The Lasting Impact of Uma Musume is Deep, as Expected

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Sleep relinquishes its hold as I rise from it, the gloom of the room confirming that dawn has yet to grace the horizon. The clock's digits mark 04:30 with uncompromising clarity, a reminder that idleness finds no refuge here. I shift onto my side, exhaling in a measured breath that steadies the body — spine, shoulders, limbs, and even the faint twitch of my tail aligning into order.

Each muscle releases in turn beneath the stretch, a controlled indulgence permitted only for an instant, before duty will summon them back into taut command.

The bunk beneath me protests in a muted creak, but I allow no distraction; silence returns, as it must, when discipline dictates the hour.

I rise with measured intent, the quiet movement betraying no hesitation, and let my gaze fall upon the upper bunk. The girl there is slight — her frame narrow, her stature modest even by human measure, markedly diminished when set against my own. Sleep softens her outline, yet the thinness of her form is plain, angles etched even in repose. Strands of black hair spill without order across the pillow, save for one that juts upward, stubbornly unyielding — a small rebellion against symmetry, as though the very notion of discipline eludes her.

For now, her breathing flows evenly, her features eased into stillness. The usual torrent of chatter and ceaseless motion — that irrepressible liveliness that unsettles as much as it amuses — lies absent. In this rare quiet, she appears almost delicate, as though stripped of the force that defines her waking hours. I permit myself a moment's regard for the silence she so rarely bestows.

I step down from the bunk and set aside a fresh set of clothes — crop top and bloomers, garments chosen not for ornament but for function. The day begins as it must: with training. Legs, arms, and core, all honed without exception. Routine is no indulgence; it is necessity. Discipline preserves, conditioning sustains, and only through such rigor does one remain equal to the demands placed upon her.

The bundle of fabric rests beneath my arm as I ease the door open. The faint click of the latch resounds far louder than it should in the hush, and I pause before moving on. Each step toward the bathroom is precise, my tread light upon the boards. To disturb another's rest would be needless, and I have no inclination toward such carelessness. I remain, after all, a guest here — afforded space, yet never entirely belonging within it.

Though that is not the whole of it. To the adults, I am no more than tolerated presence, acknowledged yet set aside. But to my roommate, and to the boy in the adjoining room, I stand as something else entirely — a figure entwined with their days since kindergarten, a constant within their small histories. That bond, more than courtesy or obligation, is what secured their willingness to aid me.

Chiba does not sit conveniently beside Tokyo, yet the train shortens the distance to a mere half hour — assuming, of course, one arrives at the station on time.

I could walk the half hour required to arrive there, but efficiency dictates a simpler course. A certain human, useful whether by choice or not, can be relied upon. He will draw out his bicycle, settle into the seat, and bear me there without complaint worth noting.

He may wish to insist that it is not generosity but reluctant obligation that guides him.

I know better.

It is the quiet steadiness of his nature, the kind of unspoken reliability that repeats itself without fail.

For me, it is convenient. For him, it may be a burden unspoken, yet I see in it a steadiness that earns my regard. It is a reliability I value, and though he would never name it kindness, I know it as such.

I lay the clothes upon the narrow counter — a cropped top and bloomers, fabric thinned with use yet suited for what matters. They are light, yielding, chosen for function rather than display. I strip away the garments worn to bed, the action smooth, ingrained by countless mornings. There is no hesitation in it, no indulgence — only the practiced efficiency of routine.

The bloomers come first. I draw them up along my legs, pausing to guide my tail through the reinforced opening at the back. The cut is pragmatic, the stitching firm, the width sufficient to grant the tail its freedom without straining the seams. Once in place, the waistband rests with even pressure across my hips, the fit secure and balanced as intended.

The crop top follows. Cotton slips across my shoulders as I settle it, the fabric close enough to remain steady through motion yet never so tight as to impede the breath or the stretch. I roll my shoulders once, let the tail flick behind me — small tests, but they confirm the fit. There is no glamour in such attire, only design serving its function. Every stitch exists to move with me, never against me, and that suffices.

The bathroom mirror caught me as I adjusted the waistband, a final tug settling the opening neatly around the base of my tail. The fabric smoothed over my hips without pinch or slack, while the crop top left the midsection bare as intended. Not attire for ornament. Attire for movement.

My eyes lingered on the reflection. The ears set atop my head, the tail swaying behind me—those alone would identify me as uma. Yet what I looked for lay beneath. At rest, the outline could seem almost gentle, the surface too smooth, deceptively soft. To a careless glance, it might even suggest fragility.

I shifted. A turn of stance, the lift of an arm, and the illusion dissolved. The bicep hardened under the skin, the stomach tightened, and the lines of the core sharpened. My thighs bore their own truth, carrying the strength carved into them by endless laps and drills, the hours of work that demanded more than comfort ever would.

A flick of my tail dismissed the doubt. I studied what looked back not with vanity, but with recognition. Every contour, every trace of definition, spoke of training layered upon training, discipline laid down day after day. The body remained smooth at a glance, but beneath that surface was steel. This was not a gift. I earned it through my blood, sweat and tears.

---

Today is not merely another sunrise. It is the opening act of my reign—the day that we get to meet our trainers of Tracen Academy, the other half of the crucible where Umamusume are polished into champions. The air itself seems to hum, charged with the blend of excitement and unease that clings to all who step onto this path. Yet for me, it is not uncertainty. It is expectation.

This is no trivial formality. Trainers and Umamusume are not thrown together by chance; we choose, and we are chosen. They seek out those in whom they see potential, and we, in turn, judge whether they are worthy of guiding us toward glory. It is a union of conviction. For others, it may be daunting. For me, it is an opportunity—one more step toward the Twinkle Series, the only stage fit for a queen.

I feel my thoughts begin to spiral, pulled too far into the depths of what lies ahead, when a voice cuts through and pulls me back to the present.

"Xina-nee!"

The warning is scarcely a breath before the collision—small arms and boundless energy crashing into me with all the determination her little frame can summon.

I brace against the impact and tilt my gaze downward, met by the impish grin of a girl who's turned mischief into a craft. Her dark brown hair, so deep it nearly mirrors midnight, sways with her movements, the single white strand across her bangs gleaming like a flourish she alone could wear. Lately she has been restless, forever seeking new ways to tame or adorn that mane, and today her chosen weapons are blue ribbons. They defy her hands, of course, but the stubborn persistence with which she threads them in gives her more charm than any polished finish ever could.

She is hopelessly endearing in moments like these. Too young still for middle school, four years behind me, and yet she brims with a tireless energy that spills into everything she does.

Her blue eyes shine like jewels, wide and brimming with mischief, and the grin curling across her face carries that feline sharpness that forever keeps me guessing—whether she plots some scheme or is simply overjoyed to be at my side. Such is Vivlos, my imouto: innocence and impishness woven together into one irrepressible little being.

A smile tugs at my lips despite myself as I reach out, fingers sinking into her unruly hair. My hand falls into a familiar cadence of headpats, each stroke sending her into peals of delighted laughter. She leans against me, her small body nearly quivering with glee. And why should she not?

To her eyes, today is the dawning of my ascent as a runner—a moment that transforms the ordinary into something radiant, a cause grand enough to celebrate with all her boundless spirit.

"You're going to start winning, Xina-nee?" Vivlos chirps, her words bubbling with unfiltered excitement.

The corner of my mouth lifts; I'm ready to answer with the certainty she expects, when another voice slips between us—cooler, edged with fatigue.
"Nee-chan's only starting her training with a trainer today, Vivi."

My gaze turns toward the source. There she stands, a year above Vivlos, her presence quiet but unmistakable. Chestnut hair cropped short, the white blaze across her bangs cutting bold and clean, set against the lighter tone of her coat. She looks touched by the sun in a way neither Vivi nor I could claim, yet for all that brightness, there is no warmth in her words, only the weary caution of one who has already measured the world differently.

This is my other imouto, Cheval Grand. Where Vivlos charms through unrestrained energy, Cheval holds her worth in the opposite manner—so intent on seeming grave and composed, so determined to present herself as the elder spirit among us. And yet, it is precisely that effort, the earnestness etched into every gesture, that renders her all the more precious. What she believes lends her dignity only deepens her adorableness in my eyes.

"Vivi's merely excited on my behalf, Chevi," I answer with deliberate patience, letting the words fall as if to soothe her. Yet I am not so merciful as to stop there. With Vivlos still latched to my side, I step forward and draw Cheval into my arms as well. Her slight frame stiffens the instant I close around her, horror flashing across her features as though my embrace were some dreadful fate. She struggles not against me, but against her own betraying heart, trapped in that space between my affection and her refusal to yield to it.

Cheval Grand writhes just enough to keep her dignity intact, her shoulders rigid, her face fixed into the mask of composure she so desperately clings to. It is obvious to me she has no true desire to flee—merely the wish to believe she endures this with lofty tolerance rather than relishing it in secret.

When at last, I ease my hold, she breathes out a weighty sigh of relief. It lasts only a heartbeat before Vivlos springs upon her, relentless, denying Cheval Grand even that moment to collect and compose herself.

"This is fantastic! I hope Xina-nee gets some super handsome trainer," Vivlos chirps, her words spilling over with boundless enthusiasm.

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."

"Nee-chan," Cheval Grand interjects, her tone sharpened by that ever-present sense of responsibility, "you might have finished your training, but neither Vivi nor I have."

Her words strike true enough; I cannot deny them. To push into training straight after a meal would indeed be folly. Yet when I glance to the clock and see the hands resting at six precisely, I cannot help the thought that their day should already be in motion. For me, dawn is the call to stride forward. For them, it still seems an hour to linger.

"Oh?" I let amusement lace my tone, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at my lips. "Then perhaps the two of you should accompany me for a second round of training. Just half an hour—what do you say?"

Vivlos all but erupts at the suggestion, her fist shooting skyward as she unleashes a cheer, eyes blazing with unrestrained fire. She shines with a vitality that borders on reckless, every inch of her vibrating with the thrill of the challenge.

Beside her, Cheval Grand collapses into the role of tragic heroine, her head bowing as though crushed by some invisible weight. Her arms hang slack, her entire frame steeped in theatrical despair, as if I had pronounced a sentence too cruel for this world.

What a drama queen.

---

My morning didn't start so much as it was violently interrupted. One moment, I was enjoying the sweet, responsibility-free void of sleep. The next, something heavy crashed onto my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs in a pathetic wheeze.

"Haaachimaaaan," a familiar, whiny voice drawled. "Make me breakfast."

Of course. It was her. The source of the disruption, draped over me as if my torso was her personal futon. My senses, dragged kicking and screaming into consciousness, were assaulted by the lingering smell of a hard workout. It clung to her like a badge of honour, and to me like a punishment.

Her red eyes were already open and sharp, a stark contrast to her lazy posture. It was a deliberate, irritating mismatch. "Haaachimaaaan," she repeated, nudging her head against my stomach with just enough force to be annoying. "Breakfast."

"Take a bath first," I managed to croak, prioritizing oxygen over diplomacy. "You stink."

A dangerous shift in the atmosphere. Her eyes narrowed. "I stink?"

"Of a workout," I clarified, words tumbling out in a rush. "An hour, at least. You were supposed to sweat. Mission accomplished." My survival instincts, at least, were functional.

She seemed to accept this, a smug look on her face. "Safe, Hachiman. Safe."

"If you crush me, who makes your breakfast?" I muttered, clinging to the flimsy shield of logic. It wouldn't save me if she ever got serious—this is the same girl who treats gym plates like modeling clay—but it was all I had.

I must have been thinking something unflattering, because her tone went cold. "You're not thinking something uncharitable about me, are you, Hachiman?"

Time for a tactical retreat. I scowled. "If you don't get off me, I'll have to air out my entire bed to get rid of that smell." A half-truth, but a useful one.

"Alright, alright," she whined, pushing herself off me with a complete disregard for my personal space. "I'll take a bath. But you can't blame me for being excited."

I managed to sit up, my spine groaning in protest. "Yes. I can."

"Hey! Today's the day you become my trainer," she announced, as if this was a great honor.

...What? The word hung in the air. Trainer? I don't remember applying for a career change.

"How did you even get Tracen to approve that?" I muttered. I definitely attended Sobu High's opening ceremony this year.

She just giggled, a light, airy sound that was completely out of place. "I spoke with the 'Emperor.' She made the arrangements. You signed the forms yourself, remember?"

Ah. The forms. Right, the paperwork from earlier before the school year ended. My brain's still catching up to the fact that I'm conscious—not exactly prime time for remembering administrative details, especially when I was so rudely awakened..

Before I could wallow in my poor life choices, she wrapped me in a hug that felt less like affection and more like a hydraulic press. "You'll need to come straight from class. I'll be waiting!" she chirped.

"What if someone scouts you before I get there?" I gasped, the question a desperate bid for air.

She just laughed again. "I already spoke with the Student Council President," she said, her eyes gleaming. "I'm getting you as my trainer, Hachiman."

That's great. Fantastic. Now if she would just let go, I could focus on the more immediate goal: breathing.

 

[Lyrista]

Sure, why not. A sfw fic needs attention too.

 

[Setsura]

I think this is the first time I see an Oregairu x Uma Musume crossover. Since Oregairu takes place around 2011, and one of the trainee girls in the chapter is Verxina, the muscular girl that can crush Hachiman like a bug is totally Gentildonna. Dunno if Hachiman will become Gentil's trainer as the chapter says, but even so it's rip Hachiman either way.

 

[MrSplashy]

Oh shit, a UMAMUSUME fanfic and from one of my favorite main characters and Author? Hell yeah!

Agnes Tachyon Supremacy all the way!

I wonder what hijinks 8man will go through during his stay in Tracen Academy. He will for sure find something genuine there, though I'll miss Yukinoshita and 8man lovey-dovey banter.

 

[Lementia_Vektiana]

I thought for a second that our guy Hachiman got reincarnated into a Umamusume~ I wonder who he is gonna train, excited to see how this goes down~

 

[death734]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Agnes Tachyon Supremacy all the way!

Click to shrink...

sadly Agnes was about ten years ago, for 8man

 

[MrSplashy]

sadly Agnes was about ten years ago, for 8man

Click to shrink...

Dang it! I can only dream about it then .

 

[Setsura]

Dang it! I can only dream about it then .

Click to shrink...

Tachyon's career ended in 2001, so like a full decade before Oregairu's story began. Unlike in real life tho, she is probably still alive in 2011 in the story, though no idea how the bowed tendon issue might affect Tachyon in here. In both the anime and game, it's told that Tachyon's rl issue is translated into a degenerative disease on her legs, so perhaps she is now confined to wheelchair in the story.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Steam still clung to her hair, each strand clumping together like the last traces of life before rigor mortis set in. A freshly showered zombie—that's what she sounded like, groaning my name as if it were some kind of summoning ritual.

"Hachiman," she said once, voice soaked in false tiredness thick enough to drown in. Then again, slower this time, the sound scraping through the air as she dragged a chair across the floor with all the energy of a dying appliance. She slumped into it, cheek pressed to the tabletop like gravity had finally won its war against her will to live.

"I'm tired… and sleepy. Feed me."

Her mouth opened slightly, expectant, as if I'd start hand-feeding her like some sort of medieval servant. The audacity was impressive, in a tragic sort of way. I watched her in silence, wondering when exactly I'd become the designated caretaker for the undead.

Right. And I'm supposed to buy that.

She's not tired. Not in the way she wants me to think, anyway. Maybe her muscles ache a little, maybe the aftermath of her intense morning exercises still lingers—but this whole display? It's a production. Full script, practiced cues, dramatic flair included.

The drooping eyes that open just enough to look pitiful, the deliberately slow gestures that scream look at how weak I am, the sighs that seem to echo for no reason but to be noticed—each one hits its mark with suspicious precision. She's not running on fumes; she's running a con.

There's a kind of art in it, though. The way she toes the line between vulnerability and vanity. She's not just acting tired—she's performing the role of someone worth comforting. And the worst part? She knows I see through it. She's playing her part anyway; confident I'll still take the bait.

"Eat it yourself," I mutter, words coming out more like a grunt than actual speech. I spear a piece of grilled fish, scoop a bit of rice, and shove it into my mouth before she can complain further. The flavour bites back—too salty, like the ocean decided to take revenge on my taste buds. Guess my hand slipped again. Or maybe my subconscious just wanted to punish me for trying to cook at all.

"Hachiman," she groans, dragging my name out like it's the chorus of some tragic love ballad.

Then again, louder this time— "Hachiman." Her lip's part, her mouth opening wider in this absurd, silent demand, as if sheer insistence might summon generosity. The picture's almost pitiful, if you ignore the fact that it's completely intentional.

"I doubt your reputation would survive if anyone from your class saw you like this," I say, half under my breath.

It's almost jarring, seeing her like this. The same girl who treats training like a sacred ritual—always chasing the next record, the next limit—now reduced to a heap of lazy limbs and whiny noises. The contrast is so sharp it almost feels illegal.

The way she sulks, voice dipped in mock misery, her shoulders sagging like a spoiled cat expecting a head pat... it's a performance no one on the track would recognize. To them, she's discipline personified—relentless, composed, untouchable.

But here, with her cheek pressed to the table and her pride abandoned somewhere between her sighs, she's just... human.

Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. And if her classmates ever saw her like this? Yeah, her perfect little image would crumble faster than my social life did in middle school.

"Hachi-nii," another voice chirps, light and familiar, right before Komachi drifts into the room like she owns the place. She drops into the chair beside the Uma Musume with the ease of someone who's done this routine a hundred times. Without hesitation, she tips her head back and opens her mouth, copying the other girl's pathetic display with unsettling precision.

"Feed me, Hachi-nii," she says, all sugary tone and weaponized adorableness, while I'm still trying to survive my own breakfast.

Then comes the chorus.

"Hachiman."
"Hachi-nii."

In perfect sync, like a duet born from pure chaos. The timing's so flawless it's suspicious—makes me wonder if they actually do practice this nonsense when I'm not around. Not that it'd surprise me. At this point, it's practically their morning ritual: one part performance art, two parts torment-the-Onii-san.

And I'm the poor fool stuck with front-row seats every time.

I let out a long, weary sigh — the kind that carries the weight of years of suffering under domestic tyranny. There's no way out of this. Not from them, and definitely not from the inevitable parental lecture about "being considerate" that'll follow if I keep resisting.

They're leaving in five minutes. Which, in my case, translates to a five-minute countdown until my so-called peace treaty is enforced by divine parental intervention. "Just give them what they want, Hachiman," they'll say. As if surrendering to these two gremlins qualifies as maintaining peace.

"Feed us," the duet groans, voices blending together in mock agony.

I grunt — a noise somewhere between protest and acceptance. The kind of sound that says, I've already lost but let me pretend I had a choice.

"Alright, alright," I mutter, the words slipping out somewhere between defeat and despair. The chopsticks clack against the table as I set mine down — the sound of dignity hitting rock bottom. I reach for theirs instead, already regretting the decision before I even take a breath. With mechanical precision, I scoop up a bit of grilled fish and rice, my hand moving like it's performing a sacred ritual of humiliation.

The Uma Musume moves first, leaning in with all the lazy grace of a cat that knows it's about to be fed. Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parting just enough to make the whole thing feel… unnecessarily suggestive for a breakfast scene. She chews in slow motion, savouring every bite like it's some five-star delicacy instead of the same salty fish I've been choking down all week. A soft hum slips from her throat — equal parts satisfaction and self-satisfaction.

Then comes Komachi. Subtlety was never her thing. She opens her mouth wide with a dramatic "aah," takes the bite like it's an Olympic event, and flashes a triumphant grin that screams victory achieved. A single grain of rice clings to her cheek, defying gravity and manners alike. She doesn't notice. Or worse, she does — and leaves it there just to mess with me.

I let out a sigh through my nose, the sound more a quiet surrender than a breath. My hand moves automatically, alternating between the two of them like some underpaid caretaker at feeding time. Each motion feels slower than the last, my arm weighted by the sheer futility of it all.

They, of course, are thriving — trading smug little glances, muffled laughter bubbling between bites. The synchronization of their amusement would almost be impressive if it weren't so painfully at my expense. They know exactly how absurd this looks, which only makes it worse.

By the time I set the chopsticks down, my patience is hanging by a single, trembling thread — the last relic of sanity in this madhouse. I grab my own portion of grilled fish and rice and shovel it in, chewing with the grim efficiency of someone trying to drown irritation with salt and carbs.

"Komachi," I say, turning toward my ever-smug little sister, "go get dressed for school. I've got to drop the Gorilla sitting next to you off early today."

Normally, that word — Gorilla — would set her off like a triggered trap. I'd get the usual death glare sharp enough to slice through steel, maybe even a retaliatory kick that'd make me question the structural integrity of my ribs. And if she's feeling extra spirited, I'd get a live demonstration of her so-called athletic discipline—which, to the untrained eye, looks suspiciously like amateur wrestling.

But right now? Nothing. Not even a twitch. She's sunk deep into her post-meal euphoria, cheeks faintly flushed, a lazy smile curling at the corners of her mouth. The world could be burning down around her, and she'd probably just hum contentedly, too spoiled and satisfied to care.

If I didn't know better, I'd guess being fed turns even the fiercest competitor into a docile house pet.

"But Hachiman," Komachi whines, dragging my name out like she's been training her whole life for this exact performance. Years of practice, perfectly honed. It's the kind of tone that could probably get her out of a parking ticket — or into trouble, depending on the audience.

"But Komachi," I shoot back, mirroring her voice with all the exaggerated drama I can muster. "If you don't move now, you're walking. I'm not making a second trip after I hit the station."

She folds her arms, lower lip jutting out, eyes narrowed in that calculated blend of defiance and manipulation. It's supposed to make me cave — it used to, back when I was still gullible enough to think she played fair. Now, it just looks like a rerun of a show I've seen too many times.

After a long pause, she finally lets out a displeased huff, shoulders dropping in defeat. Without another word, she trudges toward her room, muttering something under her breath that probably isn't praise. Small victories still count, I guess.

"You spoil her too much," the Uma Musume remarks, tone light but carrying that smug undercurrent only the truly pampered can pull off.

I glance across the table at her — brown hair still a little mussed from her earlier dramatics, red eyes gleaming with the kind of confidence that only comes from being coddled far too often. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence heavy with unspoken sarcasm. Then I lean forward and flick her forehead.

She jerks back, letting out a token "Ow," though it's clearly just for show. With her freakish Uma Musume endurance, my finger might as well have been a breeze. The gesture isn't about punishment anyway — it's a reminder. Or maybe just my pathetic attempt to reassert what little authority I have left in this household.

"I spoil you too much," I say flatly.

She laughs — a small, breathy sound that tries for modesty but can't quite smother the smugness underneath. It's the kind of laugh people make when they've been caught red-handed and still think it's charming. There's a faint pink dusting her cheeks, though whether it's embarrassment or pride is anyone's guess. Probably both.

"Make sure you're ready," I say, pushing my chair back with a scrape that cuts through her giggles. "Today's your big day."

She tilts her head, smile still lingering — soft, unbothered, a little too bright for this hour of the morning. "Our big day, Hachiman," she corrects gently, voice dipping low, like she's testing the weight of the word our.

---

There's nothing like feeling the wind on your face as you're cycling to school, Well, technically, I'm not the one doing the cycling. I'm just comfortably perched on the back seat of Hachi-nii's bike while he does all the work. Now that's the life. My dear brother might grumble about a lot of things, but surprisingly, not about this. He just pedals away without complaint while I enjoy the morning breeze like some kind of princess.

Or at least, that's how it should be. It would be perfect if I didn't have to share my royal seat with an Uma Musume who clearly doesn't know the concept of "lightweight."

Seriously, I swear her weight isn't measured in kilograms—it's measured in pure muscle power. Calling her "heavy" might even be an understatement. My poor spine can already feel its future shortening under the "powerful build" of this Uma Musume sitting next to me.

Not that I'm unhappy about the situation or anything, but seriously, I'd really prefer if Hachi-nii kept that doting "Onii-san" energy where it belongs—on me, his actual little sister. Not on some equine interloper who thinks a tail and a winning smile give her free access to my brother's attention.

I honestly thought we'd escaped her gravitational pull years ago. Her family packed up and moved all the way to some town called Otofuke in Hokkaido—pretty much the definition of 'far, far away.'

I still remember the sweet, blissful relief I felt back then, convinced that an entire island, a few hundred kilometres of ocean, and plenty of farmland would finally keep her from popping up in our lives again.

…Clearly, I underestimated the persistence of Uma Musume.

Unfortunately, fate clearly has a twisted sense of humour. Tracen Academy just had to be in Tokyo—and Tokyo is only a single train ride away from Chiba. Close enough, apparently, for my peace, quiet, and personal space to get trampled all over again.

I still have no idea how our parents were convinced, but somehow they decided it was a wonderful idea to let the gorilla Uma Musume stay with us while she attends Tracen Academy. Something about helping her parents save on boarding fees. How generous, right? A noble cause for everyone—except the poor little sister now questioning her family's collective sanity.

Now, every single day feels like some kind of twisted game for Komachi Points. There's another girl under our roof, and she's acting like she's competing for the title of most spoiled imouto. She throws herself into the role with the energy of a hyperactive puppy—and absolutely zero understanding or more accurately care of personal boundaries.

And what's worse? She actually expects to be pampered by my Hachi-nii. The same Hachi-nii who's supposed to reserve all that precious Oniisan affection for me, his real Imouto.

The real insult? He doesn't even seem to mind! Nope, he just goes along with it—completely unbothered, like it's totally normal to have a Uma Musume built like a compact tank demanding head pats and attention. Honestly, at this point, I'm starting to wonder if my Nii-san has a weakness for chaos.

I mean, if Hachi-nii were really that irritated as he likes to pretend to be, he'd just ignore her completely—or better yet, tell that Gorilla to take her Umazing somewhere else. Not that I'd recommend that, of course. She can crush training weights with her bare hands like they're stress balls, and I'm pretty sure even Hachi-nii's wit wouldn't save him from that kind of retaliation.

But honestly, since when has my dear Nii-san ever been known for making wise decisions?

Yeah… last I checked—never.

Otherwise, there's no way Hachi-nii would've gone and befriended that shy Uma Musume back when he was still in elementary school.

Seriously, what was he thinking? Did it ever cross his mind that maybe—just maybe—there was a perfectly good reason no one else wanted to play with her?

I mean, come on, playing tag with an Uma Musume is basically signing up to be publicly humiliated. It's like volunteering to lose before the game even starts.

"Stop moving—and quit dangling your legs," Hachi-nii's irritated voice cuts through the air.

Only… he's not talking to me. Not to me, his adorable, perfect imouto, Komachi-chan. The betrayal hits harder than I'd like to admit. Does this mean I just lost a few Komachi Points? Because honestly, it feels like it.

"The wind feels so nice on my legs," the interloper says, completely unfazed—her tone this infuriating mix of smug and airy, like she's doing the world a favour by existing.

"Save it for when you're running," Hachi-nii shoots back, sounding way too casual about it. "Otherwise, you'll end up hurting yourself."

…Oh, sure. Give her safety advice. Meanwhile, I'm over here reevaluating my entire sibling ranking system.

Still, the sheer seriousness in Hachi-nii's voice makes it impossible not to laugh. I glance over at her—and somehow, the absurdity of it all hits us both at once. Before long, the two of us are giggling like idiots on the back of his bike, while poor Hachi-nii's suffering reaches new, world-class levels.

I can tell she's giggling because she thinks his mother-hen routine is adorable—like it's cute how fussy he gets when he's pretending not to care. Me? I'm laughing for a completely different reason. This gorilla of an Uma Musume is anything but delicate. The chances of her hurting herself are practically zero. The odds of her wrecking whatever unlucky thing her legs smack into, though? Yeah, that's the real safety concern here

"Do you two want to walk?" Hachi-nii snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through our laughter. "Because if you're going to keep squirming and giggling like a couple of middle schoolers, then by all means—be my guest."

It's definitely a threat, but one I know he'll never actually follow through on. Classic Hachi-nii bluff—plenty of bark, minimal bite.

"Hachi-nii," I say flatly, pointing at myself for emphasis, "I am a middle schooler."

He just grunts in response, which, honestly, is kind of impressive. I can practically see the effort it's taking for him not to tell me to shut up. So, in the spirit of fairness—and because I'm a generous little sister—I'll go ahead and award him a few Komachi Points for restraint.

Unfortunately, the sight of my middle school creeping into view means the ride's almost over. Time to hop off and say goodbye to Hachi-nii, leaving him to the tender mercies of that gorilla Uma for the rest of his commute.

Poor guy—he has no idea what kind of endurance event he's about to face. I almost feel bad for him… almost.

---

Tracen Academy rises ahead, bright against the morning air. Its walls catch the light cleanly, every line deliberate, every edge reminding me of the weight behind the name. This place has bred champions. You can feel it before you even reach the gate — that quiet pressure to prove you belong.

And today, I do.
Today, I finally make Hachiman my trainer.

The thought stirs something deep in my chest, quickening the calm rhythm I've kept since dawn. It's absurd how easily he does that to me. If I weren't trying so hard to look composed, I might already be grinning, or worse — bouncing on my heels like an impatient child. Hardly the image I wish to give him. So, I draw in a steadying breath, smooth the hem of my jacket, and pretend the anticipation doesn't burn so close to the surface.

He likes to call it "maturity" when I act reserved. I know better. He enjoys watching me break form — the moment when my composure cracks and something real slips through. That's when he gives in. So, for now, I'll wait. Calm, patient, content in the knowledge that soon, he'll be standing right in front of me.

Near the gate, Hayakawa Tazuna stands as though she has been there forever. Eyes closed, hands folded lightly before her, the morning sun glinting off the gold buttons of her uniform. The green fabric fits her perfectly; the yellow scarf moves gently with the breeze.

There's warmth in her smile — quiet, practiced, yet not insincere. She carries the school's dignity like it's second nature. Watching her, I find myself straightening without thinking, as though her composure demands my own.

They call her the director's secretary, but anyone who's paid attention knows that's not the whole story. Her presence runs through the academy like a pulse—quiet, constant, unseen yet unmistakably there. Even before she speaks, you can tell she knows more than she lets on. When her eyes lift to meet mine, that calm, all-seeing look almost convinces me of it.

Then something shifts. It's barely noticeable—her smile softens, falters just enough to break the rhythm of the moment. The change is small, but it cuts through the air like a misstep in an otherwise perfect stride. A faint chill coils in my stomach, instinct tightening before thought can catch up. Whatever she saw, whatever prompted that hesitation, it wasn't nothing.

"Hayakawa-san?" The name leaves me quieter than I mean it to, my voice steady but softened by the question sitting behind it. I take a few steps closer, studying her face for whatever it is she isn't saying.

"Ah, good morning." Her reply comes quickly, too practiced. The smile fits, but the sound of it doesn't — light on the surface, hollow underneath. Something's weighing on her. I can feel it even before she finishes speaking. It isn't directed at me, yet the air between us feels charged all the same, like the pause before thunder finds its voice.

That look—I've seen it before. It only shows when something serious is brewing, or when Director Akikawa Yayoi's "experiments" have once again tested the limits of everyone's patience. Either way, it never means the morning will stay calm for long.

"Is something wrong, Hayakawa-san?" I keep my voice even, measured — light enough not to press, though the unease in my chest tightens all the same.

She doesn't answer at once. Instead, her mouth lifts into a small, sorrowful smile — the kind that hides more than it reveals. Whatever weighs on her, she isn't free to share it. The look in her eyes says enough.

I already know what it means. That subtle stillness in her expression, that careful choice of silence — they never appear without reason. And if my instincts are right, if this tension has anything to do with me, then the morning is about to turn.

"The senior instructors would like to see you before class begins," she says at last. Her tone is calm, steady, professional — everything I expect from her. But her eyes... those calm, reliable eyes falter for just a heartbeat. Not pity. Something heavier. Sadness.

A knot forms low in my stomach, tightening until it steals the air from my chest. This isn't good. The thought strikes sharp and cold — expulsion, before the junior year has even begun? For an instant, my calm falters. I haven't even made my debut. The idea of it ending before it begins feels… unthinkable.

I draw in a slow breath, forcing the tremor back where it belongs. Straighten my spine. Lift my chin. Panic solves nothing. "Hayakawa-san," I manage, steady but careful, "am I in trouble?"

She meets my eyes, and something in her gaze softens. There's no evasion, no polite misdirection — she's never been the type to hide behind them.

"No," she says, quiet and certain. "You're not in trouble."

The words should have eased me. Instead, the pause before them lingers, and the faint strain beneath her calm tells me what I already feared. Whatever this is, it isn't simple — and it's not good.

I draw in a slow breath, before shaping my lips into something that might resemble a smile. It feels thin, too practiced, but it will have to do. "Then… where should I go?" My voice holds even, though the edge of strain curls beneath it.

"The secondary staff room," Tazuna replies after a small pause. Her tone stays calm, measured as ever, but her stance gives her away — a faint shift, a stillness too careful to be casual. She's pointing me toward something she wishes I didn't have to face. It feels less like direction and more like warning.

"Should I just call in sick?" The words slip free before I can stop them — lighter than I intend, an attempt at humour that lands closer to nervousness than wit.

Tazuna's composure softens into a quiet laugh, gentle and unguarded. The sound eases the tension between us, if only for a heartbeat. "I should've thought of that first," she says, amusement flickering briefly in her voice. Then her tone lowers, the warmth folding into apology. "But I'm not actually allowed to say more."

The way she says it — careful, regret threaded through restraint — twists low in my stomach. Whatever waits for me in that staff room isn't trivial. And from the look in her eyes, she knows it too.

The hallway feels longer than usual. Each step lands with a muted echo against the polished floor, the sound measured but weighted all the same. By the time I reach the secondary staff room, my hand hesitates midair, knuckles hovering just short of the door. I take one steadying breath, then knock.

Silence greets me. No papers rustling, no idle conversation — not even the faint scrape of a chair. The kind of stillness that doesn't belong in a place meant for work. They must be in a meeting, I tell myself. Everyone's occupied.

But the thought does little to settle the unease crawling up my spine. If the staff are elsewhere, then why summon me here at all?

"Come in," a voice calls — bright, practiced, just a touch too even. Not true cheer, but the imitation of it. The kind people wear when they need you to believe everything's fine.

I turn the handle and step inside.

A woman sits waiting, poised as if the moment had been staged in advance. Her hair falls in a sleek line to her shoulders, black fading into violet at the tips — a small rebellion in an otherwise immaculate presentation.

Rose-coloured eyes track me with a focus softened by grace, sharp enough to measure but never to cut. The cream knit cardigan, the white blouse beneath, the long skirt that sways just enough when she moves — every detail carefully chosen, each element designed to say approachable, refined, safe.

Her smile reaches me first — open, polished, deliberate. It fits the scene perfectly until I meet her eyes. They smile, too, but not in the same way. There's calculation behind the warmth, a precision that doesn't belong to sincerity. The two halves don't align, and the discord between them hums just beneath the surface.

I feel it immediately — that subtle wrongness that doesn't show in gestures or words, only in the air between them. Whatever she wants, whatever purpose sits behind that pleasant exterior, it isn't simple courtesy. And I've learned enough to know when someone's wearing charm like armour.

"Good morning, Gentildonna-chan."

The voice carries across the room before I can even close the door. Bright. Smooth. Too assured to be casual. She rises from her chair with the kind of confidence that doesn't request attention — it assumes it, and the room obeys.

"My name is Yukinoshita Haruno," she continues, each word flowing with a polish that sounds almost rehearsed yet never forced. "And I'll be your trainer for the next three years."

For a heartbeat, I simply stare.
Trainer?
For the next three years?

The words land like a blow. Something sharp twists in my chest before I can steady it. A grating screech follows — metal grinding against metal — and I realize too late that the sound comes from my own hand. My fingers have clenched hard around the door handle, the steel warping beneath the pressure.

When I finally look down, the handle sits twisted in my grip, bent as though it were no stronger than clay. The sight drags me back into myself. I release it slowly, forcing my breathing to match the rhythm I can control — the only rhythm that matters right now.

Haruno — if that truly is her name — pauses, eyes widening with a glint of surprise that borders on delight.
"Wow," she murmurs under her breath, as if the words were meant more for her than for me. "They really didn't exaggerate your strength."

I say nothing. The air between us feels uneven, as though the room itself has shifted off its axis. Whatever she expected from me, I have no intention of giving her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I turn sharply, grip steady this time, and pull the door closed with a force that makes the frame shudder. Her laughter trails after me, low and unbothered, like someone amused by the opening move of a game they already think they've won.

My pace quickens. I need to find Symboli Rudolf. She'll make sense of this—she must.

Because this isn't how it's meant to be.
Hachiman is supposed to be my trainer.

 

[Nelyahros01]

My pace quickens. I need to find Symboli Rudolf. She'll make sense of this—she must.

Click to shrink...

Oh damn, did Symboli betray her or did someone mess with the Emperor?

 

[death734]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.

 

[Setsura]

Oh damn, did Symboli betray her or did someone mess with the Emperor?

Click to shrink...

Sounds like the latter, given Tazuna also looks like she is reluctant for this to happen but can't do anything about it. So probably Haruno being Haruno chose to mess around so she can train Gentil.

 

[The Hero Without a Name]

So why a Sfw Uma Musume fic, is the plan to only be wholesome?

 

[Setsura]

So why a Sfw Uma Musume fic, is the plan to only be wholesome?

Click to shrink...

I think because JRA and Cygames explicitly ask the people to please don't lewd the horse girls (and also because, you know, some of them are middle schoolers).