Chapter 1: A Rough Delivery

The last thing I remember was looking at the loading screen of a game. When suddenly everything went black.

At first, I thought I was asleep.

I mean you can't blame me, it's sometimes normal for people to be in a lucid state while in a paralyzed sleep.

And I could feel some sort of membrane or liquid covering my entire body.

My first guess was that I have been kidnapped and put to sleep in some kind of liquid pod, like in the movies.

As time passed, I realized that there are occasional vibrations, and muffled noises. That's when I realized. I am inside something's belly.

So my second guess was that I was eaten by an alien and I couldn't move or see because some poison was injected into me by the alien.

And days passed like that, I began being able to move. I thought that the poison was fading with time. So I did my utmost to move and rip out of the monster's stomach, as is the 'Still Stronger' way.

.................

One day, while I was doing my daily struggle, I suddenly felt a difference from usual. It was like a sudden chill. And I felt something massive grab me by the legs and pull me out.

A blinding white light fell onto my eyes. After slowly adjusting to the light, what came into view was a stomach cut open. I'm not an expert, but it doesn't take an expert to realize that there's been a cesarean surgery here.

So, I guess that makes me the baby.

It was an easy guess. Because, the umbilical cord was still there.

They cut the cord. Some woman who looked like a nurse hit me on the back. I didn't cry. Believe me, it's not because I didn't want to. I just couldn't. All I could manage was to cough up some liquid.

Then I was handed to another person. He hit me as well, causing me to cough out more of that stuff. When I finally managed to finish coughing, the psychopath whom I assumed was the doctor hit me again.

You know what's really annoying – you are choking on something, and someone hits you on the back really hard. Now if it were while you were choking, that can be categorized as goodwill. But hitting you when you finished choking means that there is definitely some malice involved.

You can't expect to hit me and for me to remain still.

So I gripped the guy's finger.

Now, you might think: What could a baby possibly do to this gigantic psychopath of a doctor?

That's why I chose to grip. Many people might not know this — when people in the gym say "baby grip," it's not an insult. It's a compliment. If you're smart, you'd have realized by now why it's a compliment.

It's because babies have insane grip strength.

So I gripped his finger with a war cry that sounded way too cute for my preference. The guy screamed and dropped me — but I held onto his finger while screaming.

That psychopath of a doctor was swinging his arm around like he was trying to shake off a bug. The bug in question (me) tightened its grip in response.

While I was hanging on for dear life, the guy stopped moving and held his hand toward one of the nurses. The thing is, I was still holding onto that hand. So if you connect his series of actions, the thing he actually held out was me.

Before I knew it, a nurse sneak‑attacked me with some pointy object. My last thought before I lost consciousness was: "That was foul play. I demand a rematch."

....

(A/N: I put in this part in here just to inflate the word count. Not required for you to read this. Pretty boring and not required for the continuation of the story.)

Doctor Yamashita's POV :

My name is Yamashita Mikoto. I am a doctor at Tracen Hospital. I've delivered over two thousand babies. I've seen it all – umbilical cords tied in knots, babies who came out waving, one who bit me on the nose.

I am a specialist in high‑risk neonatal care. I've been called the best in the prefecture. I own three suits, two fountain pens, and a coffee mug that says "World's Okayest Doctor" ironically.

If you're wondering why I'm monologuing like this, it's because I do it before every delivery. Because it helps me focus.

"Phew. You got this."

I look at the file in my hand. Lily White. Uma Musume. 160 cm. Failure to progress. Abnormal fetal movements.

That last part is unusual. The nurses' notes say the mother was in active labor for twelve hours, but the baby never descended. Every time they tried to monitor the fetal position, the baby would move – not normal kicking, but violent, coordinated thrashing. The obstetrician on call described it as "the baby fighting the birth canal."

I've never seen that before.

The father – a human, 180 cm, looks like a scared rabbit – is waiting outside. Probably pacing. I don't blame him.

"Yamashita Sensei, the patient is ready," the nurse calls.

I exhale. "Coming."

Operation – Live Narration

I scrub in. The water is scalding. Good. Kills the nerves.

Gloves on. Gown. Mask. The lights in the OR are blinding. The mother is already on the table, draped. She looks tired – deep circles under her eyes – but calm. That's the Uma blood. Three times normal human strength. Even after twelve hours of labor, she's not trembling.

"Lily-san," I say, "you'll feel pressure but no pain. Ready?"

"Just get her out," she says. "She's been trying to claw her way out for hours."

I assume she's exaggerating.

"Scalpel."

The incision is horizontal. Low. Just above the pubic bone. The "bikini cut" – though I doubt she'll be wearing one anytime soon. The skin parts. Then fat. Then fascia. Then muscle. Each layer, I cut and retract.

The uterus is a stretched, pink dome. I can see the outline of the baby through the wall – but something is wrong. The baby is moving. Rapid, jerky movements. Not the usual gentle rolls.

"Her heart rate?" I ask.

"Stable," the nurse says. "But the fetal monitor keeps losing contact. She's moving too much."

"Suction." I clear the amniotic fluid. Then I make the uterine incision.

The blade goes through. Fluid gushes. I reach in.

I feel a foot. Then another. The baby is feet‑first – not unusual for a C‑section. I grab both ankles. The baby kicks – hard – but I hold on.

I pull.

She comes out in a rush – A baby Uma Musume, white hair, tiny horse ears, a tail. Covered in vernix and blood. I hold her up by the legs, the way you'd hold a rabbit.

She doesn't cry.

She blinks. Her eyes are ice blue, but they're unfocused. Pretty normal baby for an uma musume.

"Apgar," I say automatically.

"Heart rate normal," the nurse says. "Color pink. She's not crying."

I hand her to the nurse for drying and stimulation. "Clear her airways."

The nurse takes her.

And then I shift my attention to the mother still open on the table.

"Sensei, there is something wrong."

As I was preparing to close the mother, a nurse interrupts me. Seriously, rookies.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"The baby doesn't seem to be crying," she replies.

"Show me."

She hits the baby on the back – standard. The baby coughs up fluid. No cry.

The nurse hits her again. The baby coughs more fluid. Still no cry.

I watch. Something is wrong. The fluid isn't clearing fast enough.

"Give her to me," I say.

The nurse hands her back. I hold her face‑down on my forearm, head lower than chest. I hit her on the back – one, two, three – firmly but carefully. More fluid comes out. Her airway is almost clear.

I hit her one more time – just to be sure.

That's when she grips my finger.

Not a reflex. A deliberate, coordinated, angry grip. Her tiny fingers wrap around my index finger like a vice. And she screams.

Not a baby cry. A baby war cry. A full‑throated, "I‑will‑end‑you" screech that echoes off the OR walls. I flinch. The nurse yelps. The mother laughs.

"That's my girl," Lily White says.

It hurt so much my mind just went blank – I didn't even clearly hear what the mother said. To the point that I instinctively dropped the baby.

Which caused her to tighten her grip more. I just couldn't think anymore. I shook my hand, trying to shake her off. She swung from my finger like a tiny, furious pendant.

I could hear the nurses trying to stifle their laughs. Does this look funny to you?

After some time I got used to the pain, I stopped moving and realized what I was doing. Even if she's an uma musume, if I did manage to shake her off, she would hit a wall and go splat. I mean, it might not be a splat considering it's an uma baby, but still, there is a life risk.

After calming down...

"Head nurse," I say, "I need help."

"Sedate her?" the head nurse asks.

"Yeah, good call."

Even though it's illegal to use sedatives on human babies, for uma musume babies it's all fair game as long as the baby doesn't die. Sedatives are a widely accepted protocol for these types of situations in uma musume babies. That's right, this is considered normal when it comes to uma musume. What fascinating creatures.

"Sensei, turn her to this side."

I held out my hand. The baby was hanging onto my finger like a monkey hanging onto a tree branch. She had a frown and I didn't know where she was looking.

The head nurse produced a tiny syringe. She poked the baby's thigh. The baby's eyes went wide – an expression of pure betrayal – and then she went limp. Her grip loosened. She's unconscious.

Still frowning. And she didn't let go either.

I handed her to the pediatric nurse. "Apgar at five minutes?"

"Nine," the nurse said. "She's a perfect, healthy Uma Musume."

"What about the walking reflex?" I asked. Uma foals can walk within hours of birth. It's a known trait.

The nurse checked. "She's not walking yet. But her legs are strong. Give it an hour."

I looked at my finger. It was red, swollen. A bruise was already forming. It hurt to move.

But the mother was still open on the table.

I clenched my jaw. I've done surgeries with worse injuries. Last year, I dislocated my shoulder reaching for a falling instrument – finished the delivery with one arm. Two years before that, I had a cut on my palm that needed stitches – I sutured the patient first, then myself.

This is nothing.

"Needle holder," I said.

The nurse handed it to me. I closed the uterus layer by layer. My finger throbbed with every stitch. But my hands were steady. I've done this thousands of times. Muscle memory.

The mother was stitched up beautifully. My best work, despite the pain.

"All done," I said. "Lily‑san, you're closed. Baby is healthy. You can rest."

She nodded, already half‑asleep.

I stepped back from the table. The head nurse looked at my finger.

"Yamashita sensei, do you need some ice?"

"I think it's broken, but that can wait," I said. "I want to make sure the baby has no complications first."

I watched the pediatric nurse do the full assessment. The baby was perfect. Apgar 9. Strong heart rate. Clear lungs. And that frown – even unconscious, she looked like someone had stolen her wallet.

-The world's okayest doctor for another day.