Just as Kitahara Sota was staring at the monitor, his expression growing more and more subtle...
...
Tracen Headquarters, Ritto Dormitory.
A brown-haired, gray-eyed girl called Vodka was staring at her own screen, looking conflicted.
She was "GraspVictory," the one currently chatting with Kitahara Sota.
Only, contrary to Kitahara's assumption, Vodka was not some adolescent boy, but a bona fide Uma Musume who had gotten into Tracen HQ on her own talent and ability.
And the reason she asked him that question was also different from what he imagined.
It wasn't to woo a girl. It was to apologize to her roommate.
How to put it... Vodka's relationship with her roommate Daiwa Scarlet was a little peculiar.
Say they weren't close? Then why did they stick together like they were permanently equipped gear, hardly ever apart.
Say they were close? Then why were they bickering constantly, arguing over anything and everything.
Recently, the thing they were quarreling over was a certain trainer named Kitahara Sota.
It began when Vodka, browsing the forums, came across some posts about him. She casually mentioned them to Scarlet.
And before long, she realized Scarlet seemed to hold him in unusually high esteem.
The reason: Scarlet was close to Agnes Tachyon.
Knowing Kitahara Sota was Tachyon's trainer, and having heard Tachyon sing his praises more than once, Scarlet formed a stellar impression of him.
Strange, wasn't it?
After all, Tachyon's reputation at the Academy was awful. Most Uma Musume avoided her outright. So why did Scarlet trust her so much?
Simple—Tachyon had been genuinely kind to her.
From the time they met, Tachyon had helped Scarlet countless times, never once testing drugs on her, never once tricking her.
Even the rare, side-effect-free boosters—Tachyon gave most of them to Scarlet, keeping only a little for herself. It was practically the treatment of a daughter.
So even knowing Tachyon's poor reputation, Scarlet respected her deeply.
Thus, when Tachyon spoke highly of Kitahara Sota, Scarlet believed it outright, and without ever meeting him, already held him in the highest regard.
But Vodka didn't like it.
Don't get the wrong idea—she wasn't jealous. She just never saw eye to eye with Scarlet.
If Scarlet said left, Vodka said right.
If Scarlet said white looked nice, Vodka insisted black was better.
So if Scarlet said Kitahara Sota was a good man, Vodka immediately argued the opposite.
And with time, the dispute only escalated.
Scarlet, trusting Tachyon, insisted Kitahara was pure 24K gold, the perfect trainer.
She even researched him in detail, every discovery raising her opinion further, firming her stance.
Vodka mirrored her, collecting her own sources, trying to prove Kitahara wasn't as great as the rumors claimed.
In the process, she not only grew more entrenched, she even befriended a leader in the "doubt Kitahara" camp.
They became allies, meeting now and then to discuss how to reveal Kitahara's "true colors."
Then, yesterday, while eating, the two were arguing again. Vodka accidentally flicked a piece of food off her chopsticks. It landed square on Scarlet's skirt.
Scarlet's favorite skirt. White, of course.
The food was oily, leaving a stubborn stain that wouldn't come out.
Scarlet scolded her half the day, nothing unusual.
But back in the dorm, Vodka noticed Scarlet lingered unusually long over the skirt after changing, hugging it, staring at it.
Guilt gnawed at her. So she thought she'd buy a gift to make up.
The problem—Vodka, though a girl, was more tomboy than anything.
Other girls' closets had skirts and cosmetics. Hers was all shorts, coats, sunglasses.
Others watched romance soaps and collected dolls. She watched action flicks, loved motorcycles, and was saving every coin to buy one.
She had plenty of female friends, popular even. But she had never seriously given another girl a gift.
Her tastes weren't theirs. The things they liked never drew her.
So, in this situation, her first thought was: find outside help.
And the first name that surfaced was "Hulubei."
Though they'd only known each other for half a month, her opinion of him was sky-high.
As a tomboy, Vodka always aspired to be a "cool" Uma Musume. Hulubei matched that image perfectly.
Mysterious. Strong. Quiet. With whispers of a past full of secrets.
She'd added him as a friend only after he crushed her in-game. Pride stung, she wanted a rematch.
Then she witnessed his rapid climb. From near-zero to nearly invincible, streaking through opponents with an almost perfect win rate.
If not for his low playtime, he'd already be on the leaderboards.
And not just his gaming.
After the first few days, they began chatting beyond the game.
She discovered—games were just one of many skills.
Once, she'd asked about an Uma Musume issue she was having, as a "friend."
He glanced at her text—no video, no data—and casually gave a solution.
She'd tried it, half-skeptical. It worked too well. Problems that had plagued her for ages, solved in an instant.
Not just Uma Musume issues. Though not a bike expert, Hulubei clearly loved speed.
Once, he even complained about wanting a motorcycle, but everyone he knew objected, refusing to ride with him.
The way he spoke revealed an obsession with speed. He even hinted at past street races, though never in detail—like it was a secret.
And not just that. Action movies, martial arts, all sorts of odd subjects—he always answered with uncanny precision.
He rarely spoke of himself, but even the fragments carried weight.
Especially when she brought up movie fight scenes or car chases. He would scoff, dismantle them as unrealistic, explain exactly how such things would play out in reality.
Down to details no ordinary person could know.
So after just half a month, Vodka admired him. She even begged him to be her teacher, to show her how to be cool like him.
He never agreed. At most, he'd accept her game invites, play a few rounds, chat lightly.
But even rejection didn't dim her awe. If anything, it fit the image of a true master.
So when she needed help, he was the first she thought of.
She logged in, sent her nervous message.
After a long wait, his reply came.
[Hulubei]:Then tell me the situation
[Hulubei]:I've got time, I can help you think
...
Kitahara Sota read GraspVictory's message. His expression grew more subtle still.
Vodka hadn't explained in full.
She only said she'd dirtied a friend's favorite skirt, described Scarlet's reaction, and wanted to buy a gift as apology.
Kitahara stroked his chin, recalling past chats. His gaze shifted.
For once, instead of answering directly, he asked questions.
[Hulubei]:You said you two are together a lot?
[GraspVictory]:Pretty much every day
[Hulubei]:And afterward she only lectured you like usual, no real anger? The gift was your own idea?
[GraspVictory]:Mm
[Hulubei]:I remember you once said you had a friend you didn't get along with, always bickering. That's her, right?
[GraspVictory]:...Yes
[GraspVictory]:Problem?
[Hulubei]:No problem. Let me think a bit
Kitahara stared at the screen, thinking. Then nodded.
Case solved. Idiot blockhead meets tsundere childhood friend.
If even one in ten thousand doubts had remained that GraspVictory might actually be a tomboy girl...
They evaporated.
Online he used male pronouns. His hobbies screamed teenage boy. Now he openly admitted he didn't know what gifts girls liked. And he had a tsundere "friend."
If this wasn't a boy, wasn't a human, wasn't some random middle-schooler...
Then Kitahara Sota would eat his monitor whole.
And given that—
He thought for a few seconds, then answered.
[Hulubei]:In your case, anything normal that girls like is fine
[GraspVictory]:Huh? Why?
Because you're a blockhead.
Kitahara muttered inwardly, but didn't say it.
He had reasons.
Partly, he disliked meddling in other people's romances. Partly... because it was funny.
Especially once he heard GraspVictory's "friend" was an Uma Musume—he could barely contain his glee.
It wasn't cruelty. It was just—after a semester in Tracen, seeing trainer after trainer fall to their own dense idiocy, he had learned.
At first, he'd tried to warn them. Tried to save them.
But after dozens of rejections, each swearing "My relationship is normal, nothing will happen"—
He understood why Tracen's trainer chat group treated watching blockheads get jumped as prime entertainment.
He just didn't know why, lately, other trainers had been looking at him strangely...
So now—half to avoid meddling, half as Tracen's influence—he kept the truth to himself, and earnestly helped him choose a gift.
Afterward, with the dorm unusually quiet, Kitahara didn't log off. He kept chatting.
Soon the talk turned back to Uma Musume matters. And then—
[GraspVictory]:Hulubei-oniisan, have you heard of someone called Kitahara Sota?
Kitahara raised an eyebrow.
[Hulubei]:Details
Step by step, nudged by him, Vodka explained.
She recounted her arguments with Scarlet. Declared her doubts about this Kitahara Sota.
Then laid out her evidence, structured, logical, convincing—not the rant of a mindless hater, but something that almost sounded credible.
Kitahara's reaction?
Depressed? Sad? Angry?
No.
Far from angry, he was moved nearly to tears.
With new transfers and time passing, with his own deeds at Tracen gradually revealed—
It had become nearly impossible to blacken his name. Almost as hard as deciphering Eclipse's thoughts.
But now, looking at GraspVictory, he thought—If only my girls had this kind of firepower, I'd never worry about my reputation being too good.
And so, to preserve this rare, precious High-Level Kitahara-Hater—
He didn't reveal himself.
Instead, he eagerly echoed her, insisting he too knew of Kitahara Sota, and agreed he must be rotten beneath the surface.
They chatted like this until, ironically, Vodka faltered first.
Saying she didn't believe Kitahara was as great as Scarlet said, but maybe he wasn't that bad either...
But seeing Hulubei-oniisan himself say otherwise, her conviction only deepened.
How could Kitahara Sota be good, if even Hulubei said he wasn't?
They talked a while longer. At last, noticing the late hour, Kitahara stretched, told her to rest, and logged off.
He shut down his computer, about to head for bed—
When his phone buzzed.
A message.
He froze. Who would message me this late?
He picked it up.
And the lightness in his face drained, his brow furrowing.
The text itself was ordinary. A polite request to meet, asking if he was free tomorrow, to discuss an important private matter.
The problem—the sender's ID. Kudou Kazuya.
And at the end, Kudou had even added: if Kitahara didn't feel safe, he could choose the place and time himself. He could even bring Eclipse.
Kitahara's eyes narrowed.
A finger tapped rhythmically on the desk.
Outside, under a moonless sky, darkness deepened.
Until the next day's sun rose.