The Lasting Impact of Uma Musume is Deep, as Expected

[nsss]

Gold Ship is beyond the logic and rationality of us mortals.

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He might remember her as the alien Uma, who thought he was a fish-man and dragged him to search for Atlantis.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

And speaking of Gentil being 8man Childhood friend. By the ancient laws of the RomCom Gods, Gentildonna will not be the main girl. Unless of course she decides to take her destiny by force.

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if by ancient gods you mean Haruno who just ruined her plans

 

[Stainedtexas]

Uhh. Uma's have complete authority over who their trainer is. Hell, they can drop them at any time if they want. The only limitation is that the trainer also has to agree to the arrangement. I help's to prevent stuff like this exact scenario from happening. Now, I might be annoyed at the idea of Hachiman being allowed to be a trainer at his age (without confirmation of having a national license), but this is probably a worse violation in universe from an Uma's perspective.

 

[Setsura]

Uhh. Uma's have complete authority over who their trainer is. Hell, they can drop them at any time if they want. The only limitation is that the trainer also has to agree to the arrangement. I help's to prevent stuff like this exact scenario from happening. Now, I might be annoyed at the idea of Hachiman being allowed to be a trainer at his age (without confirmation of having a national license), but this is probably a worse violation in universe from an Uma's perspective.

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Rudolf's words implied that Hachiman did pass the exams for the national license (unlike Kitahara so far in the anime) hence why she said it's very impressive for his age. As for his age, he can always get assigned as a junior trainer to another trainer like how Sirius trainer began as the understudy of Oguri's trainer in the beginning of Sirius arc.

 

[Code_Cipher]

Nice! I was hoping for an Oregairu and Umamusume crossover one of these days. There's just something about Hachiman and crossovers that mesh so well....

And with Hachiman being a (Junior) Trainer here, I don't think he would be that much of a social pariah in Sobu, especially when he and Gentildonna start to rack up wins. Unless Haruno meddles with more things, of course.

 

[Setsura]

Nice! I was hoping for an Oregairu and Umamusume crossover one of these days. There's just something about Hachiman and crossovers that mesh so well....

And with Hachiman being a (Junior) Trainer here, I don't think he would be that much of a social pariah in Sobu, especially when he and Gentildonna start to rack up wins. Unless Haruno meddles with more things, of course.

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It smells like Haruno is using her connections and Yukinoshita family's power so she can become Gentil's trainer. I guess this is where the Oregairu part shines through with Japanese being Japanese.

 

[Xela63]

And what about Gold Ship? they from the same year and Is a rival too

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Eh, Gentildonna does the Triple Tiara, Gold Ship is on the Triple Crown course. Different things, maybe later on or inbetween those races they will meet. Also did you guys know that Gentildonna is stronger than Orfevre, but weaker than Gold Ship? La Creatura is just built different.

 

[Setsura]

And with the introduction of Buena Vista's career mode it is thus official that new trainers can be as young as college student age or around that age group, given Buena Vista and her trainer are childhood friends.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

The object of my ire sits across from me, the smile on her lips shaped neatly enough but never touching her purple eyes. The cream cardigan, the crisp white blouse—soft colours arranged with care, the kind meant to suggest she's harmless, the sort of person one lowers their guard around without thinking.

It doesn't hold up under close observation.

Her eyes stay too sharp, following every small movement in the room, scanning with a quiet, methodical precision. She carries herself like someone trying to melt into the background, but the calculation in her gaze keeps pushing through, no matter how carefully she tries to bury it.

It's a polished exterior, well-rehearsed and comfortable on her, but that's all it is—a surface. The real thoughts stay tucked behind the careful posture and the pleasant smile, waiting for an opening.

And the longer she keeps up that façade, the clearer it becomes what she expects to get away with.

Her file lies open between us; the pages spread neatly across my desk. The numbers are impressive—one flawless exam score after another, each test required for a trainer's license passed with a confidence that would raise eyebrows if her backers weren't so eager to applaud. The recommendations spill into the margins, full of sharp praise from instructors who wanted it known they'd recognized potential early.

But buried between the accolades are the comments written with heavier ink.
The kind added only when someone has seen enough to understand what caution feels like.

One assessment notes a pattern: whatever captures her interest, whatever she decides to involve herself (outside of her tasks that is) in, eventually collapses under the weight of her constant interference. Another remarks on the opposite—when she dislikes something, she compensates with an intensity that edges into the ruthless, a level of focus that might be admirable in an Uma Musume sprinting toward the finish line.

Except Yukinoshita Haruno isn't one of us.
She's human.

And the traits they're framing as 'competitive instinct' have an entirely different shape when they come from her side of the track.

I've seen enough tragedies from overcompetitive trainers pushing their Uma Musume beyond the point of sense—or worse, encouraging the same flaw in the girls themselves. What looks like drive in one context becomes something else entirely when there's no racetrack or rulebook to contain it.

I'd already collected the names that mattered, enough to trace the shape of the path she took to get here. Her license didn't fall into her hands by coincidence, and it certainly didn't come from effort alone. The pattern was too clean, the timing too convenient. Anyone with sense could see someone had cleared the way for her long before she stepped foot on campus.

"Poach" is the only word that fits.
She didn't just select an Uma Musume—she angled herself into a position to claim one already poised to enter a formal partnership. And she did it with the confidence of someone who expected no obstacles.

Because there weren't any.
Not for her.

Major donors, URA executives, even two former presidents lent their names to her applications, their endorsements sprinkled across the paperwork like a trail of polished stones. Connections like that don't emerge naturally; they're built, cultivated, traded in quiet corners of rooms where most people never receive an invitation.

It also explains the strain I've seen in Tazuna these past weeks. She tries to hide it—she always does—but strain shows in the small things: the careful pauses in her speech, the way she double-checks decisions she used to make without hesitation.
Too many influential names have been nudging her toward the same outcome, each push small enough to seem harmless on its own, but together forming a weight she was never meant to carry.

Their audacity doesn't surprise me.
People with power often assume subtlety absolves them of consequence.

What does trouble me is Akikawa's absence from all of this.

If she'd seen even a fraction of what was happening, the entire scheme would've been dead before the ink dried on Haruno's paperwork. Akikawa doesn't tolerate tampering—not with the girls, and certainly not with Tazuna.

Which means someone—or several someones—took great care to keep the Director blind to every part of it.

Pressuring Tazuna is already a boundary no one should even consider approaching, let alone crossing. She is the first point of contact for every girl who walks through these doors; forcing her hand is the same as forcing theirs. But beneath that violation lies something far worse—the complete erasure of the Uma Musume's own agency.

Anyone who's spent more than a minute in my position knows the regulations are unambiguous. An Uma Musume selects the trainer who will guide her career; the choice belongs to her before it belongs to anyone else. If the partnership sours, she may end it—provided she can show her reasons clearly and honestly during review.

The system protects her freedom.
Or rather, it's meant to.

The only restriction is that the trainer must choose her in return. Two signatures, equal weight, equal consent. That is the foundation everything else is built on.

And the people backing Yukinoshita Haruno and the young woman in question herself have treated that foundation as if it were decorative at best—pushing her forward without the slightest regard for whom she would trample in the process, or for the rules meant to protect the girls they claim to support.

"Yukinoshita Haruno, is it?" I offer her the kind of smile that appears in official photographs—polished, practiced, the one the academy expects from its president.

Her response bursts out bright and sugary.
"President♪ Yes, that's me! Yukinoshita Haruno, at your service~"

Her voice sparkles with exaggerated enthusiasm, each note a little too high, a little too warm to be genuine.

"I've heard so, so much about you," she continues, leaning forward just slightly, as though drawn in by admiration alone. "It's truly an honour to finally meet the woman who's guided so many talented girls to the top. I've been looking forward to this for ages."

Her gaze doesn't waver as she speaks.
It's fixed on me—too fixed.
The smile on her lips lingers just a fraction past politeness, long enough that even someone less perceptive than I am would feel the timing shift in the room.

There's a pause woven into her enthusiasm, light as silk and just as intentional. It pretends to be admiration, but the sharpness underneath it stirs a warm, controlled spark behind my ribs. Her eyes glitter with interest, bright and lively, but the longer I watch them, the more their purpose clarifies.

She is studying me.
Quietly.
Deliberately.

She's testing the ground beneath her feet, adjusting her stance, deciding how bold she can afford to be in the next breath.

She performs the role well—too well. But people don't call me the Emperor because I overlook small things. Details are where people reveal themselves, and she's already revealed more than she intends.

So I let the room breathe in silence.

Three seconds.
Long enough for her smile to strain at the edges, just enough to show she notices the shift in balance.
I keep my gaze steady, unblinking, giving her nothing to read and everything to react to. It's the kind of attention predators give—not loud, not cruel, just patient and absolute.

Only once she feels the weight of it do I move.

I lean back in my chair with deliberate ease, the kind born from years of being the axis around which entire conversations—and careers—turn. My gloved hand reaches for her file, lifting a page with the deliberate care of someone confirming something they already know. The paper settles back against the stack with a muted, controlled thud, the kind of sound that quietly redirects the room's gravity.

When I speak, I let the familiar tone settle in—the measured warmth expected of a president, shaped around a core she is not meant to mistake for softness. My voice stays even, steady, carrying the kind of calm that has guided countless girls to the starting gates and through far harsher storms than this.

"Thank you for the kind words, Yukinoshita-san," I say, each syllable deliberate. "I, too, have been… looking forward to this meeting."

Her smile holds steady, but her posture changes—subtly, like someone adjusting their footing on unfamiliar ground. She's listening now, properly, weighing the tone beneath the words.

I keep my own expression perfectly even, giving her no more and no less than what courtesy demands, and wait just long enough to let the balance shift between us.

There's a faint shift in her smile—the first honest tell she's given me. Not hesitation, not discomfort, but recognition. A quiet awareness that whatever she expected walking into this office, reality has begun to diverge from it.

"Ara, I wouldn't dream of taking up too much of your precious time, President," she says, her voice dipped in the kind of sweetness people mistake for sincerity when they're feeling generous.

Her gaze, however, tells the truth she won't voice.
She wants all my time—would take more than I offer, if I allowed it.
The courtesy is a costume, and she wears it comfortably, the way some people slip into a coat they've tailored to fit only themselves.

I keep my smile fixed in place—not welcoming, not cold—just composed. The kind meant to acknowledge her performance without giving her anything solid to hold onto. If she wants to trade masks, I'll let her think I'm wearing one. Let her wonder how many layers she has yet to reach.

"Time," I say, letting the word settle between us with the weight of a piece placed precisely on a board, "is something I always have for those who believe they can claim it."

My voice stays soft, almost gentle, the cadence I reserve for debutants teetering on the edge of panic before their maiden race. But the softness now is a choice, not a kindness. I lean forward just enough for the overhead light to catch in the strands of silver threaded through my hair—a reminder of years she hasn't lived, matches she hasn't witnessed, and ambition she doesn't yet understand.

"By all means, Yukinoshita-san," I continue, my elbows coming to rest against the desk, fingers interlacing with the precision of a ritual. "We'll take as long as we need to find the truth."

I hold her gaze, steady and unbroken.
No warmth.
No invitation.
Just clarity—and the quiet expectation that she reveal what she's been so carefully concealing.

She wanted my attention.
Now she has it—and all that comes with it.

---

Lunch break, allegedly the loudest, most chaotic part of the day, has the audacity to be… mellow. Figures. Everyone's orbiting the windows like they're auditioning for a nature documentary, or they've collapsed over their desks with their bentos half-opened. A cluster of girls are giggling over some video, but I let it wash over me. Noise like that doesn't even register anymore; it's just part of the school's background radiation.

Meanwhile, my own bento is sitting in the corner of my desk, untouched and probably judging me. I'm hunched over this tiny black notebook like I'm smuggling state secrets, arm curled around the page to keep any stray eyes from wandering over. Not that anyone cares. The only one acting suspicious here is me, and even I'm starting to feel ridiculous about it.

But I can't help it. The more I hide it, the more it feels like something worth hiding. Typical.

Page 23. It still smells like the pen ink I smeared all over it last night. Great. Now even the notebook has evidence of my bad habits.

Possible debut targets: Gentildonna (2yo maiden division)
Today: April 5.

Yeah, I even wrote the date like some over-motivated honours kid. If anyone actually bothered to look over my shoulder, they'd probably assume I'd been replaced by a more functional doppelgänger. The real me wouldn't be this… organized. Or earnest. Or whatever this is supposed to be.

– 1800 m (turf) • Sapporo • August 28
145 days. Which sounds like a lot until you remember it's me doing the planning.

Wide, sweeping turns—good for balance. Short homestretch—only about 300 meters. Races there get decided by who can knife through the corners the cleanest, not who can unleash some heroic finishing kick. If it came down to pure cornering, she'd shine. She's already smoother through a turn than most Uma Musume twice her age.

But the weather's cooler up there, and that short straight doesn't give her much room to unwind that ridiculous acceleration of hers. She likes to start gearing up from 600, 700 meters out, like she's rehearsing an orchestra piece and refuses to skip the intro. At Sapporo, she'd have to wait. Or worse, she'd trust my timing and end up flattening out.

And that's the part that bothers me. Not whether she can do it—she probably can—but whether I'm about to ask her to believe in timing I'm not even sure I believe in.

– 1600 m (turf) • Kyoto • November 19
237 days. Which looks comforting on paper, the way deadlines always do when they're still far enough away to pretend you'll magically become competent by then.

Then there's the Yodo downhill—4.3 meters of "good luck, try not to panic." Uma Musumes with real stamina chew through the drop and come out of the final turn like they've been planning their revenge. But a lot of fillies get a cheap slingshot from the descent, pop off early, and suddenly everyone behind them has to deal with the mess.

And Gentildonna… yeah. She absolutely loathes when some random overachiever gets a head start, she can't immediately erase. She'll chase them from the top of the stretch out of pure pride, even if she knows she's supposed to wait. She wants every win to be clean, no shortcuts, no charity.

Honestly, it's a perfect setup for her to burn too much too fast. And I'm the genius considering putting her there anyway, since it is something she wants to impress everyone with this debut.

– 1600 m (turf) • Hanshin • December 10
249 days. Practically an eternity. Enough time to fix all my mistakes, assuming I don't discover brand-new ones along the way. Which, knowing me, is the safer bet.

The uphill stretch at Hanshin is only about 120 meters, 1.8% grade, but it might as well be a divine test. Most Uma Musumes hit it and fold like they regret all their life choices. Gentildonna? She climbs like gravity insulted her ancestors. Every step looks like she's trying to prove a point no one else can hear.

If she ever figures out how to sit just off the pace and wait—actually wait—until the 400-meter pole to start winding up, that slope is going to break the front-runners' souls long before it breaks her stride. She'd roll right past them with enough energy left to glare back at whoever dared to lead early.

The catch is the extra twenty-one days past Kyoto. More waiting. More time for me to second-guess every tiny detail. But if I'm being honest, the course fits her so perfectly it feels like cheating.

Or maybe that's just me hoping I won't screw up the one choice that actually makes sense.

I catch myself chewing the inside of my cheek again, tapping the page with the back of my pen like that's going to magically summon competence. All it does is make the notebook look nervous.

She's a perfectionist. The kind who sharpens her own standards until they could cut through steel. If I circle Sapporo and tell her, "you're ready in August," she'll give me that steady amber stare—too sharp for someone her age—and calmly counter with, "I'll be better in November." And she wouldn't be wrong. She never is when it comes to herself. She'd just be… afraid. Not of losing, but of debuting with even a single rough edge exposed to the world.

And yet 145 days is enough. It should be enough. If we grind corner acceleration into muscle memory, if she learns to hold back that ridiculous surge for half a heartbeat longer, she can handle Sapporo. She can handle anything.

The real question is whether she'll forgive me for nudging her out there before she believes she's flawless… or if—some impossible day later—she'll look back and realise she already had everything she needed the first time she felt a winner's sash settle over her shoulders.

Not that I'm holding my breath for that kind of gratitude. I'm barely holding onto the pen.

I underline Hanshin twice—hard enough that the tip of the pen almost tears the page—then snap the notebook shut before anyone notices I've spent the last ten minutes letting my karaage go cold. Cold karaage… truly the mark of someone who has no control over his life.

She hasn't even officially asked me to be her trainer yet. Technically, I'm just the guy who keeps showing up early and staying late like some pathetic shadow hoping to be useful. And yet here I am, already rehearsing what I'm going to recommend after afternoon practice, as if confidence were something I could fake long enough to make it real.

Hanshin. December 10.
Let the hill handle the speeches I'm terrible at.
She was built for that climb—
…now I just have to make sure I'm not the reason she stumbles.

---

Today carries a weight I can feel down to my fingertips. It is the day we finally choose our trainers—an inflection point, a step that could determine the shape of our futures. The thought sends a restless hum through my chest, a blend of anticipation and the smallest thread of nerves that I refuse to name aloud.

Until now, the trainers have walked a careful line around us. Close enough to exchange a few pleasant words, distant enough to avoid looming over our every move. It always felt deliberate—an invitation to settle into Tracen without feeling observed. A considerate approach, I suppose.

But something in the air has shifted. Since morning, not a single trainer has crossed my path. Classes came and went with no unexpected appearances—no casual glances from doorways, no quiet watchers pretending they aren't looking. Even now, as lunch winds toward its end, the school remains conspicuously devoid of them. It's as if they vanished in unison, slipping away while none of us were paying attention.

Their absence settles on me more heavily than I expect. Only now do I truly grasp how little time I spent with the trainers who are actually available this year. Most of my conversations were with veterans—those who stepped down only months ago, or those already committed to another Uma Musume from last year or the year before that. I hadn't thought it a problem at the time; after all, guidance is guidance, and experience carries its own weight.

But standing here, poised at the edge of a decision that will shape my path forward, the oversight feels sharper. The consequences gather like a quiet pressure at my back, reminding me this choice was never meant to be made blindly.

"Barnacles."

The word cleaves through my thoughts with such unexpected gravity that it startles me into stillness. I turn toward the voice, trying to match that stern, almost dramatic tone with whoever could possibly have uttered it.

The owner of the voice is, of course, all too familiar. A tall Uma Musume stands there, long silver-gray hair falling in a perfect, straight curtain, her bangs cut with such precision they form a ruler-straight line across her brow. Perched atop her head is that peculiar brimless brown cylinder she insists on wearing—held in place by gold-trimmed straps that frame her cheeks and fasten beneath her chin. Each strap is anchored by a round copper ornament, large enough to catch the light with every shift of her posture.

I have long since given up trying to understand why she wears such a contraption, and now is hardly the time to question it. What draws my attention more is the expression she wears—something rare enough to give even me pause. It looks as though some unseen force has managed to push the resident troublemaker, the embodiment of chaos itself, Gold Ship, into a state that borders on genuine frustration.

"I don't see 'em!" Golshi blurts, her rosewood eyes narrowing with a focus so sharp it borders on alarming—and, astonishingly, tinged with irritation. The usual sly curl of her mouth is nowhere in sight; even that smug little tilt she carries like a signature has completely vanished. She stands there unnaturally taut, as if she's straining to pinpoint something perpetually slipping beyond her grasp.

The sight halts me for a breath. Golshi treating anything with earnest seriousness is already a rarity on par with witnessing a solar eclipse… but given that I'm fairly certain she skipped half her classes again today, the image becomes even more surreal.

Who or what in the world could she be hunting for with such intensity?

Suddenly Golshi's eyes snap open—far wider than I believed physically possible—and she clamps both hands to the sides of her head as if bracing for impact. She lifts her face toward the sky, suspended somewhere between an imminent tantrum and a bolt of revelation. I've never actually seen her lose her temper, so I can't decide which path she's poised to take… assuming she even knows herself.

She inhales slowly, shuts her eyes, and then—of course—slides straight into a pose so dramatic it borders on performance art. Her arms extend rigidly at shoulder height, elbows locked, fingers splayed as though she's attempting to lay claim to the entire courtyard… or conduct some invisible orchestra only she can hear… or submit to whatever wild spark just ignited in that unpredictable mind of hers.

"Radar alert," she declares, her voice flattened into what must be her interpretation of a machine, while her arms drift side to side in a strangely gentle rhythm. "Radar alert," she insists again, before turning in a full, measured circle—so deliberate it's almost elegant in its absurdity—then stopping with military precision.

"Trainer signal detected."

…She's searching for trainers?

The realization clicks into place with startling ease. If that is her mission today, their disappearance this morning takes on an entirely new, painfully logical meaning. Of course they're nowhere to be found.

They must be hiding—from her.

Honestly, I can hardly blame them. If I were a trainer and Gold Ship were making her debut this year, I'd be hiding as well. Last year's… incident—with the kidnapping and the sack—was unsettling enough to haunt anyone with a sense of self-preservation.

Given her track record, disappearing may be the most rational strategy they have.

Gold Ship can be formidable when she chooses to apply herself—there's no denying that. The problem is that she almost never directs that effort toward actual training. Most days, her focus drifts everywhere except where it should, carried off by whims only she can follow. Coupled with her singular brand of chaos, I can hardly fault the trainers who take one look at her and discreetly opt for self-preservation instead. Their well-being—mental and physical—likely depends on such decisions.

"No doubt—that's a radar ping. Alright. There's a trainer nearby."

Golshi delivers the proclamation with the unwavering conviction of someone who is utterly certain she has transformed into a functioning piece of equipment. And with her… I hesitate to dismiss the idea outright. Reality bends around Gold Ship in ways the rest of us simply endure.

A small thread of sympathy unfurls within me as she suddenly takes off toward one of the staff buildings, her stride fierce and utterly committed, as though destiny itself were calling her forward.

Whoever that unfortunate trainer is… they are about to face a very long afternoon.

 

[Lyrista]

Well some unlucky idiot is about to get Goldshi'ed

 

[ENDDRAGON]

Whoever that unfortunate trainer is… they are about to face a very long afternoon.

Click to shrink...

Hachiman that is without a doubt you.

 

[Setsura]

Well some unlucky idiot is about to get Goldshi'ed

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Tbh said unlucky idiot is also probably Haruno. She is the only trainer mentioned to be anywhwere near Tracen in this chapter.

 

[NICx2]

Do trainers only train one Uma at a time or can they train multiples?

 

[BloodFartMoon]

It would incredibly funny if Haruno gets told to fuck off and is then Goldshi'ed, and therefore stuck with most uncooperative uma in recent memory

Though some of my Dislike for Haruno (well... The yukinoshitas in general) from regular Oregairu is bleeding into it

 

[wildredlifer]

It would incredibly funny if Haruno gets told to fuck off and is then Goldshi'ed, and therefore stuck with most uncooperative uma in recent memory

Though some of my Dislike for Haruno (well... The yukinoshitas in general) from regular Oregairu is bleeding into it

Click to shrink...

in this case she deserves it.

 

[Setsura]

Do trainers only train one Uma at a time or can they train multiples?

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They can train multiple, as seen with Team Sirius, Team Spica, Team Canopus, Team Astella, and so on, but obviously training multiple umas would be a highly exhausting job. For non-team trainer handling multiple umas, you have Riko training Little Cocon and Bitter Glasse in the Unity Cup scenario. But normally a trainer would only have 1 trainee at a time (like in Cingray) because having multiple trainees require high level of skills and experience.

 

[Granet]

It would be incredibly amusing if 8man chose, read forced, to be goldships trainer. And is it odd I feel like he can get the chaos horse to train in a way they like? Im not sure how. it just a feeling.

But yea no, unless there's some major shenanigans that even the Emperor can't unfuck. Gentle is gonna be hachi trainee. There's no way she wouldn't be. Though if she isnt...well id have concerns for her well being.

Edit:
Wait a damn minute, in the first chapter gentle says "what i want and what fate plans are rarely aligned". Gentle got taken away by a trainer. And haci will be taken by a, mad, horse. Well shit looks like they won't be trainer and trainee.

 

[zackeylin]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[The Brotagonist]

I genuinely hope Rudolf continues her crusade in lieu of the absence of Akikawa. The three of them; Akikawa, Tazuna and Rudolf are extremely protective of any and all Uma. This whole plot reeks of a weird pseudo-NTR.

There'd be absolute hell to pay if an Uma Musume was forced into a contract with someone.

Why would Gentildonna care even an iota about any leverage the Yukinoshita have over URA or Tracen? With her personality and new in-universe bond of "The Childhood Friend" with 8man - I can't imagine her wasting even a second contemplating going along with Haruno or her Family's plan - period! There'd be a lot of "being reduced to a shape" happening.

Wait a damn minute, in the first chapter gentle says "what i want and what fate plans are rarely aligned". Gentle got taken away by a trainer. And haci will be taken by a, mad, horse. Well shit looks like they won't be trainer and trainee.

Click to shrink...

No, that's Verxina that said that or "Xina" in this case.

Unlike our imouto's clinging embrace, this earns only a groan from Cheval, heavy with exasperation. "Xina-Nee shouldn't want handsome," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose as though she carries the weight of the world. "Xina-nee should want an experienced trainer."

They are trying to show me they care, in their own unique ways.

"What I want, and what fate will grant, are rarely the same," I reply with a low hum, letting the truth linger in the air a moment before sweeping it aside. My hand lifts in a casual but commanding gesture. "Now then—breakfast awaits. Come, both of you."

Click to shrink...

 

[Setsura]

Why would Gentildonna care even an iota about any leverage the Yukinoshita have over URA or Tracen? With her personality and new in-universe bond of "The Childhood Friend" with 8man - I can't imagine her wasting even a second contemplating going along with Haruno or her Family's plan - period! There'd be a lot of "being reduced to a shape" happening.

Click to shrink...

Well, because Japanese being Japanese can pull the same thing they did with irl Maruzensky (labeled him a foreign horse so he can't run in most Japanese races) or irl TM Opera O (the infamous "everyone worked together to prevent Opera from winning including Yutaka Take himself, but Opera won anyway"). In a way, you can say it's exactly because Japan is like this that uma Rudolf has her dream of making a world where all uma musume can be happy, because, well, life in Japan isn't that good really.

 

[The Brotagonist]

Well, because Japanese being Japanese can pull the same thing they did with irl Maruzensky (labeled him a foreign horse so he can't run in most Japanese races) or irl TM Opera O (the infamous "everyone worked together to prevent Opera from winning including Yutaka Take himself, but Opera won anyway"). In a way, you can say it's exactly because Japan is like this that uma Rudolf has her dream of making a world where all uma musume can be happy, because, well, life in Japan isn't that good really.

Click to shrink...

Even if she were to be forced, nothing (Except, maybe Pride) is preventing her from sandbagging and ruining the professional reputation of Haruno as someone incapable of making her Uma win / succeed.

This whole plot is ridiculous...

 

[Setsura]

Even if she were to be forced, nothing (Except, maybe Pride) is preventing her from sandbagging and ruining the professional reputation of Haruno as someone incapable of making her Uma win / succeed.

This whole plot is ridiculous...

Click to shrink...

Welcome to horse racing scene, where the clash of human greed and pettiness and the poor animals that fall victim because of them is probably the most apparent out there. Hell, apparently uma betting is also a thing according to Cingray, so there are people in universe betting on the races of a bunch of high school girls.

 

[ENDDRAGON]

Welcome to horse racing scene, where the clash of human greed and pettiness and the poor animals that fall victim because of them is probably the most apparent out there. Hell, apparently uma betting is also a thing according to Cingray, so there are people in universe betting on the races of a bunch of high school girls.

Click to shrink...

I thought betting was illegal in the Uma verse. Is it like a Yakuza thing or are they doing a loop hole thing.

 

[Code_Cipher]

Nice, update!

I damn hope that Hachi, at least, gets to junior under Haruno rather than the latter straight up poaching Gentil from him. It seems like Haruno is setting herself up for failure by straight up burning the bridge between her and Gentil. You don't go between the girl that can create nuclear fusion by downsizing a steel sphere bigger than her torso with her sheer strength and the acerbic teenager she's childhood friends with.

 

[Setsura]

I thought betting was illegal in the Uma verse. Is it like a Yakuza thing or are they doing a loop hole thing.

Click to shrink...

I have no idea, but apparently the betting machine thing that people use to make their betting ticket in Japan also exists in Cingray