**Chapter 2: The Seminar and [Excellent Horse]**
The projector hummed softly in the dim conference room, its light casting a faint glow across the faces of the attendees.
Kitano's fingers fumbled with the mouse, each click deliberate but unsteady, as though the device were conspiring against him. The silver-haired elder at the front—Shibata Ryuichiro, his mentor of sorts—fixed him with a stare that carried the weight of decades spent tending to animals. The slideshow, mercifully, stopped stuttering and landed on the final slide.
"So," Kitano said, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest, "whether or not a stallion's sheath needs cleaning depends on the situation. There's no one-size-fits-all answer."
He paused, letting the words settle. A few heads nodded in the crowd—stablehands, trainees, and a handful of grizzled veterinarians who'd seen more horses than most people see sunrises. Kitano's eyes flicked to the screen. "As for the claim that cleaning frequency impacts breeding yield… the data doesn't support it. Not yet, anyway."
A sharp cough from Shibata cut through the room, a signal that the lecture was over. The attendees stirred, chairs scraping against the floor as they gathered their notes and murmured to one another. Kitano exhaled, his shoulders loosening. He'd survived another presentation.
The seminar, held in a modest community center in Shinkon-cho, was a small but vital gathering for those in the horse care industry. Kitano moved through the crowd, exchanging business cards with a practiced smile. Each handshake felt like a step forward, a quiet tally in his mind.
[Meet Fifty Industry Professionals: 46/50.]
Four short. He sighed, tucking the cards into his jacket pocket. Close, but not quite there. Still, the day hadn't been a waste. Beyond the connections, the seminar had offered insights he hadn't expected to glean—tidbits about equine health that sparked new ideas for his practice.
And, more importantly, he'd ticked off another task: [Develop Your Abilities.] It wasn't glamorous, but it was progress.
"Thank you for your hard work, Shibata-senpai," Kitano said, approaching the stage with a quick two-step. He tucked his notebook under his arm, the worn edges of the cover brushing against his sleeve.
Shibata looked up, his throat making a soft, gravelly sound as he cleared it. "Kitano-kun," he said, his voice warm but tinged with fatigue. "How about it? Join me. I could offer you shares in the practice."
Kitano chuckled, shaking his head. Shibata's thermos sat on the table, steam curling from its open lid. The older man took a sip, his eyes crinkling with a smile.
At sixty-something, Shibata was one of the few veterinarians in town who still practiced, though his focus had shifted to small animals. Kitano, young and ambitious, was a rarity in their field—a fact Shibata never failed to point out.
"I'd need to pay off the clinic's transfer fee first," Kitano said, his tone light but honest. The debt loomed over him like a shadow, a constant reminder of the gamble he'd taken to open his practice.
Shibata laughed, a hearty sound that filled the small space. "I'm not sure I can wait that long," he said, though a flicker of regret passed through his eyes. He clapped Kitano on the shoulder. "Come on, let's head back together."
Their clinics were a short drive apart, nestled in the quiet sprawl of Shinkon-cho, a town of fewer than five thousand souls. Seven veterinarians for such a small population felt excessive, but Kitano didn't mind the competition. It wasn't like he was swimming in charm or social finesse.
He got along with his colleagues simply because there was no one else. Aside from Shibata, who was semi-retired and specialized in small animals, Kitano was the only industrial veterinarian in town. Across Hokkaido's vast 83,460 square kilometers, just 252 veterinarians handled industrial animals. That left each one responsible for an area larger than some small countries.
Kitano's days were a blur of motion—house calls, emergencies, and the endless paperwork that came with running a clinic. He couldn't imagine giving it up, though. Not now, not when he was so close to something bigger.
It had taken a week to "get the system," as he thought of it—a cryptic phrase tied to his dream of becoming a horse owner. That same day, he'd stopped by the convenience store ATM, bankbook in hand.
The machine's fee stung, but it was better than driving hours to the nearest bank. When he checked the last page, a new entry caught his eye: 50,000 yen, deposited by an unknown sender. Relief washed over him, but so did a nagging certainty—his finances were about to get tighter.
Becoming a central horse owner was no small feat. The requirements were daunting: 9 million yen in net personal income over two years and a 10 million yen joint registration fee.
For now, Kitano set his sights on becoming a local owner, a more attainable goal. The income threshold was lower—5 million yen in recent years, which he could manage—but the costs were still steep. From purchasing a horse to monthly foster care fees ranging from 100,000 to 500,000 yen, the expenses piled up quickly. A million yen a year, at minimum.
Every task he completed brought him closer, but the path was grueling. Monbetsu Racecourse, the closest track, packed its races into a tight window each month. To maximize his progress, he'd need to travel to Obihiro, 200 kilometers away, where Hokkaido's only Banei racecourse still operated.
The idea of sitting back and letting the system carry him to an easy life was a fantasy, one he'd long since abandoned. Light novels lied. Dreams weren't handed out—they were earned, one exhausting step at a time.
After dropping Shibata off, Kitano drove to his clinic. The twelve-mat space felt cramped compared to the sprawling stables he visited, but it suited him. The clinic was more of a waystation than a destination, a place to catch his breath between house calls. Some clients, too impatient to check the veterinary association's website, followed Google Maps straight to his door, only to find him gone.
Unsurprisingly, his clinic topped the Shinkansen Veterinary Rankings—though not for the reasons he'd hoped. The rankings were inverted, and his absence earned him a string of exasperated reviews.
Inside, he shed his suit jacket, trading it for a worn sweater that smelled faintly of antiseptic. He sank into a chair, flipping open last month's issue of [Excellent Horse].
The cover story focused on a racehorse named Victory in Sight, and Kitano skimmed the article, pausing at a quote from Tomoharu Tanaka, a fellow veterinarian. ["Horses that effectively utilize their hindquarters and hip muscles are rare. A smooth integration of rear and front drive is the goal for riders."]
Kitano leaned back, the words sinking in. He hadn't thought much about equine biomechanics lately, but the insight felt like a small revelation, a reminder of how much he still had to learn. The magazine, for all its flashy headlines, held nuggets of wisdom that made it worth the read.
A chime from his phone broke his reverie—a task completion notification. He smiled faintly, setting the magazine aside. Before he could savor the moment, the phone rang again.
"Hokkaido Town Industrial Animal Clinic," he answered, already rising from his chair.
Two minutes later, his silver pickup truck peeled out of the lot, a heavy medical bag bouncing on the passenger seat. The road stretched ahead, endless and familiar, carrying him toward the next call, the next challenge, the next step in a life that was anything but easy.
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