"It hasn't been that long since your last big race. A dip in performance is normal. But... hmm."
I began to pace around her, inspecting her from head to toe. The problem was the Tracen tracksuit—the long sleeves and pants hid the muscle definition I needed to see.
(I can't exactly tell her to strip right here in the middle of the field... but based on that hitch in her stride, is it her leg?)
I asked Urara to step back and knelt down in front of Rice.
"Rice, could you roll up your pant legs? I need to see your legs."
"...Eh? My... my legs?"
"Yeah. From the ankles all the way up to the thighs, if possible. Actually, if you have your gym shorts and a short-sleeved shirt in your locker, it would be a huge help if you changed. I need to see your alignment."
Rice looked conflicted for a moment, but she nodded and sprinted off to the changing rooms, returning in less than five minutes.
"I-is this okay...?"
"Thanks. Let's see."
Rice had changed into her standard-issue bloomers. I ignored the voice in the back of my head telling me how "questionable" this looked and focused entirely on the anatomy of a G1 champion.
She was about five centimeters taller than Urara, but she looked much more fragile. It wasn't just that she was "thin"—it was as if her entire frame was built on a razor's edge. Every muscle was honed, but there was no "padding."
If she had been this small when she won the Kikuka-sho, I could see why her previous trainer had been hesitant to push her. Physical scale often correlates with raw stamina and durability.
(Her muscle quality is top-tier... but she's too lean. Her triceps are... wait. What the hell is this?)
I stared at her legs, and my mind stalled. A cold realization washed over me.
"Rice... please tell me I'm wrong. Did you ever injure your right leg?"
"Eh? O-oh, yes. I broke it last year."
She said it so casually, as if she were talking about a scraped knee. A literal bone fracture is not something a runner ever talks about "casually."
I felt a cold sweat prickle down my spine.
"...When? How?"
"It was the Fuyo Stakes last year. I took first place, but... after the race was over, I felt something strange. It turned out it was broken."
I put my hand over my face and let out a long, slow breath.
"Rice... your muscular balance is completely shot. Your left and right sides don't match."
The "hitch" I'd noticed wasn't a lack of talent. It was a compensation.
When a human injures their right leg, they instinctively shift their weight to the left to protect it. It's a natural survival mechanism. But when an Umamusume—a creature capable of running at 60 kilometers per hour—does that for a year?
She had been training herself. Without a professional eye to correct her form, she had been building massive amounts of muscle on her "good" side while her "injured" side remained underdeveloped or misaligned.
She was a high-performance sports car with a bent frame. Every time she pushed herself to the limit, she was grinding her own gears down. If she kept this up, it wasn't a matter of if she would have a career-ending injury, but when. And next time, it wouldn't be a clean break. Her left leg would likely shatter under the uneven load.
I looked at her back and hips.
"Rice, I'm sorry to ask this on the grass, but could you lie face down for a second?"
"E-eh? Here?"
"Right here. Lie down. That's an order."
My voice was sharper than I intended. Rice nervously lowered herself onto the turf.
"I'm going to check your alignment. Tell me the second anything hurts."
I began to press my fingers into the muscle groups along her legs and lower back. My expression grew grimmer with every passing second.
"Trainer? You have a really scary look on your face. Like one of those masks on TV!" Urara chirped.
A Hannya mask, I thought. Fitting.
I used the dark humor to suppress the white-hot rage building in my chest. I wasn't a licensed chiropractor, but the Academy training had covered the basics of sports massage and physical assessment. I had enough experience with Urara to know exactly what "wrong" felt like.
"Rice... we're going to the doctor. Right now."
"...Eh?"
Tracen has world-class medical facilities on-site. I shut down the training session immediately and marched her to the clinic.
The results were "good" only in the sense that nothing was currently broken.
The old fracture in her right leg had healed perfectly, but the muscular imbalance was exactly as I'd feared. It was the physical manifestation of a year of neglect. I didn't know whether to scream at Rice for being too tough for her own good, or to go find her old trainer and throw him off the roof.
I sent a reluctant Rice back to her dorm and went to check on Urara, who was finishing up her solo drills. I stared off into the distance.
(Step one: a recovery menu to flush the fatigue. Step two: a complete overhaul of her muscular balance. We have to rebuild her from the ground up, not just her legs, but her entire core. The Arima Kinen... it's going to be tight. She can run it, sure, but can I get her into winning shape?)
I wanted to believe I could. but "distortions" that take a year to form don't vanish in six weeks. It was a silent, creeping rot that threatened to end her life as a runner in one catastrophic moment.
(Rehab theory, nutrition, corrective exercise... I need everything. The Academy library should have the journals I need. Looks like I'm pulling all-nighters from here on out.)
I didn't regret taking her on. Not for a second.
But as I looked at the mountain of work ahead of me, I couldn't help but bury my head in my hands.