Another mountain of paperwork conquered. I leaned back on my chair, and rubbed my tired eyes. Years. Several damn years of grinding, studying, and jumping through hoops, all to trade the dusty air of Kasamatsu for a cramped trainer office in Central Tracen Academy plus more paperwork. Sometimes I wondered if I was a trainer or a professional bureaucrat.
"Finished your homework, Kitahara?"
I looked up. Leaning against the doorframe, a half-eaten carrot in her hand, was Oguri Cap. Her expression was placid as ever, but her gray eyes held a familiar, knowing glint. Even after all this time, she could still read me like a racing form.
"Barely," I grumbled, getting to my feet. "President Akikawa seems to think new trainers run on ink and caffeine. Come on, let's get you warmed up."
We walked out towards a vacant training track, our steps falling into an easy, familiar rhythm. It had been years since she had transferred to Central without me, a painful but necessary separation. She had gone on to become a legend under Roppei's tutelage, while I had hit the books, determined to earn the certificate that would finally let me stand by her side here. I had passed. Barely. But it was enough.
Now, with Roppei having announced his retirement at the end of last year and I had finally passed the test, we were reunited at last. Though it was a bit late for the dream we once had.
"The others are looking forward to the Dream Trophy," Oguri said quietly, breaking the silence as she began her stretches.
"They should be," I said, a proud grin spreading across my face. "A race between monsters like you? The ground itself is gonna shake."
The Dream Trophy League. It was a different world entirely. A circuit above the Twinkle Series, where legends among legends were invited to clash twice a year. An Umamusume couldn't just enter; she had to be chosen, her greatness acknowledged by an unseen committee. It was the Hall of Fame, only the statues were alive and still running at full tilt. Oguri's battlefield was now in that mythic league.
Which left me here. President Akikawa had "subtly suggested" I take on a new team. With my status as Oguri's trainer, the usual jealousy and resentment aimed at a new face was barely suppressed, but the pressure was immense.
My old dream of winning the Tokai Derby felt so small now. Here, in the heart of it all, my new goal was to conquer the Grand Prix: the Takarazuka Kinen and the Arima Kinen. Race decided by fan votes, where only the absolute best of the best could even compete.
To do that, I needed a new star. A new diamond in the rough. So, I had spent weeks moving between my administrative duties, training, and the main tracks, watching the selection races.
I knew the gap between the local and central circuits was huge, but to experience it head-on was still shocking. The lower-level runners here could have been aces back in Kasamatsu. It drove home just how out of place Oguri must have felt back then, a true monster in a field of mortals.
And this new generation of first-years… they were particularly jarring. They were outrageous.
I had watched Seiun Sky, a trickster who ran with the ghostly calm of a phantom, manipulating the entire race's pace. I had seen the dazzling arrogance of King Halo, whose explosive final kick was a thing of terrifying beauty. I had made notes on Grass Wonder and El Condor Pasa, a pair of powerhouses who ran with the confidence of seasoned veterans. And then there was Special Week and Tsurumaru Tsuyoshi, both brimming with raw, uncontainable talent.
The density of monsters in a single class was frightening, but it was also exhilarating. Next year's Classics were going to be a war.
But for all their brilliance, none of them had given me that click. That gut feeling I had gotten the moment I first saw Oguri run. Besides, my status as a newly promoted trainer put me at the back of the line. The veteran trainers from famous families would get their pick first.
That was not to say I had not found an intriguing sight. There was one girl. A first-year, clearly an early bloomer. Long chestnut brown hair, a golden medal dangling from one ear, and a running style that was the most frustrating thing I had ever seen.
Her name was Copenhagen.
In the three races I had watched her run, she had used the exact same faulty tactic, only with minor adjustments. It was like watching someone bash their head against a wall, hoping the wall would break first. It never did. Her form, her start, her cornering, it was all textbook. So perfect it was completely devoid of flair. The only "flair" she had was the bad kind: that bizarre habit of breaking form and panicking whenever another runner got within half a length behind her.
And yet… the girl was a bundle of contradictions. Her top speed on the straights was embarrassingly slow, but her acceleration out of the gate and through the corners was absurdly sharp. And her endurance? Monstrous. Even after being rushed and panicked throughout a race, she would finish looking like she could run it all over again.
The conclusion was obvious. She was an ultra-long stayer with a potentially devastating closing kick. So why in the world was she running as a Pace Chaser!?
She was the one who almost clicked for me. Almost. But not quite.
Until today. Her fourth race.
I stood in the stands, my arms crossed, watching the tote board. She was pitted against strong names like King Halo. I expected to see the same stubborn, flawed strategy.
But she threw it out the window.
She did not fight for the pace setter position. Instead, she slotted herself neatly behind the frontrunners, using them as a windshield. It was brilliant. With the high pace they set, a natural gap formed behind her, neutralizing her debilitating quirk. She conserved her energy, her form smooth and relaxed. She finally did something different. She was thinking.
And then, she held back at the final corner. She did not waste her sharp acceleration there like she always did. She was saving it. She was saving it for the homestretch.
A surge of excitement shot through me. My hands balled into fists.
She made her move at the top of the stretch, exploding from the pack with that incredible acceleration. For a moment, she was locked in a duel with King Halo herself. For a moment, it looked like she could actually win. For a moment, I felt like I was watching Oguri all over again.
And then she stalled.
She hit her top speed at the 100-meter mark and just… stopped accelerating. She was passed. She finished third.
The excitement in my chest curdled into pure, hot frustration. I had already been thinking about her problems, about her training regimen, about how to fix that atrocious top speed. It was like I was already seeing her as my trainee. In that moment, watching her fall apart due to a single, glaring flaw, something clicked. Loud and clear. President Akikawa's suggestion was no longer a suggestion; it was an opportunity.
My frustration boiled over. Before I could stop myself, I leaned over the railing, cupped my hands around my mouth, and let out a roar that came straight from my gut.
"WHAT WERE YOU DOING!?"
---
That shout awakened me from my spiraling thoughts. I looked up towards the stands, my vision still blurry, and saw him. He was an uncle wearing a brown flat cap and a white shirt under a sleeveless brown jumper. I did not know why he looked so serious and intense, but his earlier shout resonated with the same raw frustration that was churning in my own gut.
He waved both his hands at me, a sharp, commanding gesture. Maybe he wanted me to come over?
I, who was still devastated after such a close race, did not think too much about the strange uncle. But my feet started moving nonetheless, almost on their own accord. With a heave of a now-stabilized breath, I walked in his direction. As I passed the winner's circle, I also saw King Halo surrounded by a swarm of trainers, all talking at once. She would have to wrap up her picky search today. It was her last selection race, after all.
As I arrived at the railing in front of the uncle, he asked me again, his voice still hoarse with emotion. "What were you doing out there?" he demanded, and then he continued to speak as if he was already my trainer, his words were full of rapid-fire analysis of my race.
I did not really hear every detail of what he said. My mind was still a mess of replayed moments from the homestretch. But his frustration was clear in his words, in his sharp gestures, in his objective, cutting judgment. "You broke from cover too early." "Your top speed is a critical weakness." "You had the race won and you threw it away."
Yeah, I get that too. I am frustrated too. I want to win too. I do not want to keep losing like this forever.
While hearing his sudden, intense lecture, I subconsciously started sobbing quietly. I was not a crybaby. I prided myself on my composure. But these chaotic feelings of frustration, of despair, of a hope so bright being crushed so thoroughly, and now, of being cared for by a complete stranger who seemed to understand my failure better than I did… it made my tears fall out of my control. It was truly a mishap in protocol.
"That's why, next time— Ah, I'm sorry," he suddenly stopped, his tone shifting as he finally noticed my silent tears. "I do not mean to scold you or anything… but if I'm being honest, I was so frustrated with you. I feel like you can go further than this. Anyway, here is a handkerchief."
The uncle held out his handkerchief. It was a simple, clean square of fabric in the same earthy, brown color as his jumper. What a consistent old fellow. An instinctive, small smirk tugged at my lips, even as tears still clung to my face.
"What's that? Anything funny?" He said it like he was angered, but the words did not feel sharp at all.
"Even your handkerchief has this color," I said, my voice thick but steady, trying to hide my embarrassment from crying in front of a stranger. "Are you allergic to other colors or something?"
"Hahaha, now that you say it," he laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. I followed suit, my own small laugh helping to clear the knot in my chest. My mind felt clearer after our small banter. Now my thoughts were asking who this uncle was. Was he a trainer? Looking at the badge and the lanyard hanging from his neck, I guessed he was.
"Anyway, thank you, old man. I somehow feel better," I thanked him. Though small, gratitude was a must.
"Who's this old man? I'm not even thirty yet!" he exclaimed with a blunt, comical tone like before, and then his expression turned serious again.
"Well, my name is Kitahara Jo," he began. "I was transferred from Kasamatsu Local Tracen after I got my Central license last year. Though I am new to Central, that does not mean I am a rookie. Let's get straight to the point." He leaned forward, his eyes intense and direct. "Please sign a contract with me! My goal is to win the Grand Prix, and with you, I believe we can reach it!"
Whoa. I actually got scouted. So this was how it felt, huh. But I still had one chance left to impress— No. This kind of chance, this specific chance with this specific man who understood my frustration, might only come once in my lifetime. I could not squander it. His and my frustrations were aligned. He really thought about me, and I could feel I could work together with him just fine. His goal was grand, but so was the one King Halo had just planted in my heart. I felt I could trust him for the next five years.
"Very well, Kitahara Jo-san," I declared, my voice now clear and firm. "I do not have a grand and specific goal for now, but I promised King Halo to be her greatest rival. I also want to feel the thrill of defeating strong and seemingly invincible Umamusume. That is why I see we can get along well. I will also give it my all to reach your goal."
"It's our goal now," he corrected me, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face. "Let's do our best from now on! Let's go!" He flashed a thumbs-up, his energy infectious.
"Sir, yes, sir!" I crisply saluted him, my hand snapping to my forehead in a perfectly executed military salute.
We looked at each other's gestures. His casual, enthusiastic thumbs-up versus my rigid, formal salute. The massive difference in our styles hung in the air for a moment, only to add to the unique dynamic taking shape between us. We both laughed it off as we started walking towards the main building, to the President's office, to directly submit our official Trainer-trainee contract. It seemed to be quite a fast track, disregarding the usual bureaucracy, but that was apparently what you did here when you knew what you wanted.
And so, our journey, one that might be full of gunpowder and explosive blast, began… figuratively.