Bottom of the first inning. Seido High School Baseball Team’s turn on offense.

“First batter, second base, Tanaka!”

The announcement echoed through the stadium, steady and formal, yet it landed with unexpected weight.

Just moments ago, Ace Hidezawa’s overwhelming pitching had ignited the entire Seido High School Baseball Team. The shockwaves from those eleven pitches were still rippling through the dugout, the stands, and even the opposing side.

Before the game began, confidence had existed, but it was cautious. It was built on recent performances, on careful judgment, on quiet analysis exchanged in whispers and glances. After weighing everything, many had reached the same conclusion.

Seido was not weaker than Inashiro Industrial.

Maybe they were even a little stronger.

But thoughts were just thoughts. No one could guarantee they were correct.

After all, Inashiro Industrial High School Baseball Team was still the uncrowned king of West Tokyo. In their previous matches, they had not faced opponents truly capable of pushing them to the edge. Who knew how much strength they had hidden away? Who could say whether they still held trump cards they hadn’t revealed?

Those unknowns lingered like shadows.

So before today’s game, doubt existed not only among outsiders but also within Seido’s players and their most loyal supporters.

Can Seido really do it? That question hung heavy in everyone’s heart.

Yet the moment the game began, reality answered with ruthless clarity.

Inashiro’s powerful lineup, feared throughout West Tokyo, had been shut down cleanly and decisively. Three batters. Three outs. No hesitation. No mercy.

Anyone watching that scene could feel their blood surge uncontrollably. Seido High School Baseball Team had finally stepped into the spotlight.

For their supporters, who had waited, endured disappointment, and continued believing through countless setbacks, how could they possibly hold back now?

The Seido stands erupted as if boiling over.

The noise crashed like a wave, surging higher and higher. Fans stood, shouting until their throats burned. They waved towels, banners, megaphones, anything they could get their hands on.

“Seido! Seido!”

“Azuma Kiyokuni!”

“Yuuki, it’s your turn!”

“Zhang Han, I want to be with you!”

The cheers overlapped chaotically, each voice trying to outshout the next.

Standing in the batter’s box, Tanaka felt awkward no matter how he listened.

It was his at-bat.

And yet not a single person was calling his name. The crowd was shouting for people still sitting in the dugout.

Even a clay figurine had a temper. Let alone the captain of Seido High School Baseball Team, a man who had never been known for being particularly gentle.

Normally, he restrained himself. His position demanded it. As captain, he had to shoulder responsibility, not emotion.

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But right now? Right now, restraint felt impossible.

Somewhere along the way, the core of the team had shifted. Azuma Kiyokuni. Yuuki. Zhang Han. Those three had become the focus of everything.

Tanaka wasn’t blind. He had to admit it. In this year’s Summer Tournament, those three had been outstanding. Their performances were dazzling, undeniable.

Still.

When it came to hits.

When it came to contribution.

He hadn’t been bad either.

Comparing people was infuriating. Comparing performances was disheartening. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but see the gap between himself and them.

But that didn’t mean he was willing to accept being reduced to a background role.

He was the captain.

Maybe not the ace. Maybe not the soul of the team.

But he was still a leader.

Since when had he become a dispensable secondary character? Even now, as he stood at the plate, the fans barely seemed to notice him. That realization burned.

Tanaka slowly raised his bat, gripping it tightly. His eyes locked onto the pitcher’s mound, unblinking. Nishimonji stood there like a wall.

He was tall, nearly 185 centimeters, and weighed close to ninety kilograms. His build alone screamed power. This was the textbook physique of an ace pitcher from a powerhouse school.

Thin pitchers who relied purely on technique might shine in smaller programs, but they rarely survived in teams like Inashiro Industrial. The training intensity alone crushed those who lacked physical durability.

Powerhouse teams forged players like steel.

Those who endured emerged like Nishimonji.

And that strength wasn’t just for show.

However, despite his imposing build, Nishimonji’s pitching wasn’t overwhelmingly fast. Compared to Hidezawa earlier, it didn’t feel particularly threatening.

If Nishimonji had truly possessed dominant velocity, then Kameshima of Ichidai Third High School wouldn’t have stood as West Tokyo’s top-ranked pitcher.

Nishimonji’s fastball hovered around 140 kilometers per hour. Respectable, but not terrifying. His control, too, wasn’t razor-sharp.

What made him dangerous was something else.

His breaking ball.

Especially his high breaking ball.

With his height and release point, the ball descended from an intimidating angle. It seemed to hang for a moment before dropping sharply just before the strike zone. Imagining it alone was enough to give batters a headache.

In style, he resembled Seido’s relief pitcher, Tanba.

But Nishimonji was stronger.

His pitches were faster. His power was greater. His angle changes were more deceptive. He was like an enhanced, completed version of Tanba.

That was precisely why Coach Kataoka and the coaching staff had placed such high hopes on Tanba. They had seen what a fully developed pitcher of that type could become.

They knew how terrifying it was.

Unfortunately, Tanba was not there yet.

Nishimonji was.

Both teams knew each other well. Too well.

From the very first pitch, Nishimonji and his catcher, Fujita, targeted the outside corner. It was Tanaka’s weakest zone.

There was no bluffing. No elaborate setup.

They simply threw it straight into the strike zone.

Did they worry Tanaka would anticipate it?

Not at all.

A weakness was a weakness. If it could be overcome so easily, it wouldn’t be called a weakness in the first place.

Even if Tanaka knew an outside fastball was coming, what then?

Could he really hit it?

On that point, Nishimonji and Fujita were confident.

Unexpectedly, Tanaka didn’t hesitate.

The moment the pitch came, he stepped forward decisively. His center of gravity shifted smoothly, his body moving as one. The bat cut through the air with a sharp whistle.

They understood each other too well.

Tanaka had already guessed Inashiro’s plan.

He knew they would target him. He knew they would challenge his weakest point.

And still, he didn’t retreat.

Maybe his growth couldn’t compare to the explosive rise of the two freshmen. Maybe even Yuuki’s progress outpaced his own.

But that didn’t mean he hadn’t grown.

It certainly didn’t mean he had stagnated.

Since becoming a third-year, Tanaka had swung his bat more than eight hundred times every single day.

Eight hundred.

Over and over again.

This was his final year. His final chance.

As captain of Seido High School Baseball Team, he absolutely refused to become someone who merely coasted along on others’ brilliance.

He wanted to win.

With his own hands.

For the team.

For himself.

For the future waiting beyond this summer.

“Ping!”

The sharp, satisfying sound cut through the stadium. The white ball flew cleanly off the bat, slipping neatly into a gap in the defense.

Tanaka didn’t hesitate. He sprinted.

In one breath, he charged toward the base, legs pumping, cleats digging into the dirt. By the time the defense reacted, it was already too late.

Safe.

For the first time since the inning began, cheers bearing Tanaka’s name finally rose from the stands.

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