The dawn was peaceful as the light gently filtered through the thick morning mist with an icy blue glow that seemed to penetrate to the bone even through his training uniform; it was barely 4:30 AM, and the silence was so absolute that you could hear the crickets chirping in a Disney-esque fashion on the main tracks.
Hayate stood there alone in the middle of a grassy mound, desperately trying to stretch muscles that felt as if they'd been chewed up by an industrial gear, since the previous day's effort—that feat of carrying the rice sacks to save dinner for the Ritto dorm—was already beginning to take its toll. Every fiber of his quadriceps and lats emitted a dull groan —a reminder that although his will was made of steel, his flesh was still, well, flesh, not steel or anything like that.
"If you keep stretching with that stiffness you've got, the only thing you're going to do is snap a tendon before the sun's even fully up, kid. You're not a punching bag here; you're a runner. Train like one."
Hayate didn't need to turn around to recognize that voice; his ears perked up the moment he heard it—weary, laced with nicotine and cheap caffeine, and no doubt a couple of decades' worth of accumulated disappointments. Kanzaki, that old man, was walking toward him with an irritating slowness, wrapped in a worn tracksuit jacket that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and clashed violently with the academy's neatness; At first glance, he wasn't carrying state-of-the-art digital stopwatches or tablets with biometric sensors, but only a metal whistle hanging from his neck and a gaze that seemed to judge every inch of Hayate.
"Kanzaki…" Hayate growled, straightening up with an audible crack of his vertebrae. "The president said you'd be my official tutor, but I didn't think you'd take 'morning training' so sadistically."
"You know what, if you get up late in the ring, you'll wake up missing a couple of teeth and probably without your wallet—as a little extra charge," Kanzaki retorted, spitting a trail of tobacco to the side and planting himself in front of him. "Rudolf asked me to get you in shape for your official debut and said you have exactly fourteen days to stop running like a scared animal and start running like an elite athlete. If you don't win that first race, the Student Council will send you back to the streets faster than it takes you to throw a hook."
Hayate felt a rush of adrenaline that helped him ignore the muscle pain. "My debut in two weeks?" he thought, realizing that time had suddenly become a very, very dangerous enemy.
"I don't know anything about official rules, team tactics, or how to take a turn without crashing into anyone, Kanzaki," Hayate admitted, clenching his fists, which still bore the worn bandages. "I just run so they don't catch me—or so I can catch someone and knock them down."
"And that's why you're here, and not in a cell or a hospital," Kanzaki pointed at the 1,600-meter track with a finger. "Rudolf and that crazy scientist, Tachyon, know you have the power of a jet engine, but your stamina is… pathetic by Tracen standards, since you burn out in the first 400 meters because you don't know how to breathe—you just hold your breath, tense your chest, and pray the other guy falls before you."
Kanzaki approached with a speed unusual for someone of his advanced age and delivered a sharp but controlled blow to Hayate's diaphragm, forcing him to violently exhale all the trapped air in a very, very annoying cough.
"Urgh!" Hayate doubled over, coughing as he tried to catch his breath.
"Listen up, kid. An Umamusume or an 'Umashonen' like you doesn't just run with their legs, okay? You run with technique and consistency. Sure, if your lungs panic, your brain tells your muscles to fill up with lactic acid as a safety measure, and then your legs turn to lead because your body thinks you're suffocating."
"I didn't think the kind old man who ran the ring would act this way when training someone," said Hayate, rubbing his throat because of the persistent discomfort he still felt.
"I know the difference between work, home, and personal space. Over there, I just have to manage a few things since they train on their own, whereas here I have to take care of you almost entirely," Kanzaki replied as he grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt to look him in the eyes while helping him up.
"From now on, you're going to forget how you used to breathe back then. Since you were mostly going for short bursts, here we're aiming for sustained flow. You're going to inhale in two short breaths through your nose and exhale in one long breath through your mouth, rhythmically. If you lose the rhythm, your heart rate will skyrocket past 190 bpm, and you'll be done for before the last turn—maybe even the third one…" If I see you opening your mouth to pant like a stray dog, I'm adding five more laps to the set. Got it?—
Hayate looked at him with a mix of respect and pure annoyance. Kanzaki wasn't like the other coaches at the academy who talked about "reaching your dreams" or "shining on stage." He talked about mechanics, efficiency, and, of course, how to make money.
"Two weeks…" Hayate muttered as he adjusted his sneakers. "I hope you're as good a coach as you were running the ring, old man."
"I'm a much better coach than I was a gambler. That's why I still have all ten fingers and my hip intact despite my age," Kanzaki replied with a grim smile as he brought the whistle to his lips. "Now, out on the track. I want ten laps at a steady pace while you focus solely on your breathing. I don't need you to go fast; I need you to get proper oxygenation. Now get moving, Kurogane!"
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Kanzaki's whistle blew every time Hayate's pace faltered. To anyone watching from the stands, it looked like a standard (albeit somewhat demanding) training session, but for Hayate, it was torture. In the ring, air was something you took in between rounds and punches, which you then held in to absorb the impact; here, the air had to be managed correctly to avoid fainting and to be able to run more than 1,600 meters.
"Breathe in—breathe in, breathe out! Breathe in—breathe in, breathe out!" Kanzaki shouted from the edge of the track, his gaze following Hayate's jog. "If you stop keeping up the pace, your muscles will get heavy, Kurogane! Don't let your underdeveloped lungs win!"
Hayate felt like his lungs were two bags of hot coals, and his legs—still sore from yesterday's marathon in the kitchen—felt as heavy as if he were running through thick molasses, because every time he tried to speed up out of pure instinct, Kanzaki would blow his whistle furiously, making his ears ring louder and louder—
"I said steady pace! Shorten those strides!" roared the veteran. "You're wasting energy on unnecessary movements. Keep your shoulders relaxed—you're trying to run, not block a hook."
On one side of the track, near the safety fence, a pair of ears twitched with interest—they belonged to Vodka and Scarlet. They were here so early because they'd made a bet on who could wake up earlier and finish their warm-up before the other. They watched the scene with very different expressions.
"Is that Hayate and… Hayate's coach?" Vodka asked, resting one foot on the fence. "Looks like he's training his endurance. He should be—we saw him gasping halfway through the exam. Though he still has that absurd power in his stride—look, he's making the ground shake."
Scarlet sighed, adjusting the ribbons in her hair and crossing her arms across her chest. "He's rough and has no elegance whatsoever, but ever since the test, you can see his strength in every stride. I saw some of Tachyon's documents, and she seems pretty excited to record everything about him… And who's that old guy yelling at him? He doesn't look like an official Tracen coach."
Hayate passed in front of them on his seventh lap, his face red as sweat trickled down his temples and his eyes were fixed on an invisible point ahead of him.
"Hey, Hayate!" Vodka shouted with a teasing smile. "If you keep panting like that, you're going to scare the girls!" "Relax your shoulders or you'll fall apart before the finish line!"
Hayate didn't answer, but his ears drooped slightly in embarrassment as he focused on applying Kanzaki's technique—two breaths through his nose and one long breath through his mouth. Suddenly, something clicked. The sharp pain in his side began to subside, and oxygen started flowing to his quadriceps.
"So you're getting the hang of it…" Kanzaki muttered to himself, watching as Hayate's jog stabilized. "You're finally stopping fighting against yourself."
At the end of the tenth lap, Hayate stopped in front of Kanzaki, resting his hands on his knees as steam rose from his body as if he'd just stepped out of a sauna.
"I… I feel like I've been kicked in the chest," Hayate gasped, though this time, miraculously, he wasn't coughing as if he had asthma.
"That's called 'breathing properly.' Welcome to the club, by the way," said Kanzaki, giving him a sharp slap on the back that nearly knocked him to the ground and, in passing, offering him a bottle of water. "You know, when I was young, I trained some umas who had a third of your strength but twice or three times the stamina. You've got the engine in your legs, but you still have trouble holding your breath. If in two weeks we can't get you to hold a 400-meter final sprint after a 1600-meter race, your debut will be pretty disappointing."
Kanzaki looked toward the main building as the sun was already high in the sky and the bustle of the academy was becoming evident, with many other girls arriving to train as well.
"Now go take a shower. You still have to go to the kitchen to serve your time before Air Groove comes looking for you with a whip. And remember what I told you: don't overdo the physical labor. If I see you carrying more sacks than necessary, I'll make you run with a parachute tied around your waist."
Hayate nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. "The kitchen… at least there the air smells a little like food and not just sweat."
"Don't get too comfortable," Kanzaki warned with a serious look. "I've been reading some news from Tracen; I know they have Oguri Cap and Special Week, so if you're not careful, you'll run out of rations before you can say 'itadakimasu.' See you tomorrow at the same time—don't be late, or the punishment will be Disney-style, but from the Brothers Grimm—"
Hayate quickly retreated to the locker room after hearing that joke—expecting it from Rudolf but never from Kanzaki—feeling Scarlet and Vodka's gaze still fixed on his back as the two of them warmed up. he knew they weren't his biggest problem; rather, his biggest problem was that while he was trying to learn to breathe like an athlete, the time he had left before his debut was slowly running out, and he would have to prepare for it.
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The rest of the day was a blur of steam, the smell of industrial dish soap, and the metallic clang of pots and pans cooking in the Ritto dorm kitchen, where, after Hayate, he worked like a silent machine under the watchful eye of Air Groove, who seemed to be waiting for the slightest mistake to send him straight to detention. Every time he lifted an 80-kilogram pot, his muscles screamed, but he remained focused on the breathing technique Kanzaki had taught him.
Curiously, the rhythm helped him endure the tedious work, but his mind wasn't in the best place, both because of the exhaustion and because of the piece of paper that had been in his pocket since yesterday.
"Don't forget where you come from."
Looking at the paper, a sigh escaped Hayate's lips as he rubbed his eyes. "Well, I have an idea who it might be… I hope I'm wrong."
As night fell, when Tracen's curfew plunged the academy into silence—except for a few students trying to drag their coaches away—Hayate didn't go to bed. He put on a dark sweatshirt he'd picked up from the laundry and pulled the hood over his ears. He left the dormitory, careful not to be spotted by Fuji, using the shadows cast by the campus's large oak trees to his advantage, and jumped over the perimeter wall at a spot Kanzaki had mentioned when they were walking around the outside of Tracen.
After walking for quite a while, he sensed that the city air felt different—heavy with the smell of wet asphalt and cheap food—as Hayate made his way into the slums. It had been several days since he'd been there. He stopped at a dead-end alley just behind an old warehouse that used to serve as one of the many rings where he earned his living in events and quick fights.
"Well, well… look who decided to show up," a shrill, unpleasant voice came from the shadows.
A skinny man in a worn leather jacket, his eyes yellowed from tobacco, stepped forward—a low-level gambler who still held a grudge against Hayate for not winning that fight against Kiso-uma.
"Kurogane, you look pretty clean, kid. Do they teach you how to use cologne at the academy, or are you sleeping with some girl now?" He spat on the ground, stubbing out his cigarette. "Because of you, I lost three months' worth of earnings on your last fight. You should've won that round against the girl, and now my boss says the difference has to come from somewhere."
"I don't have any money, you idiot, and even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you for a bet you rigged yourself," Hayate replied, slumping his shoulders despite his fatigued muscles.
"Oh, we didn't come for the money… we came for the example," El smiled, revealing his stained teeth. "Don't think that just because you're a 'student' now you're safe. You know the rules of the street don't expire. Hey! Teach him why you shouldn't mess with money!"
From the darkness at the end of the alley emerged a figure that made Hayate's ears prick up beneath his hood; it was an Umamusume, but she had nothing in common with Scarlet's elegance or Special's energy (except for Oguri's hunger), as she wore somewhat worn-out athletic clothes, had her hair cut short, and bore a scar running across the bridge of her nose, while her eyes were dull with the look of someone who had been selling her strength to the highest bidder.
Without a word, the girl lunged at him.
The speed was terrifying; for a normal human, it would have been a blur and a few broken bones from the impact, but Hayate, because he wasn't one, could see the first blow coming. He blocked it with his forearms, but the impact felt as if a truck had rammed him, while his feet dragged across the pavement, leaving hoofprints in the asphalt.
"Damn it…!" Hayate growled.
The girl was superior; her strikes weren't just powerful, they had that explosiveness unique to the Umamusume. When she launched a roundhouse kick that Hayate dodged by a hair's breadth—feeling the wind from the blow slice across his cheek—he tried to counter with a blow to the liver, but she was faster and grabbed his arm, flinging him into a pile of wooden pallets with unusual ease.
Pain erupted in Hayate's back, making him cough as he tasted the metallic flavor of blood in his mouth.
"Is that all?" the Umamusume spoke for the first time, her voice hoarse. "I've heard that Tracen trains the best, but it seems not everyone has the ability to achieve what they want."
Hayate slowly got to his feet, recalling Kanzaki's words from that morning as his lungs burned from the day's exertion, but he forced himself to keep pace as his pounding heart began to steady. Perhaps he couldn't win through brute force, but he had faced someone like this before.
She lunged again for the finishing blow, but Hayate didn't back down. Just as she was about to land a right hook powerful enough to shatter his sternum, he used a pivot move he'd practiced in the ring, ducking at the right moment and letting her fist pass over his head. and, using her momentum, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward a metal pipe protruding from the wall.
CLANG!
The sound of metal striking the girl's arm echoed through the alley. She let out a scream of rage and pain, but that split-second distraction was enough. Hayate landed a quick combination on her—a sharp blow to the solar plexus followed by a leg sweep that knocked her off balance. As she fell, he drove a knee into her ribs, knocking the wind out of her.
The Umamusume lay on the ground gasping, surprised that a student had managed to take her down by using her own strength against her.
Hayate didn't give her time to recover; he placed his hand on the girl's head, using her hair to try to anchor his grip against her scalp. Suddenly, a sharp thud rang out as the girl's forehead began to bleed after she slammed into one of the alley walls. Sobs escaped her mouth as she vaguely tried to regain her balance and breathe properly while feeling her own blood trickle into her eyes, staining her vision red. She moved her hands in a clumsy, desperate, and fearful attempt to avoid the next attack she knew was coming—though in the end, it didn't.
Hayate let go of her, letting her fall to one side as she took a deep breath, trying to lean against the wall, while he himself was somewhat shaken by what he had done, but he remembered where he was and saw where the man had been
The man, seeing his bodyguard on the ground, turned pale. "This… this doesn't end here, Kurogane! You've dug your own damn grave!" he shouted as he fled toward the main street and vanished into the night.
Hayate didn't chase after him; he just leaned against the brick wall, sliding down until he was sitting. His vision blurred at times as he felt that his cheek was cut, his ribs were likely fractured, and his training uniform (the one Rudolf had given him) was once again a mess.
"Damn it…" he thought, staring at his trembling hands. "Tomorrow Kanzaki is going to kill me, and Air Groove is going to kill me, bury me, dig me up, and kill me all over again."
Remembering the girl, he saw that the woman who had tried to attack him earlier was leaning against one of the walls, watching where the man had gone as he escaped. Clenching her jaw in a groan and glaring at Hayate with hatred, she too fled, leaving Hayate alone in the alley.
He straightened up as best he could, wiping the blood from his sleeve. He remembered he had to get back to Tracen before Fuji noticed he'd escaped. Every step was agony, but as he walked back toward the academy walls, a part of him felt strangely alive—because even though he was wounded, he'd proven he was no longer just a stray dog, but someone more.
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The return to Tracen Academy was a walk in the park, since at most he had to endure whining all the way back to the very spot where he had jumped the wall. Gathering momentum despite the pain in his ribs, he leaped over it again, landing on the other side where he knelt for a moment, letting the cold night air soothe the burning in his lungs.
"Fuji… I hope you're sleeping like a log," he thought as he slipped toward the dormitory wing.
He managed to slip in through the service door, which was usually left ajar for the cleaning staff. The usually welcoming hallways of Tracen now felt like a maze where any noise would give him away, He walked past Fuji Kiseki's room, holding his breath, since he'd seen how the dorm's star had a clinical ear for irregular footsteps in the middle of the night, and he was currently walking with the grace of a one-legged man.
Once inside his room, Hayate locked the door and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up. The silence of the room was broken only by his breathing and his footsteps. He pulled back his hood, letting his ears pop out and move naturally as he looked at himself in the mirror.
The reflection showed him how he looked after all that, with a clean gash on his right cheek that was still dripping blood onto the collar of his stolen sweatshirt; his eyes were bloodshot from the exertion and lack of sleep, and to make matters worse, his official Tracen training uniform—whose shoulder seams, already strained by his build, were now torn from the struggle with the man in the alley
"Oh, Nene… if you saw me now, you'd charge me triple for the consultation," he whispered with a bitter smile as he opened the small first-aid kit he kept in the drawer. It wasn't the advanced equipment from the academy's infirmary—just a set of elastic bandages, rubbing alcohol, and a suture needle he'd kept from his days in the ring—but it was more than enough for now. With slow, delicate movements, he began to clean the wound on his cheek. The sting of the alcohol made him hiss, but he didn't flinch, as he was used to that sensation.
He bandaged his torso tightly to stabilize his cracked ribs. each turn of the bandage sent a small shiver down his spine. He had won, yes, but at a cost he couldn't hide for long. "If this is what it's like with a single-handed retreat, I don't even want to imagine what it would be like with those who possess the greatest physical strength of all." Just the thought made him tremble slightly, picturing how he would be crushed like a steel ball if that were the case.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the piece of paper with the semicircle mark that now rested in his hand, while he knew one thing for certain: tomorrow was going to be a shitty day.
As he lay down on the bed and felt the mattress envelop his battered body, Hayate realized something: that man had said the rules of the street never expire, but he was no longer the same boy who used to fight for a plate of leftovers. Now he had a coach who demanded he improve and a president who offered him some protection at the cost of a little dignity
"Thirteen days," he murmured, staring at the ceiling as the darkness of the room enveloped him, deepening the sleep that was beginning to overtake him. "I only have thirteen days for my body to get strong enough to face the other Umamusumes on the court."
He closed his eyes, letting the extreme fatigue finally overcome him, falling asleep like a log, finally letting everything that had happened that night fade into the background while he could rest for several hours before either the alarm clock or an annoyed Kanzaki woke him from his slumber.