Students at Tracen Academy dedicate themselves to the races of their future, but they don't spend every waking hour on the track.
The Academy is, first and foremost, a school. The girls attend classes on history, racing theory, and kinesiology. They take exams, eat lunch in the cafeteria like any other student, and only once the final bell rings do they head out to the dirt and turf.
In my previous life, I suppose the closest comparison would be a high-stakes high school sports club. The difference, of course, is that Horse Racing is the nation's premier form of entertainment, and for these girls, running is—quite literally—their life's purpose.
Unlike the girls, I didn't have classes to attend. But being a Trainer is a full-time job even when your athlete isn't on the track.
High-ranking Trainers who lead massive teams are often given private offices, but a rookie like me has no such luxury. I worked in a communal hub alongside other low-ranked Trainers who lacked the track record or the roster size to form a proper "Team."
I spent my hours hunched over a laptop, compiling reports on Urara's progress, drafting future regimens, and scouting potential race entries. At this stage—with Urara yet to even step foot in her "Make Debut" race—it was all just pie in the sky. But I needed a roadmap. Without a long-term vision, her growth would be aimless.
Furthermore, as an employee of the Academy, I had administrative duties to fulfill. While professional contractors maintained the tracks, only the assigned Trainer could file the mandatory status reports on their student's health and morale.
Some Trainers spent their time traveling across the country, scouting "local series" girls for the next big star or looking for younger talent with high ceilings. Others were bogged down in the commercial side—negotiating with manufacturers for character goods, or handling interviews with TV stations and magazines.
Well, none of that "star trainer" stuff applies to a rookie whose only runner hasn't even debuted yet, I thought, clicking through Urara's projected growth charts.
In my old world, horse racing was a gambling industry. Here, it was pure entertainment—spectacle without the betting slips. Yet, with major races drawing crowds of over a hundred thousand, the revenue from tickets and merchandise was astronomical.
I didn't know the exact figures, but in my past life, winning meant prize money funded by the betting pool. Here, that money came from corporate sponsorships and media rights. If a girl placed in the top five, the payout was significant. Even those finishing sixth or lower received "participation incentives" and "special entry allowances."
A Trainer's success is tied directly to their athlete's performance. My salary, my bonuses, and my standing at the Academy would all fluctuate based on Urara's results.
Of course, the Academy covers the girls' housing, utilities, food, and tuition. Much of the race winnings likely go toward maintaining those facilities. It was a massive economic engine, and while the sheer scale of the money involved was fascinating, I couldn't afford to be a spectator. I had to focus on the girl in front of me.
...And that brings us back to the problem, I sighed. How on earth am I going to make this work?
Training doesn't yield instant results. Even for a Horse Girl, growth is measured in tiny increments—a fraction of a second shaved off a split over weeks of effort.
I had hoped—prayed, really—that because she shared the name of a legend like Haru Urara, she might show some "protagonist-tier" explosive growth.
I pulled up the data from her first month. I had charts for her starting stats, her current stats, and projections for three, six, and twelve months out. Projections for a middle-schooler are notoriously unreliable, as they hit their growth spurts at different times, but I'd made them anyway because I was desperate for a sign.
If she grows at this current rate... Forget it. She won't even be close.
I compared her numbers to the Academy's database of past graduates—their race results, physical benchmarks, and training logs. Urara wasn't just a little behind. She was laps behind the average.
Our immediate goal was the Junior Debut in late June.
It's a dirt race, so the competition won't be as fierce as the turf sprints, I mused. Dirt racing isn't as popular, but if we fail to place here, our options for the rest of the year dry up fast. Even if we don't win, she needs the experience... No, that's loser talk. We need to win, or we're in trouble.
I clutched my head.
The racing circuit is a hierarchy. If Urara won her Debut, she'd be eligible for a wide array of high-profile races. If she lost, she'd be relegated to "Maiden" races. She'd be stuck there, unable to move up until she secured a single first-place finish.
At Tracen Academy, the elite girls almost exclusively target the Turf. Dirt races are fewer in number and carry less prestige in the "Twinkle Series"—the major central circuit. While regional circuits have plenty of dirt, we were in the big leagues. For a girl like Urara, who was only suited for Short-to-Mile distances on the dirt, the number of Grade-level races was depressingly small.
And putting her on the turf is suicide, I thought grimly. She can barely hold her own on the dirt against her peers. On the grass, she wouldn't even be in the same zip code as them.
I just needed one win. One win to get us into the Open-class races.
No, stay positive. She hasn't even debuted yet. We have time to grind, time to get her to the front of the pack... maybe?
My confidence crumbled at the end of the thought. I tossed the file onto the desk and ruffled my hair into a messy nest.
The data said Haru Urara was weak. Dangerously weak. There was a very real possibility she would spend her entire career cycling through Maiden races, never winning, until the Academy eventually gave her the boot.
And yet, she was so good. She was obedient, friendly, and threw herself into every grueling training menu I designed without a single word of complaint. She did it all with a laugh and a smile.