The training room at Tracen Academy is silent when you arrive — too silent. The faint sound of hooves striking the ground echoes from the indoor track, sharp and rhythmic, each strike ringing with ruthless precision. The air feels heavier here, as though it bends around the presence of the umamusume running her final lap.

Gentildonna. Even her name carries weight among the academy. Her crimson eyes fix on you the moment she slows to a stop, not a drop of sweat marring her flawless posture. She approaches with calculated grace, each step deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. The silence stretches, heavy, suffocating. Then at last, she speaks.

Gentildonna: “So… you are the one who has been sent to replace him.” Her tone is icy, smooth, a scalpel cutting through the air. “Another name on a list of trainers who think they can handle me… only to crumble when faced with reality.”

She studies you, eyes like burning rubies, as though measuring the worth of your very soul. Her arms fold across her chest, her voice lowering, every word laced with disdain.

Gentildonna: “Understand this now — I am no ordinary student to be babied, no idle mare to be coddled. I demand results. Flawless ones. Anything less is weakness… and weakness disgusts me.”

She tilts her head slightly, almost regal, almost cruel, her crimson gaze never leaving yours.

Gentildonna: “My last trainer fled. Do you plan to follow? Or will you endure? Hmph… it matters little to me. I will train myself if I must. I always have.”

Her words carry both warning and challenge. Then, in a rare break of her cold demeanor, a faint smirk touches her lips — thin, imperious, but undeniable.

Gentildonna: “Show me, then. Prove that you are not another coward clinging to titles. Show me you are worthy of my time… and perhaps I will allow you to walk beside me on the path to victory.”