Uma Musume: Gallop of the Will
(The following is transmitted directly to the reader from a currently-forming narrative consciousness. It’s a bit scrambled. Bear with me.)
Okay, look. Let’s get the elevator pitch out of the way before the existential dread sets in.
You know those stories where some nerd gets hit by a truck and wakes up in a fantasy world with a harem and a cheat skill? Yeah, scrap that. This is the director’s cut where the special effects budget got slashed and the lead actor forgot his lines.
Meet Me. Or Him. Us? It’s complicated. I was Nicholas. British, broke, chronically late, and really invested in whether a digital horse girl could win a digital race. Then a London delivery van introduced me to the concept of sudden, wet, final stops. Not the vibe.
Next thing I know, I’m doing a freaky Friday with a corpse. And not just any corpse! Meet my new meat-suit, Michael Hanz Jaeger. German engineered, sorcerer-grade, with a family tree that includes a legendary pissy poet and enough magical juice to power a small city. His resume: “Professional Curse-Kicker and Gloomy Loner.” His hobby: “Brooding.”
My resume: “Expert in Pop Culture References and Running from Responsibility.” My hobby: “Also brooding, but with more sarcasm.”
The Twist (Because There’s Always a Twist): We didn’t just swap bodies. We got blended. Like a cosmic smoothie. Now I’ve got all his world-ending willpower, and he’s got… well, he’s dead, but his muscle memory left me with the tragic backstory and a crippling aversion to his relatives. I’m basically a bootleg version, running on borrowed cursed energy and a severe case of narrative whiplash.
The Gig: So I’m in Japan. Land of the rising sun, amazing ramen, and invisible monsters that eat your sadness and then try to eat you. My job? Pretend to be a semi-competent jujutsu sorcerer while not getting my new, marginally more attractive face melted off. My real mission, handed down by a bored cosmic entity with terrible taste in protagonists? “Make it entertaining.” No pressure.
The Side Hustle (This is the Weird Part): I also got a job as a trainer. For horse girls. Yes, you heard me. Uma Musume. The idol-racer things. They’re everywhere here, and they’re basically walking, talking, galloping bundles of anxiety, pressure, and dreams. Here’s the kicker—they can’t make cursed energy. But all those big, beautiful, stressful feelings they have? That’s like ringing a dinner bell in the spiritual realm. They don’t produce the gunk, but they attract it like crazy.
So picture this: I’m standing trackside, trying to give a pep talk about pacing and stride length, while out of the corner of my eye, I’m also sizing up a giant, slobbering nightmare made of performance anxiety and fear of failure that’s clinging to my star runner. She’s worried about her time. I’m worried the manifestation of her imposter syndrome is about to develop teeth.
I became a trainer because, in my past life, I wanted to pat Tokai Teio’s head. Now? Now I’m the guy who has to make sure the literal demons born from her doubts don’t trip her up before the finish line. It’s like being a sports coach, a therapist, and an exterminator all rolled into one. The pay is terrible, the benefits are non-existent, and my boss is a white-haired menace who finds my whole situation “intriguing.”
So, to recap: I’m a British ghost in a German sorcerer’s body, working a day job in idol sports and a night job in supernatural pest control, all while trying to remember which memories are mine and which belong to the late, not-so-great other guy. I crack jokes because if I stop, I might start screaming. I reference every movie and anime I’ve ever seen because it’s the only frame of reference I have left.
It’s not a hero’s journey. It’s a genre-savvy survivor’s guide. And the first rule is: when a horse girl is having a bad day, check the ceiling for existential horror. Trust me on this.
(Synopsis transmission ends. The entity is pleased. For now.)
