate. Even her ease has form. Even her stillness has intention.

"Ah." She sets the pen down with practiced grace, eyes lifting from the documents before her.

"Gentildonna. I understand today marks the meeting with your trainer—your childhood friend, if I recall correctly." Her voice carries gentle warmth, but her poise remains unshaken. "A significant day, then. I trust you are ready."

I blink.

The words are ordinary enough, but the tone behind them is not. There's no hesitation, no hint of adjustment — she's speaking from the original understanding of the schedule. The plan where Hachiman is my trainer. The plan that I arrived here expecting. Her voice carries the faintest thread of anticipation, as if she still believes she is delivering good news.

Which means she doesn't know.

"Rudolf-dono," I say, keeping my posture straight and my tone even. "The staff just directed me to meet my trainer."

Her expression shifts—only slightly. A faint crease forms between her brows, the sole sign that the information sits wrong with her.
The Emperor does not often show surprise. This is as close as she comes.

"Classes have not yet begun," she says, tone measured, each word chosen. "The customary procedure is to meet one's trainer after the first session and the initial solo exercises."

Her gaze holds steady, firm but not unkind. "That arrangement allows your friend the time to settle in—and to approach you without haste or uncertainty."

She stopped now to take in a breath, softened at the edges. "I would prefer your meeting to be one of confidence, not confusion."

The confidence in her tone is steady, unforced. It doesn't match what I was told. The discrepancy lands sharp. I smooth my fingers along the seam of my skirt to keep them from tightening. One breath in, held, then released — enough to keep my voice level.

"I was directed by the staff as soon as I arrived at Tracen this morning," I say, keeping my voice level. "They told me I was to meet my trainer today—a woman named Yukinoshita Haruno."

Her expression shifts at the name—subtle, but undeniable.
The crease between her brows sharpens, and the air in the room seems to draw still.

"No one is scheduled to meet their trainer this early," she says, her voice low, the cadence even and controlled. There is no raised volume—only a tightening of focus.
Her magenta eyes narrow, not in suspicion, but in assessment—the way a leader measures the shape of a problem.

"Tell me what occurred. From the beginning."

There is no harshness in it—only intent.
Her attention settles fully, steadily, entirely.
The room does not feel smaller because she is imposing—
but because she is listening with her whole being.

---

A vein pulsed on Hiratsuka-sensei's forehead—slow, deliberate, like a countdown to my imminent demise. Her voice rolled through the classroom, sharp and commanding, each word of my essay slicing the air with surgical precision. Except it wasn't mine. No, mine had personality—by which I mean it was a cynical dumpster fire of barely disguised disdain. This one, though… this one was elegant.

With every sentence she read, a cold, creeping realization clawed its way up my spine. The phrasing was too polished, the reasoning too ruthless. It wasn't the lazy contempt of a misanthrope. It was conviction—pure, gleaming, and terrifying. The kind of tone that belonged to someone who believed the world could be perfected if only the rest of us would stop existing incorrectly.

By the time she reached the final line, the room had gone silent, and my stomach had sunk into the earth's crust.

"In conclusion: The herd should cease their pointless celebrations and return to their training."

Ah. There it was. The giveaway. The self-satisfied sting of absolute certainty—Gentildonna's signature flourish. I'd done it. I'd managed to turn in her "revised" version instead of my own gloriously rotten essay. The one she'd oh-so-kindly 'fixed' after calling mine too gloomy for public consumption.

Hiratsuka-sensei let out a long sigh like she was trying to summon patience from another dimension. The paper slapped against her desk, the sound sharp enough to make my soul flinch.

"Listen, Hikigaya," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead. "What was the homework I assigned you in class?"

"To write an essay reflecting on high school life," I said, keeping my voice as flat as the classroom walls. No point in feigning confusion; she'd see through it anyway.

"That's right." Her eyes narrowed, the kind of look that could make lesser men repent. "So why does this read like a declaration of war on the entire student body? Tell me, Hikigaya—are you a eugenicist, or just an idiot?"

She sighed, fingers combing through her hair in that weary, theatrical way that said she'd had this conversation too many times and always with me. The stack of papers in her hand came down on my head with a dull thwack. I barely flinched. After watching an Uma my age casually turn a cast-iron dumbbell into modern art because she'd been 'focusing,' physical pain had sort of lost its edge.

"Listen up," she snapped.

"I'm listening," I replied, managing to make it sound like the exact opposite. It wasn't even deliberate anymore—just instinct. Whatever fragile thread of propriety I'd been holding onto had probably snapped the moment the papers hit my skull.

"That look in your eyes… you look like a rotten fish."

A classic Hiratsuka-sensei opener—half insult, half diagnosis.

"Thank you for your kind words," I said evenly. When backed into a corner, the best counterattack is politeness. Nothing frustrates people quite like sincerity used as a shield.

Her eye twitched. A small victory, but I'd take what I could get.

"Hikigaya," she said, voice low and heavy, "what exactly was the point of this essay? If you have an excuse, now's the time."

She leaned forward, glare sharpened, probably trying to summon some kind of disciplinary aura. A respectable effort, really. For a human teacher. But intimidation loses its bite when you've lived under the same roof as an Uma who can bend steel bars out of boredom. Compared to that, Hiratsuka's fury felt… quaint.

"I did reflect," I replied, keeping my tone steady. "I even got outside consultation, and this was the conclusion reached."

"Usually, for this kind of assignment, you're supposed to reflect on your own life," Hiratsuka-sensei said, her tone stretched thin between patience and exasperation.

"And if you'd specified that, I would have," I replied, deadpan. "The prompt was vague. That's an error in the assignment, not the execution."

Her eyes narrowed, a muscle in her jaw ticking. "Don't quibble with me, kid."

"Kid?" I echoed, tilting my head just enough to be irritating. "Well, I suppose from your perspective, that's accurate."

Her arm moved—a blur to anyone else, but to me it felt measured, deliberate. There was intent behind it, a sting of genuine frustration sharpened into motion. The punch cut through the air with clean precision, the kind of strike that would've floored someone who didn't see it coming. But I saw everything—the shift in her shoulder, the weight in her stance, the moment her resolve overpowered hesitation.

I didn't move. The fist grazed my cheek, a controlled hit that carried just enough force to make a point. The impact cracked the air, more thunder than pain.

It was nothing.

I'd once been on the receiving end of one of Gentildonna's playful taps— 'playful' being the kind of word you use right before you hit the floor and question your life choices. Compared to that, Hiratsuka's swing was rather gentle.

"The next one will hit its mark," she said, her voice low, eyes hard.

Meeting Hiratsuka-Sensei's stare, I didn't blink. The corner of my mouth lifted—barely. Not quite a smile, just enough to be annoying. Go on, then.

For a moment, her expression faltered. A heartbeat's hesitation. And that was enough.

"You know, Sensei," I said, keeping my tone level and detached, "if you actually hit me, it'd pretty much guarantee I won't be doing that rewrite. Hard to feel remorse when you're too busy nursing a bruise and a grudge. My motivation just hit zero."

The words hung between us, cold and precise. Not defiance—just cause and effect. I wasn't being brave, just honest in the most inconvenient way possible.

Hiratsuka-sensei exhaled through her nose, shoulders loosening as some of the heat drained from her expression. The fight left her, though not the determination. She reached into her coat pocket and lit a cigarette, the match flaring briefly before dying in the haze of smoke that wrapped around her face. Her gaze sharpened again.

"You haven't tried joining any clubs, have you?"

"No."

"Do you have any friends?" she asked, and there it was—the pity disguised as concern.

For a moment, my mind flickered to a certain stubborn girl somewhere far away, still chasing an impossible standard with everything she had. "One or two," I said.

"In other words, no friends here?" she pressed.

I met her stare, letting the silence stretch before answering. "I'm not so shallow that I need my friends to be within walking distance just to call them that." The irritation slipped out before I could choke it back, sharper than I intended.

Hiratsuka blinked taken aback, then nodded slowly, something unreadable passing over her face before it settled into a kind of quiet resolve. "I see… What about a girlfriend?"

I almost laughed. A girlfriend? Right. Between Komachi's overzealous background checks and Gentildonna's silent glares of judgment, any poor girl would evaporate under the combined pressure before the first date ended.

"Not right now," I said instead, because 'not in this lifetime' sounded a bit dramatic, even for me. It is due to a lack of maturity on all parties involved.

"I see…" Hiratsuka-sensei's eyes softened slightly, maybe from pity—or maybe just from the cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face. "Alright then. You'll redo your report."

"My motivation's still at zero," I replied, tone flat enough to be used as a level.

A twitch pulled at her eye. She took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke as her expression shifted. The frustrated teacher vanished, replaced by someone who'd just changed tactics mid-battle.

"Fine. Let me rephrase." She leaned back in her chair, a smile that promised trouble tugging at her lips. "You were callous, and frankly, your attitude toward me was hurtful. So, I'm assigning you community service. Wrongdoing should be punished, don't you think?"

Community service. Of course. The classic teacher move—if logic doesn't work, weaponize obligation.

And hurtful? Really? I almost smirked. I'd been polite—by my standards, anyway. She was the one who'd thrown a punch. Still, I kept my face blank. The trap had already been set, and arguing would only make the fall harder.

"That's right." She crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, the motion precise, final. "And once you've completed it to my satisfaction, then we'll see if you've learned enough to rewrite that essay. Think of it as… motivation."

Ah. There it was. The classic educator's gambit—discipline disguised as moral development. Coercion with a smile. Elegant in theory, brutish in practice.

"Come with me, before classes start." She rose from her seat and strode toward the door, her heels clicking like a countdown. I didn't move. The weight of impending drudgery already pressed against me, suffocating any remaining will to comply.

She stopped at the doorway, turning back with that no-nonsense glare teachers must learn in their first week of training. "Come on. Hurry up."

I stayed exactly where I was, arms crossed, face unreadable. "No."

Her eyes widened—a flicker of surprise breaking through her usual composure. Apparently, flat refusal wasn't part of the expected student behavior manual.

I didn't bother explaining myself. Better to save my energy for something useful—like figuring out which train would actually get me to Tracen on time. First day as a trainee trainer and already flirting with disaster. A promising start.

"Hikigaya," Hiratsuka-sensei said, her tone sharpening into a warning.

I rose without a word, gave a half-hearted nod that barely qualified as acknowledgment, and walked past her toward the door. Her gaze followed me, heavy and searching, probably wondering what kind of student brushed off a teacher that easily.

The answer was simple enough. The kind who had someone waiting.

…At least, I hoped Gentildonna was having a better start to her day than I was.

---

As she speaks, I take it in.
Tazuna was the one who sent her to the secondary staff room—reluctantly, by the sound of it. That's the part that matters. Tazuna doesn't do anything halfway; if she's uneasy, it shows. She's loyal, practical, and terrible at hiding when something feels wrong.

Which means someone put her in a corner.
Not forceful, just… precise.
Enough pressure to make refusal impolite. Enough planning to make it look routine.

They moved around me.
Not boldly—quietly, the way people do when they think discretion will excuse the offense.

I can smell the shape of it. A conversation not meant for my ears. A favor traded, or perhaps a fear leveraged. Nothing loud. Nothing messy. Just the kind of manipulation meant to go unnoticed if no one looks too closely.

If word of this reached the wrong ears, there would be outcry. Some would take it as an insult to my position, defending my pride louder than I ever would. Others would seize the opportunity to posture on my behalf—loudly, theatrically, without understanding my intent.

I set that anger aside for now. It has its uses, but not here. Not yet.

In Gentildonna's she tries to hide it—anyone else might miss it—but I don't.

The tension is there in the set of her shoulders, the way her ears stay just a little too still. Her movements are controlled, yes, but too controlled. Like she's holding the reins tighter than she's used to.

She's frustrated.

Of course she is.
They've known each other since they were small—ran together long before titles or expectations ever mattered. He grew with her, kept pace with her, learned where her stride began and ended.

They grew into themselves together — stride for stride.
Whatever they became, they became it alongside each other, not because one led and the other followed. She let him see her ambition without softening it, and he chose to meet it rather than shrink from it. That kind of understanding doesn't come from scheduled practice or formal titles. It comes from shared years. From knowing the shape of someone's steps before they take them.

The fact that he passed the trainer exams at his age… most would need tutoring, funding, someone pulling strings behind the scenes. He had none of that. Just his own ability, and the belief the two of them had built between them.

So yes — it stings.
Not because of the inconvenience. They could manage that.

It's the implication that her judgment can be sidestepped. That her choice wasn't worth honouring. That someone else knows better.

She's trying not to let it show; I can see the effort in the quiet of her posture, the careful way she holds herself.
I know exactly how much it hurts to be treated as though your conviction is something that can be ignored.

And no — I don't blame her for feeling that.

I can see what she's trying not to say. I've seen that look before—more times than I'd ever admit. There's no need to drag it into the open. Naming feelings too early only makes them brittle, and this situation is already holding together by thin seams.

Growing up alongside someone has its own gravity. It can look like family, or something that edges toward romance, or something entirely its own—something that doesn't need defining to be real. And people outside it will always try to label it anyway.

When she finishes, I ease back slightly and adjust my glasses, more to give her space than out of habit. I offer her a small smile. Not the formal one. The real one. The one meant to steady, not instruct.

She doesn't need to be told how to feel.
She only needs to know she's not walking into this alone.

She has the makings of a Triple Crown contender—anyone with eyes can see it.
It would be a damned waste to let someone else's petty manoeuvring shake her now.

And I'll be damned before I let that happen.

"I'd like you to attend class as usual," I say, my voice steady. Not a command—just direction. Gentildonna meets my eyes and nods, spine straight, expression composed in that careful way she uses when she's holding herself in place.

"In the meantime, I'll handle what happened here. I'll find out who arranged this and who the woman in question is."

No grand vow. No theatrics. Just the truth of what I intend to do.

Gentildonna lets out a heavy breathe as if a great weight Is removed from her shoulders and bows. Far deeper than necessary, formal enough that it almost feels like something from a different era. Gratitude, yes. But also, a bracing of the heart.

"Thank you, Rudolf-dono."

I don't correct her tone or her posture. She needs the dignity of that moment.

As Gentildonna leaves. The door closes softly behind her.

Once Gentildonna is gone, I let out a slow breath and rub at my temples. The tension has settled in behind my eyes, steady and insistent.

Yukinoshita Haruno.

The name sits heavier as it comes to mind—heavier still when it comes attached to this kind of manoeuvring. And responsibility has a way of making even unknown names feel like they carry more weight than they should.

I open the drawer and take out my work phone. My hand pauses just long enough to notice how tense it feels. Then I scroll until I reach Tazuna's contact and call.

The line picks up over a backdrop of new voices and shuffling footsteps.

"Tazuna," I say, keeping my tone level. "When you're able, come to my office. It's important."

The background noise fades.
Only her breathing remains for a moment.

"…All right."
Her voice is softer than usual, like she's speaking around something she hasn't had the chance to set down.
"I'll be there. I… may not have all the answers you want, but I'll come."

The call ends.

I keep the phone in my hand a moment longer before I set it aside.

Tazuna doesn't sound uncertain. Not unless someone has already pushed her past her own margin.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

The object of my ire sits across from me, the smile on her lips shaped neatly enough but never touching her purple eyes. The cream cardigan, the crisp white blouse—soft colours arranged with care, the kind meant to suggest she's harmless, the sort of person one lowers their guard around without thinking.

It doesn't hold up under close observation.

Her eyes stay too sharp, following every small movement in the room, scanning with a quiet, methodical precision. She carries herself like someone trying to melt into the background, but the calculation in her gaze keeps pushing through, no matter how carefully she tries to bury it.

It's a polished exterior, well-rehearsed and comfortable on her, but that's all it is—a surface. The real thoughts stay tucked behind the careful posture and the pleasant smile, waiting for an opening.

And the longer she keeps up that façade, the clearer it becomes what she expects to get away with.

Her file lies open between us; the pages spread neatly across my desk. The numbers are impressive—one flawless exam score after another, each test required for a trainer's license passed with a confidence that would raise eyebrows if her backers weren't so eager to applaud. The recommendations spill into the margins, full of sharp praise from instructors who wanted it known they'd recognized potential early.

But buried between the accolades are the comments written with heavier ink.
The kind added only when someone has seen enough to understand what caution feels like.

One assessment notes a pattern: whatever captures her interest, whatever she decides to involve herself (outside of her tasks that is) in, eventually collapses under the weight of her constant interference. Another remarks on the opposite—when she dislikes something, she compensates with an intensity that edges into the ruthless, a level of focus that might be admirable in an Uma Musume sprinting toward the finish line.

Except Yukinoshita Haruno isn't one of us.
She's human.

And the traits they're framing as 'competitive instinct' have an entirely different shape when they come from her side of the track.

I've seen enough tragedies from overcompetitive trainers pushing their Uma Musume beyond the point of sense—or worse, encouraging the same flaw in the girls themselves. What looks like drive in one context becomes something else entirely when there's no racetrack or rulebook to contain it.

I'd already collected the names that mattered, enough to trace the shape of the path she took to get here. Her license didn't fall into her hands by coincidence, and it certainly didn't come from effort alone. The pattern was too clean, the timing too convenient. Anyone with sense could see someone had cleared the way for her long before she stepped foot on campus.

"Poach" is the only word that fits.
She didn't just select an Uma Musume—she angled herself into a position to claim one already poised to enter a formal partnership. And she did it with the confidence of someone who expected no obstacles.

Because there weren't any.
Not for her.

Major donors, URA executives, even two former presidents lent their names to her applications, their endorsements sprinkled across the paperwork like a trail of polished stones. Connections like that don't emerge naturally; they're built, cultivated, traded in quiet corners of rooms where most people never receive an invitation.

It also explains the strain I've seen in Tazuna these past weeks. She tries to hide it—she always does—but strain shows in the small things: the careful pauses in her speech, the way she double-checks decisions she used to make without hesitation.
Too many influential names have been nudging her toward the same outcome, each push small enough to seem harmless on its own, but together forming a weight she was never meant to carry.

Their audacity doesn't surprise me.
People with power often assume subtlety absolves them of consequence.

What does trouble me is Akikawa's absence from all of this.

If she'd seen even a fraction of what was happening, the entire scheme would've been dead before the ink dried on Haruno's paperwork. Akikawa doesn't tolerate tampering—not with the girls, and certainly not with Tazuna.

Which means someone—or several someones—took great care to keep the Director blind to every part of it.

Pressuring Tazuna is already a boundary no one should even consider approaching, let alone crossing. She is the first point of contact for every girl who walks through these doors; forcing her hand is the same as forcing theirs. But beneath that violation lies something far worse—the complete erasure of the Uma Musume's own agency.

Anyone who's spent more than a minute in my position knows the regulations are unambiguous. An Uma Musume selects the trainer who will guide her career; the choice belongs to her before it belongs to anyone else. If the partnership sours, she may end it—provided she can show her reasons clearly and honestly during review.

The system protects her freedom.
Or rather, it's meant to.

The only restriction is that the trainer must choose her in return. Two signatures, equal weight, equal consent. That is the foundation everything else is built on.

And the people backing Yukinoshita Haruno and the young woman in question herself have treated that foundation as if it were decorative at best—pushing her forward without the slightest regard for whom she would trample in the process, or for the rules meant to protect the girls they claim to support.

"Yukinoshita Haruno, is it?" I offer her the kind of smile that appears in official photographs—polished, practiced, the one the academy expects from its president.

Her response bursts out bright and sugary.
"President♪ Yes, that's me! Yukinoshita Haruno, at your service~"

Her voice sparkles with exaggerated enthusiasm, each note a little too high, a little too warm to be genuine.

"I've heard so, so much about you," she continues, leaning forward just slightly, as though drawn in by admiration alone. "It's truly an honour to finally meet the woman who's guided so many talented girls to the top. I've been looking forward to this for ages."

Her gaze doesn't waver as she speaks.
It's fixed on me—too fixed.
The smile on her lips lingers just a fraction past politeness, long enough that even someone less perceptive than I am would feel the timing shift in the room.

There's a pause woven into her enthusiasm, light as silk and just as intentional. It pretends to be admiration, but the sharpness underneath it stirs a warm, controlled spark behind my ribs. Her eyes glitter with interest, bright and lively, but the longer I watch them, the more their purpose clarifies.

She is studying me.
Quietly.
Deliberately.

She's testing the ground beneath her feet, adjusting her stance, deciding how bold she can afford to be in the next breath.

She performs the role well—too well. But people don't call me the Emperor because I overlook small things. Details are where people reveal themselves, and she's already revealed more than she intends.

So I let the room breathe in silence.

Three seconds.
Long enough for her smile to strain at the edges, just enough to show she notices the shift in balance.
I keep my gaze steady, unblinking, giving her nothing to read and everything to react to. It's the kind of attention predators give—not loud, not cruel, just patient and absolute.

Only once she feels the weight of it do I move.

I lean back in my chair with deliberate ease, the kind born from years of being the axis around which entire conversations—and careers—turn. My gloved hand reaches for her file, lifting a page with the deliberate care of someone confirming something they already know. The paper settles back against the stack with a muted, controlled thud, the kind of sound that quietly redirects the room's gravity.

When I speak, I let the familiar tone settle in—the measured warmth expected of a president, shaped around a core she is not meant to mistake for softness. My voice stays even, steady, carrying the kind of calm that has guided countless girls to the starting gates and through far harsher storms than this.

"Thank you for the kind words, Yukinoshita-san," I say, each syllable deliberate. "I, too, have been… looking forward to this meeting."

Her smile holds steady, but her posture changes—subtly, like someone adjusting their footing on unfamiliar ground. She's listening now, properly, weighing the tone beneath the words.

I keep my own expression perfectly even, giving her no more and no less than what courtesy demands, and wait just long enough to let the balance shift between us.

There's a faint shift in her smile—the first honest tell she's given me. Not hesitation, not discomfort, but recognition. A quiet awareness that whatever she expected walking into this office, reality has begun to diverge from it.

"Ara, I wouldn't dream of taking up too much of your precious time, President," she says, her voice dipped in the kind of sweetness people mistake for sincerity when they're feeling generous.

Her gaze, however, tells the truth she won't voice.
She wants all my time—would take more than I offer, if I allowed it.
The courtesy is a costume, and she wears it comfortably, the way some people slip into a coat they've tailored to fit only themselves.

I keep my smile fixed in place—not welcoming, not cold—just composed. The kind meant to acknowledge her performance without giving her anything solid to hold onto. If she wants to trade masks, I'll let her think I'm wearing one. Let her wonder how many layers she has yet to reach.

"Time," I say, letting the word settle between us with the weight of a piece placed precisely on a board, "is something I always have for those who believe they can claim it."

My voice stays soft, almost gentle, the cadence I reserve for debutants teetering on the edge of panic before their maiden race. But the softness now is a choice, not a kindness. I lean forward just enough for the overhead light to catch in the strands of silver threaded through my hair—a reminder of years she hasn't lived, matches she hasn't witnessed, and ambition she doesn't yet understand.

"By all means, Yukinoshita-san," I continue, my elbows coming to rest against the desk, fingers interlacing with the precision of a ritual. "We'll take as long as we need to find the truth."

I hold her gaze, steady and unbroken.
No warmth.
No invitation.
Just clarity—and the quiet expectation that she reveal what she's been so carefully concealing.

She wanted my attention.
Now she has it—and all that comes with it.

---

Lunch break, allegedly the loudest, most chaotic part of the day, has the audacity to be… mellow. Figures. Everyone's orbiting the windows like they're auditioning for a nature documentary, or they've collapsed over their desks with their bentos half-opened. A cluster of girls are giggling over some video, but I let it wash over me. Noise like that doesn't even register anymore; it's just part of the school's background radiation.

Meanwhile, my own bento is sitting in the corner of my desk, untouched and probably judging me. I'm hunched over this tiny black notebook like I'm smuggling state secrets, arm curled around the page to keep any stray eyes from wandering over. Not that anyone cares. The only one acting suspicious here is me, and even I'm starting to feel ridiculous about it.

But I can't help it. The more I hide it, the more it feels like something worth hiding. Typical.

Page 23. It still smells like the pen ink I smeared all over it last night. Great. Now even the notebook has evidence of my bad habits.

Possible debut targets: Gentildonna (2yo maiden division)
Today: April 5.

Yeah, I even wrote the date like some over-motivated honours kid. If anyone actually bothered to look over my shoulder, they'd probably assume I'd been replaced by a more functional doppelgänger. The real me wouldn't be this… organized. Or earnest. Or whatever this is supposed to be.

– 1800 m (turf) • Sapporo • August 28
145 days. Which sounds like a lot until you remember it's me doing the planning.

Wide, sweeping turns—good for balance. Short homestretch—only about 300 meters. Races there get decided by who can knife through the corners the cleanest, not who can unleash some heroic finishing kick. If it came down to pure cornering, she'd shine. She's already smoother through a turn than most Uma Musume twice her age.

But the weather's cooler up there, and that short straight doesn't give her much room to unwind that ridiculous acceleration of hers. She likes to start gearing up from 600, 700 meters out, like she's rehearsing an orchestra piece and refuses to skip the intro. At Sapporo, she'd have to wait. Or worse, she'd trust my timing and end up flattening out.

And that's the part that bothers me. Not whether she can do it—she probably can—but whether I'm about to ask her to believe in timing I'm not even sure I believe in.

– 1600 m (turf) • Kyoto • November 19
237 days. Which looks comforting on paper, the way deadlines always do when they're still far enough away to pretend you'll magically become competent by then.

Then there's the Yodo downhill—4.3 meters of "good luck, try not to panic." Uma Musumes with real stamina chew through the drop and come out of the final turn like they've been planning their revenge. But a lot of fillies get a cheap slingshot from the descent, pop off early, and suddenly everyone behind them has to deal with the mess.

And Gentildonna… yeah. She absolutely loathes when some random overachiever gets a head start, she can't immediately erase. She'll chase them from the top of the stretch out of pure pride, even if she knows she's supposed to wait. She wants every win to be clean, no shortcuts, no charity.

Honestly, it's a perfect setup for her to burn too much too fast. And I'm the genius considering putting her there anyway, since it is something she wants to impress everyone with this debut.

– 1600 m (turf) • Hanshin • December 10
249 days. Practically an eternity. Enough time to fix all my mistakes, assuming I don't discover brand-new ones along the way. Which, knowing me, is the safer bet.

The uphill stretch at Hanshin is only about 120 meters, 1.8% grade, but it might as well be a divine test. Most Uma Musumes hit it and fold like they regret all their life choices. Gentildonna? She climbs like gravity insulted her ancestors. Every step looks like she's trying to prove a point no one else can hear.

If she ever figures out how to sit just off the pace and wait—actually wait—until the 400-meter pole to start winding up, that slope is going to break the front-runners' souls long before it breaks her stride. She'd roll right past them with enough energy left to glare back at whoever dared to lead early.

The catch is the extra twenty-one days past Kyoto. More waiting. More time for me to second-guess every tiny detail. But if I'm being honest, the course fits her so perfectly it feels like cheating.

Or maybe that's just me hoping I won't screw up the one choice that actually makes sense.

I catch myself chewing the inside of my cheek again, tapping the page with the back of my pen like that's going to magically summon competence. All it does is make the notebook look nervous.

She's a perfectionist. The kind who sharpens her own standards until they could cut through steel. If I circle Sapporo and tell her, "you're ready in August," she'll give me that steady amber stare—too sharp for someone her age—and calmly counter with, "I'll be better in November." And she wouldn't be wrong. She never is when it comes to herself. She'd just be… afraid. Not of losing, but of debuting with even a single rough edge exposed to the world.

And yet 145 days is enough. It should be enough. If we grind corner acceleration into muscle memory, if she learns to hold back that ridiculous surge for half a heartbeat longer, she can handle Sapporo. She can handle anything.

The real question is whether she'll forgive me for nudging her out there before she believes she's flawless… or if—some impossible day later—she'll look back and realise she already had everything she needed the first time she felt a winner's sash settle over her shoulders.

Not that I'm holding my breath for that kind of gratitude. I'm barely holding onto the pen.

I underline Hanshin twice—hard enough that the tip of the pen almost tears the page—then snap the notebook shut before anyone notices I've spent the last ten minutes letting my karaage go cold. Cold karaage… truly the mark of someone who has no control over his life.

She hasn't even officially asked me to be her trainer yet. Technically, I'm just the guy who keeps showing up early and staying late like some pathetic shadow hoping to be useful. And yet here I am, already rehearsing what I'm going to recommend after afternoon practice, as if confidence were something I could fake long enough to make it real.

Hanshin. December 10.
Let the hill handle the speeches I'm terrible at.
She was built for that climb—
…now I just have to make sure I'm not the reason she stumbles.

---

Today carries a weight I can feel down to my fingertips. It is the day we finally choose our trainers—an inflection point, a step that could determine the shape of our futures. The thought sends a restless hum through my chest, a blend of anticipation and the smallest thread of nerves that I refuse to name aloud.

Until now, the trainers have walked a careful line around us. Close enough to exchange a few pleasant words, distant enough to avoid looming over our every move. It always felt deliberate—an invitation to settle into Tracen without feeling observed. A considerate approach, I suppose.

But something in the air has shifted. Since morning, not a single trainer has crossed my path. Classes came and went with no unexpected appearances—no casual glances from doorways, no quiet watchers pretending they aren't looking. Even now, as lunch winds toward its end, the school remains conspicuously devoid of them. It's as if they vanished in unison, slipping away while none of us were paying attention.

Their absence settles on me more heavily than I expect. Only now do I truly grasp how little time I spent with the trainers who are actually available this year. Most of my conversations were with veterans—those who stepped down only months ago, or those already committed to another Uma Musume from last year or the year before that. I hadn't thought it a problem at the time; after all, guidance is guidance, and experience carries its own weight.

But standing here, poised at the edge of a decision that will shape my path forward, the oversight feels sharper. The consequences gather like a quiet pressure at my back, reminding me this choice was never meant to be made blindly.

"Barnacles."

The word cleaves through my thoughts with such unexpected gravity that it startles me into stillness. I turn toward the voice, trying to match that stern, almost dramatic tone with whoever could possibly have uttered it.

The owner of the voice is, of course, all too familiar. A tall Uma Musume stands there, long silver-gray hair falling in a perfect, straight curtain, her bangs cut with such precision they form a ruler-straight line across her brow. Perched atop her head is that peculiar brimless brown cylinder she insists on wearing—held in place by gold-trimmed straps that frame her cheeks and fasten beneath her chin. Each strap is anchored by a round copper ornament, large enough to catch the light with every shift of her posture.

I have long since given up trying to understand why she wears such a contraption, and now is hardly the time to question it. What draws my attention more is the expression she wears—something rare enough to give even me pause. It looks as though some unseen force has managed to push the resident troublemaker, the embodiment of chaos itself, Gold Ship, into a state that borders on genuine frustration.

"I don't see 'em!" Golshi blurts, her rosewood eyes narrowing with a focus so sharp it borders on alarming—and, astonishingly, tinged with irritation. The usual sly curl of her mouth is nowhere in sight; even that smug little tilt she carries like a signature has completely vanished. She stands there unnaturally taut, as if she's straining to pinpoint something perpetually slipping beyond her grasp.

The sight halts me for a breath. Golshi treating anything with earnest seriousness is already a rarity on par with witnessing a solar eclipse… but given that I'm fairly certain she skipped half her classes again today, the image becomes even more surreal.

Who or what in the world could she be hunting for with such intensity?

Suddenly Golshi's eyes snap open—far wider than I believed physically possible—and she clamps both hands to the sides of her head as if bracing for impact. She lifts her face toward the sky, suspended somewhere between an imminent tantrum and a bolt of revelation. I've never actually seen her lose her temper, so I can't decide which path she's poised to take… assuming she even knows herself.

She inhales slowly, shuts her eyes, and then—of course—slides straight into a pose so dramatic it borders on performance art. Her arms extend rigidly at shoulder height, elbows locked, fingers splayed as though she's attempting to lay claim to the entire courtyard… or conduct some invisible orchestra only she can hear… or submit to whatever wild spark just ignited in that unpredictable mind of hers.

"Radar alert," she declares, her voice flattened into what must be her interpretation of a machine, while her arms drift side to side in a strangely gentle rhythm. "Radar alert," she insists again, before turning in a full, measured circle—so deliberate it's almost elegant in its absurdity—then stopping with military precision.

"Trainer signal detected."

…She's searching for trainers?

The realization clicks into place with startling ease. If that is her mission today, their disappearance this morning takes on an entirely new, painfully logical meaning. Of course they're nowhere to be found.

They must be hiding—from her.

Honestly, I can hardly blame them. If I were a trainer and Gold Ship were making her debut this year, I'd be hiding as well. Last year's… incident—with the kidnapping and the sack—was unsettling enough to haunt anyone with a sense of self-preservation.

Given her track record, disappearing may be the most rational strategy they have.

Gold Ship can be formidable when she chooses to apply herself—there's no denying that. The problem is that she almost never directs that effort toward actual training. Most days, her focus drifts everywhere except where it should, carried off by whims only she can follow. Coupled with her singular brand of chaos, I can hardly fault the trainers who take one look at her and discreetly opt for self-preservation instead. Their well-being—mental and physical—likely depends on such decisions.

"No doubt—that's a radar ping. Alright. There's a trainer nearby."

Golshi delivers the proclamation with the unwavering conviction of someone who is utterly certain she has transformed into a functioning piece of equipment. And with her… I hesitate to dismiss the idea outright. Reality bends around Gold Ship in ways the rest of us simply endure.

A small thread of sympathy unfurls within me as she suddenly takes off toward one of the staff buildings, her stride fierce and utterly committed, as though destiny itself were calling her forward.

Whoever that unfortunate trainer is… they are about to face a very long afternoon.