With the little nighttime episode over, time began flowing once again.
Kitahara Sota didn’t think much about it.
In his view, he had only handed Super Creek her Racing Outfits, given her a few reminders, and chatted a little along the way. Nothing worth remembering.
So he never noticed that, after that incident, the air inside his dorm had started to fill with the scent of gunpowder.
For now, Creek hadn’t yet found an excuse to step in. So the war remained in preparation. No shots fired.
Which was why Kitahara noticed nothing strange. He continued to focus on patrol each day.
And during those patrols, he began noticing hints.
Someone had started scouting.
As usual, he walked the streets beside Hayakawa Tazuna, acting like a couple, one hand holding Eclipse—playing his little sister—and feeding her snacks.
But while he slipped candies into her mouth, his eyes scanned a couple nearby, a pair a little older in years. His gaze narrowed.
Because two days earlier, he had already noticed that pair. And a few other scattered faces besides.
He didn’t know if they were the hunters he was watching for.
But even if they weren’t, their behavior was suspicious enough.
Their steps carried deliberate rhythm. Their eyes darted to cameras, to corners, to exits.
Their gestures of intimacy—on closer look—were stiff, detached. Even stiffer than his own “couple act” with Tazuna.
Most of all, the areas they moved in matched almost perfectly with the zones he’d marked earlier. Areas suited to ambush. To escape routes.
At this rate, Kitahara thought, an “accident” was bound to happen soon.
And sure enough, three days later—mid-September, they finally couldn’t resist. They chose to strike.
It was the perfect time. Vacation had dragged long. The new term was still days away.
Security would be slackest now.
And at this time, girls rarely contacted the academy. A temporary disappearance, with a touch of disguise, would go unnoticed.
So they acted.
But unlike the fool hunters Kitahara had dealt with before, this group had brains.
They didn’t lunge in with ropes and bags.
They did their homework. Collected schedules of big events near Tracen.
Planted members as temp staff. Caused “accidents.” Stirred confusion. Drew Tracen’s eyes.
They created noise elsewhere too. Pushed crowds away from key zones. Played at journalists, paparazzi, stirring enough trouble that Tracen’s guards had to disperse.
The result: scattered manpower. A messy field.
Then, as the auxiliaries finished their part, the snatch team moved.
They didn’t grab girls in broad daylight.
First, the “couple” scouted targets.
When they found prey, they struck up talk, lured them along, led them to a prepared kill zone.
There, hidden shooters would fire tranquilizers.
Then the “delivery company” would appear. Box the prey. Haul it out as “cargo.”
But something was wrong.
This time, when the couple led their “goods” into the trap, the shooters stayed silent.
“Um… excuse me, is something wrong?”
The two “goods” looked at them, puzzled.
The “couple” exchanged a glance. Saw each other’s tension.
Why hadn’t the shooters moved?
If they waited longer, either they’d lose the prey, or they’d have to act themselves before the fake truck could arrive.
After a beat, they chose the latter.
Time was running out. The vacation was ending.
Another chance like this might not come until next year. And by then—would their rich client still hire them?
So, though the risk was high, they acted.
The woman clutched her stomach, squatted down, face twisted in pain.
As expected, the two “goods” rushed to help, worried.
At that moment, she and her partner whipped out sprays of “Uma Musume-grade anesthetic” and aimed—
But…
Shhht.
Before they could press, twin streaks of white light sliced through the air. Pierced their wrists.
Blood spattered. Pain screamed.
The two targeted girls froze, shocked.
The “couple,” however, reacted at once. No hesitation—they turned to flee.
Even as they ran, they dragged out tear-gas canisters, intending to choke the pursuit.
But before they could throw, more white light streaked, piercing their other wrists.
Hands useless, escape ended.
A shadow was suddenly there.
Crack. Crack.
Two sharp snaps of bone.
The “couple” collapsed, stripped of flight or fight.
And just before those cracks, two broad hands had covered the prey’s eyes, and a calm voice spoke:
“Don’t look. Follow me. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
Confused, yet soothed by that oddly trustworthy tone, the girls obeyed without thought.
Led away, eyes shielded, until finally the hands lifted.
Sight returned. The open street. Passing pedestrians.
They turned to look—
“…Trainer Kitahara?”
Recognition dawned. The red-haired one blurted his name aloud.
Kitahara wasn’t surprised.
By now, his name carried weight in Tracen. And besides—he knew these two.
Daiwa Scarlet. And Vodka.
They fit the hunters’ criteria perfectly. No wonder they were targeted.
Scarlet’s ties to Tachyon explained her quick recognition.
But this wasn’t the time for catching up.
“I’ve matters to handle. You two return to the academy. I’ll explain when I can. Understood?”
Vodka looked as if she wanted to argue. But Scarlet tugged her arm.
“Trainer Kitahara, please, go on. We’ll head back now.”
Without waiting for Vodka, she pulled her along and left.
And with patrol mares already converging on the area, Kitahara didn’t escort them.
He returned, with Eclipse.
By then, the “couple” lay unconscious. Tazuna was there, face grave, scrolling her phone.
“How is it? Tazuna-san, did they talk?”
“Yes. They said someone was coming to fetch them. But time’s up. Likely, they saw something wrong and pulled back…”
“What was the pickup?”
“Truck. I got the plate. Already sent to the Chairwoman.”
Just then, her phone buzzed.
A video.
A truck, once headed their way—at an intersection, the passenger pulled out a phone. Tapped. The truck turned and left.
Message failed to send? Or a new order? Kitahara frowned.
Then more messages. The Chairwoman: she’d already alerted the police and URA to pursue.
But—holiday. Unprepared. Don’t expect much.
She added: capturing most of the members was already an achievement. Bonuses would be arranged.
Kitahara read silently. Then looked to Tazuna.
“Tazuna-san. Your car is nearby, right?”
Her brow arched.
“Trainer Kitahara… you want to chase them?”
He nodded calmly.
“I’m confident in my driving. It’s worth trying.”
For Tracen, today’s haul was “enough.” Two runaways could wait.
But Kitahara was different.
He was easygoing, patient, willing to let slights pass.
But when he acted—he preferred no roots left behind.
If he could wipe out a family, he wouldn’t leave a pet alive. Better to scatter the eggs than let a chick hatch.
If this weren’t a crowded city, if Tazuna weren’t present, if the hunters hadn’t vowed not to harm “goods”—
By now, he would already be planning their “accidents.” Their “disappearances.”
So even though the Chairwoman urged restraint, Kitahara wanted those handlers caught.
Because only they knew where the prey would ultimately be sent.
That destination was the only lead to the mysterious “buyer”—the one even Kudou Kazuya couldn’t name.
He couldn’t let it go.
Nearby patrol mares arrived. Kitahara handed off the four captives to them. Then followed Tazuna to her car.
But just as she went to get in, Eclipse tugged her sleeve.
“Tazuna-san. I advise you stay. Leave this to us.”
Her face was uncharacteristically grave. Unwilling.
Tazuna blinked, then shook her head.
“No. Eclipse, you’re still a student. I’m the Chairwoman’s aide. I can’t let you two go alone.”
Eclipse said no more. She simply sat in the passenger seat. Buckled her belt.
From that, Tazuna guessed something—but didn’t dwell.
After all, she’d ridden with a certain notorious racer before. A professional. She thought: no matter how wild Kitahara drove, he couldn’t reach that level.
And then Kitahara, finishing his checks, looked over at her.
“Oh, right. Tazuna-san. One thing.”
“…What is it?”
“Your car—it’s insured, yes?”
At that, a chill pricked her spine. Still, she nodded.
“Many policies. Why?”
“No reason.”
Kitahara turned back, face brightening.
“Just that, if it’s insured—I can drive without worry.”
—
T/N: DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE!!!
This is a fan translation of 人在特雷森，专职摆烂 by 多功能复读机 All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!
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