**Chapter 1: The System, Twenty-Six Years Later**
In late March, Hokkaido's lingering cold winds still carried a chill.
Watanabe exhaled a puff of white breath, instinctively tucking his chin into his warm down jacket. Thin and wiry, his face bore the darkened, weathered look of years spent laboring outdoors.
He soon poked his head out, glancing repeatedly toward the intersection.
A silver Isuzu D-MAX pickup truck rumbled into view from the horizon, leaving twin tracks in the muddy road. The impatience on Watanabe's face melted away, replaced by a tangle of emotions he couldn't quite name.
He jogged toward the truck, calling out before it fully stopped. "Mr. Kitano!"
The door swung open, and a young man, noticeably younger than Watanabe, stepped out. His skin was a lighter shade of wheat, his eyes sharp beneath thick, pencil-black brows.
"Let's take a look," Kitano said curtly, slinging a heavy bag from the truck bed.
"It's been bloated for days," Watanabe said, leading the way, his brow furrowed. "I thought it was just gas at first, but it got worse after I gave it some medicine."
"Is the feeding schedule normal?" Kitano asked, his tone neutral, as if weighing Watanabe's words and his own thoughts.
Watanabe hesitated. "It's increased a bit with the warmer weather, but it should still be within normal limits."
"Let's observe for now," Kitano replied.
Watanabe nodded, visibly relieved.
They reached the stable. Unfazed by the thick odor, Kitano quickly spotted something amiss among the cows. As Watanabe had described, one cow's belly was visibly swollen. She panted, craning her neck to glance at her distended side.
"It's definitely bloat," Kitano confirmed. He pulled a pair of gloves from his bag, slipped them on, and circled to the cow's left flank, patting the triangular area gently. A sharp, hollow sound echoed from her belly.
The cow let out a panicked low.
"Should we puncture it?" Watanabe asked, his voice tight with nerves.
"No rush. Let's check the trough first," Kitano said, shaking his head. In cases of animal bloat, puncturing was often a last resort compared to oral release.
Removing his gloves, Kitano crouched by the trough, unbothered by the dirt, and sifted through the feed. "The concentrate ratio's too high. Try increasing green feed."
He stood, brushing his hands together. A cow's rumen—the first of its four stomachs—was prone to bloating from fermentation during digestion. If untreated, it could rupture, potentially killing the animal. Excessive concentrate or compound feed was a common culprit—a kind of "disease of plenty."
"So it's the feed?" Watanabe asked cautiously, mimicking Kitano by grabbing a handful of feed.
"It's possible, but not the main issue. If it were just the feed, more cows would be affected." Kitano rummaged through his bag, pulling out a stethoscope. He pressed it to the cow's belly, his other hand rubbing and tapping specific spots.
"She's ingested something," He concluded, stowing the stethoscope. "We won't know what until we get it out."
Watanabe's tense expression softened slightly. "What do we do?"
"Surgery," Kitano said, patting the cow's head to calm her. "We can't delay—it could be dangerous."
Watanabe nodded quickly, exhaling a long breath. "Let's do it."
They led the cow to a concrete slab outside the stable. While Kitano mixed the anesthesia, Watanabe spread a relatively clean plastic mat beneath her feet. Being a veterinarian had its perks—chiefly, not being fussy about work conditions, rivaling even field medics.
The anesthetic took effect swiftly. Kitano grabbed an electric clipper and shaved the surgical site, layers of winter fur piling messily at his feet. After disinfecting the area with iodine and draping a sterile cloth over the cow's abdomen, he slipped on latex gloves.
The scalpel sliced precisely into the left flank. Watanabe winced. Sweat beaded on both their foreheads.
Beneath the hide, the rumen appeared deformed and swollen. As Kitano cut into it, a sharp, foul odor hit them.
*[Horse Racing Tycoon System Activated. Do you want to start the game?]*
A cold, mechanical voice rang out. Kitano froze mid-motion.
"What's wrong, Mr. Kitano?" Watanabe asked, pinching his nose.
"Nothing," Kitano replied, shaking it off, focusing on the rumen's contents. The surgery took precedence over the strange voice.
Pushing aside the distraction, he dove back into the operation. The foreign object was stubborn. Abandoning his tweezers, Kitano reached in with gloved hands, pulling out a damp, barely recognizable cloth. A foul liquid dripped from it, revealing the faint number "169" scrawled on its surface.
"Did she eat the feed bag?" Watanabe gasped, covering his face.
"Keep feed bags away from the trough," Kitano advised. Poor husbandry often led to such issues, in his experience.
He tossed the cloth aside and began suturing. The hide was tougher than expected, and by the time he finished, it was past one in the afternoon.
After prescribing antibiotics and their dosages, Kitano packed his tools.
"Thank you, Mr. Kitano!" Watanabe called, his hunched figure a dark silhouette in the truck's rearview mirror as he slowly straightened.
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