Mad Socrates
The grandstands were packed to the brim with people. A chaotic buzz naturally hung in the air around us, but it wasn't just mindless noise. Separate from the bustle created by the sheer number of bodies, there was a thick tension simmering—an unmistakable scent unique to those who'd wagered hefty fortunes, wolves eyeing that one big score in life. Some couldn't hide their excitement, hearts pounding as they tried to hold it together; others muttered darkly to themselves, lost in their own analyses. I wouldn't be surprised if a few hadn't even bothered with a proper bath before rushing here. Imagining a creepy, smelly beauty like that, I took a light sip from the beer in my hand.
Truth be told, I don't care for alcohol. I avoid it as much as possible, both in my past life and this one. Well, I only tried it once back then anyway. So why the beer? Because beer isn't booze—it's a beverage.
"Is that any good?"
"It's decent enough."
This wasn't some German-style joke; I meant it sincerely. For real. It doesn't even get you drunk. No alcohol whatsoever, yet the taste is perfectly beer. If I had to nitpick, it's several times better than the few sips I had in my past life. Given the flavor, I could see why it translated as 'beer.' I still can't figure out how they get this taste from fruit juice—back when my past-life memories first returned, I was floored hearing the term 'beer tree.'
"Want some, Riley?"
"Nah, I'm good. Tried it last time—not my thing."
"Looks like you're not fully imperial yet."
In the Angras Empire, beer is practically soul food. And since it's not classified as booze here, it's often rationed out in the military or even prisons. No beer? Even in jail, skipping kimchi in the meals would spark human rights debates. The quantity might be skimpy or the quality iffy, but with three meals a day, at least two usually came with beer. Sometimes it arrived as whole fruit instead of juice, which was a bit weird texture-wise... but still edible.
"What about you, Beni?"
"Um, well, it's too bitter for me."
"......"
"D-don't look at me like that!"
"No, no. Everyone's got their tastes."
There are Koreans who can't handle spicy kimchi. I just haven't met any. Same logic applies to imperials who can't stomach beer. Calling them out with 'How can an imperial not like beer?' would be narrow-minded.
"You said this is your first time at a racetrack, Beni. What's your impression so far?"
No point dragging this out and hurting her feelings, so I shifted topics.
"Impression? Hmm......"
Beni pondered my question for a moment before speaking up.
"It's incredibly hot somehow. And the race hasn't even started."
"That's how much anticipation there is."
Whether they were cheering for the horses or their incoming winnings varied by person. Even in my past life's baseball stadiums, where most folks didn't bet, the heat was like this sometimes—so no need to paint everyone here as gambling fiends.
As those thoughts crossed my mind, majestic music swelled through the track. Unlike the near-noise of military bands, this was a melody suited for events like this—and indeed, that's exactly how it was being used. Cheers erupted sporadically from the stands. Beni flinched like a startled puppy, shoulders jumping at the sound.
Why the huge reaction? The mystery cleared up fast. What had been hidden by crowds and structures drew closer, revealing themselves: horses parading gracefully around the track's edge, jockeys atop them in vibrant, colorful outfits. These had to be today's entrants.
"Oh, Instructor! There's the #4 our seniors mentioned..."
Riley had already shot to her feet, peering down.
"...Huh? A beastkin?"
She muttered upon spotting something odd.
"Yes, that's right."
I was looking the same way and nodded. I prefer buying tickets over watching races live, but this wasn't my first time at a track. Even just from purchasing slips, certain names stick. I knew the top horses and a few standout jockeys who got hired often for their skills.
"Berele. In any debate on the best active jockeys, her name's always in the top three."
At the end of my gaze sat a woman astride a pitch-black stallion. Her frame was rail-thin, enough to remind me of Princess Saki. But what truly drew the eye—more than her scrawny build, unappealing by this world's standards—was her crown: perky white rabbit ears sprouting straight up. A beastkin. Alongside humans and elves, one of the races classified as 'humanity' or 'intelligent beings.' Berele, rider for #4 this time, was one such.
"A beastkin jockey... Well, no rule says they can't, so it's not that weird."
Beni's eyes widened a bit in surprise. Most beastkin live in Maob, aka the beastkin nation. The Empire has a decent number compared to others, but with our huge population, the ratio isn't standout. Encounters are rare enough; mounted beastkin even rarer.
Beastkin wield special rites atop aura to boost physical prowess—literally a race of super-strong dogs and oxen. Yet humans dominate the continent because beastkin lack mana manipulation. The whole race is locked into the martial artist tree... and as we know, martial artists don't delve deep into riding. Horses are at best auxiliary transport to preserve stamina. Training focuses on long-distance efficiency. All-out sprints over short distances like racing? Rare. If needed, they'd ditch the horse and run themselves.
Many jockeys debut leveraging military riding skills. Bluntly, that's the only free option; the affluent who could pay for lessons rarely pursue track jobs—it's seen as lowbrow spectacle work. Flip that: most jockeys are ex-military mages. Few pure martial artists, even fewer beastkin ones. Beni, unfamiliar with racing, probably just hadn't seen many beastkin period. No beastkin students across all three grades this year, right?
"Ah, #3's there too!"
Riley finally spotted her bet late, distracted by the ears. Classic her. Beni and I were wagering others' money; she was risking her own with that attitude.
"But that one's looking sketchy too."
"...Yeah, definitely."
I'd checked #3's jockey too, so I agreed. A horse with a blinker wasn't odd, but a person in a full mask? Jarring. Still, the calm crowd suggested it wasn't rare. Probably her gimmick, I figured.
#6... no clue.
Average build, no eerie vibe. The horse looked big and healthy, but that doesn't guarantee wins. Odds-wise, not highly rated. Still, worth rooting for. Not my call, but I'd bought tickets; low expectations don't doom you. That's gambling—upsets happen.
"#4...! It's rearing up at the gate...! Oh?! Berele fell! Even a late start won't save it now..."
"Aaaargh! Fuck! Don't screw me!"
"What the hell's that idiot doing?!"
"Instructor! #4—the 'sure thing' our seniors swore by—is toast already! Go Beni!"
"Uh, uh, yeah. So who do I cheer for now...?"
"Cheer my #3 with me!"
No, I said upsets might happen.
"Whoooa?! Closing in?! Push harder! #3! I believe in you!"
"Th-three... fighting...!"
"Beni! Louder!"
"Sh-shouting won't help... ugh, fighting!"
I said it, but...
"...Ah! So close to first. What a shame."
"Yeah... one more head length and it'd have passed #6...... Huh? #6...?"
"Er... Instructor, what ticket numbers did you buy again?"
"......"
I didn't expect this level of upset.
1st: #6. 2nd: #3. 3rd: #4... but disqualified for jockey fall, finished solo as #13.
"Well, um."
#6, popularity rank 11. #3, rank 8. Exacta payout—
#6-#3 Exacta: 3727.4x
...How the hell do I even process this?
Yura Konstantia, 19, active lieutenant. Extorted students' cash for bets, now rich enough for a capital mansion.
"...What now?"
A mad reverse sweep meant masses lost big. After cashing tickets and fleeing the track, I asked the students. But Beni and Riley stared not at my mouth—at my hand.
Rightly so. I held what amounted to a mansion.
Students from decent families, ample allowances. Riley's stake alone was hefty; multiples more via her toto pool doubled it. Half turned into 3000+ times—rounded to near 4000x. Smart land deals could build a fortress. A state-issued check, imperial crest and all, fluttered between my fingers.
Too flashy on the street? Pickpockets can't fence billion-unit checks. Non-cash alone complicates it; this sum requires verification even for me. Some slum thief flashing it? Instant beatdown, then on-site interrogation: "Where'd you steal this?"
"Can't we stick to the plan? You said we'd donate winnings, Instructor."
"Yes, I did say that, but......"
I nodded at Riley's matter-of-fact tone. No second thoughts on the money. Just checking their input. Jaw-dropping sum—even if I was fine, couldn't assume they were. Donate fully, sure, but sharing a cut first was fair.
"What about you, Beni?"
Riley aside, definitely poll Beni. If a tip from a pal hits lotto, you don't give it all but toss 'em a solid slice morally. Hell, if she wanted the full pot, I'd hand it over. Didn't matter whose pocket.
This world lacks spending outlets despite money. No internet, no video—plays and duels are peak thrills. Plays are bland vs. modern stages; duels as a pro just scream 'Why that call?!'
Gambling? Wins just yield cash. Strip mahjong? I'd commit. Yeah, core issue: culture here can't top girl-gazing dopamine.
...Public jerk-off beats any public madness past or present? Uh, skip that. Not important.
Beni obsesses over cash usually, so this windfall might sway her...
"J-just donate it all. That's fine."
"Really?"
"Kinda sucks, but... we agreed from the start."
No ownership vibe from the jump, maybe. Beni yielded surprisingly easy. Soft-hearted as ever. With her on board, no choice. Recalled the church en route. Perfect. Gambling penance incoming.
"Sister. Sorry, but we can't accept gambling proceeds."
"...Pardon?"
Time-kill ploy: massive fail. Total curveball.