"Phew… your team's training volume is way too high."
In the Tracen cafeteria, El Condor Pasa set her tray down across from Hotoyama Scarlet and sat, speaking offhand.
Her plate held the usual clean eats—chicken breast, salad, rice and the like—but as an American horse girl, how could she stomach Japanese flavors?
So she produced hot sauce from who-knows-where and started painting it over everything.
Hotoyama Scarlet watched her food turn steadily red and held her tongue.
"Stardust Mirage's talent is really strong, but even so… I'm afraid there isn't time to special-train enough speed to deal with Noble Clan before the French team arrives. Besides her domain-level malice, her raw running isn't inferior to Japan's top tier."
Recalling today's joint practice, El Condor Pasa looked worried:
"When the time comes, is there really a way to beat Noble Clan?"
"A gap in strength is normal. Noble Clan is a world-class runner who's dominated France for years," Hotoyama Scarlet said calmly as she shoveled a couple bites of rice.
"But there's no such rule that a gap in strength means a guaranteed loss—that's when you need tactics."
Then she showed her trademark demon grin, pulled out the tablet she carried, set it between them, opened a video, and continued:
"I pulled some strings for this—training footage from the French exchange squad. We can get a look ahead."
The camera wobbled slightly; they could hear the camerawoman's breathing. But the frame stayed tight behind six horse girls with French flair.
They were running the course, each looking powerful—no worse than top domestic runners.
And because they were all tall-bodied, the scene of them thunder past added another layer of momentum.
Every time their hoof-soles met turf, power boomed like drumbeats that rattled the heart.
"Noble Clan's not in it; she must be on her own program," Hotoyama Scarlet said as they watched.
"They all look so tall," El Condor Pasa noted. As an American, she'd grown up around western horse girls and spotted it at once: all six had been chosen for their large frames.
"That's the recent French trend—reportedly Noble Clan's decision. They're pushing big frames now, saying that's how you guarantee enough power."
"Maybe it's tied to the frequency of heavy and super-heavy going in France."
Hotoyama grinned.
She finished her explanation and glanced at El Condor Pasa, as if expecting her to find the hidden problem.
But El Condor Pasa hadn't. She just studied the runners, hoping for a glimpse of Noble Clan's current state.
Just then Stardust Mirage finally returned with her six-set-meal stack.
She'd barely set them down when she noticed the video and craned in:
"What are you watching? These are the French team?"
"Mm. Condor's studying their training," El Condor Pasa said.
"Mm—hmm?" Stardust Mirage frowned at the screen, as if something didn't sit right.
"What is it?" El Condor Pasa asked.
"Don't you think the video's… odd?" Stardust Mirage glanced at Hotoyama Scarlet. The trainer gave her an encouraging look to go on.
"…I'm not sure this is off base, but who shot this?"
"Heh. You really do have a nose for this," Hotoyama laughed.
El Condor Pasa, prompted, shifted attention to the shooter.
She realized it had been filmed by someone keeping pace behind the horse girls with a handheld.
Meaning—the shooter was right on their tails and never shaken off.
Judging by the faint breath sounds and the degree of camera wobble…
El Condor Pasa concluded the camerawoman wasn't even going all-out to catch them—to catch this handpicked squad about to fly to Japan!
"That's impossible! Is it Noble Clan? No, Noble Clan's footwork isn't this light."
El Condor Pasa gripped the tablet tight, eyes wide, trying to spot a clue:
"Who on earth is this camerawoman?!"
Hotoyama Scarlet shrugged. "Just wait. She's the French squad's dorm assistant; she shows up at the end. Her name was…"
"Got it—Treve. Her name is Treve."
——————————————
France.
In wintertime Paris, an immaculate white snow-scape held a special charm.
Buildings and streets lay under a thick quilt of snow; the trees on both sides were draped in silver, boughs hung with crystalline flakes. Together they conjured a quiet, romantic air.
Steps on snow made a crunching music that broke the hush. There were fewer people on the streets, and those left felt all the warmer.
Bundled in heavy winter clothes—hats, scarves, gloves—they moved slowly through the scene as if savoring the winter's calm and beauty.
A small figure flashed between the sidewalks.
Her breath turned to white threads in the cold air, twining with falling flakes.
Her steps were light; on the thick snow she left nearly invisible shallow marks, and a few drifting flakes erased even those.
Her smile was bright as sunlight, cutting through the cold, adding vitality and warmth to the winter scene.
Before passersby could react, that petite figure had already skimmed by as if she ignored gravity.
"Who was that? She's way too fast."
A passerby cupped a gloved hand over his mouth and asked in surprise, "She's running on the sidewalk—she's not afraid of bumping anyone? Is she rushing somewhere?"
"Haha, we've long gotten used to it."
A ragged beggar squatting nearby laughed. "That little lass has run here since she was a kid—training, she says."
"Light as that over the street, stepping and leaving almost no prints in the snow—impressive, eh? The 'Cinderella Forgotten by Gravity'… that's what we call Treve."
"She should be hurrying home to Saint-Denis to eat now—there's quite a distance from the academy—well then, won't you give something? My mouth's gone dry talking."
He nudged his bowl with a foot, addressing the man.
"May God watch over you," the man shrugged, put several francs in the bowl, and offered a polite blessing.
"Hahaha, if God watched over me, I wouldn't have gone bankrupt," the beggar crowed, tucking the money away.
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