With the total score standing at 6 to 4, the game officially entered the fifth inning.

Osaka Kiryuu High School Baseball Team stepped up to bat.

The atmosphere inside Koshien had reached a fever pitch. Both teams possessed terrifying offensive strength. Even though their respective pitchers were considered top tier on a national scale, neither side could truly suppress the other’s lineup for long. In a battle like this, one mistake could instantly flip the momentum.

The top of the fifth inning began with Osaka Kiryuu’s first batter.

This was already his third at bat. As a seasoned hitter, he had used his previous plate appearances to carefully observe Hidezawa’s pitching patterns. By now, he believed he had gathered enough information to make an adjustment.

Inside the Osaka Kiryuu dugout and throughout the stands, their supporters brimmed with expectation. They firmly believed that this inning would mark their comeback. Catching up was not enough. Many of them even imagined taking the lead again.

Their confidence was not unfounded.

Hidezawa’s pitch count had already surpassed seventy. For most pitchers, the first peak of physical performance fades after that threshold. Velocity drops subtly. Control becomes slightly less precise. Meanwhile, hitters who have already seen multiple rounds grow increasingly comfortable.

In theory, the advantage should now lean toward Osaka Kiryuu.

Even though they were trailing by two runs, the majority of their supporters remained optimistic.

However, optimism alone does not produce runs.

As the first batter stepped into the box, the stadium quieted slightly in anticipation.

Hidezawa delivered.

“Ping!”

The crack of the bat echoed, but something felt off immediately.

A violent recoil surged through the Osaka Kiryuu first batter’s arms the moment he made contact. His expression tightened.

How could this be?

Instead of the expected diminishing force, the pitch felt heavier than before. It carried a density that seemed to explode against the bat.

The resulting hit was weak and shallow.

Zhang Han, positioned at shortstop, moved decisively. He scooped the ball into his glove with ease and transitioned smoothly into his throwing motion.

There was no hesitation.

No wasted movement.

He fired to first base.

“Snap!”

“Out!”

Yuuki Tetsuya received the throw cleanly, completing the play in textbook fashion.

Even Matsumoto Takahiro, watching from the dugout, could not suppress a faint nod of acknowledgment.

“Standard,” he muttered softly.

Despite his dissatisfaction with the current situation, he had to admit that Kataoka’s coaching had refined Seido’s players remarkably. Their defensive movements were sharp and economical. Every step appeared deliberate. Every action flowed seamlessly into the next.

It was not merely talent.

It was training.

Matsumoto was aware of Seido’s rigorous practice routines. Their intensity was no less than Osaka Kiryuu’s.

Zhang Han had joined the team only four months ago, and yet his infield defense had already reached such a level. Before high school, he had never even played as an infielder. Everything he demonstrated now was the result of relentless training after entering Seido.

That detail revealed much.

Hidezawa’s performance on the mound was not solely his own achievement. It was supported by a defensive unit capable of converting even marginal opportunities into outs.

Breaking through Seido’s defense might not be as simple as initially expected.

Matsumoto felt a subtle unease rising within him.

In this kind of offensive showdown, if Hidezawa continued pitching at a level beyond his norm, even at the cost of exhausting himself completely, Osaka Kiryuu could face a disastrous outcome.

“I need to find a way to get him off the mound,” Matsumoto thought grimly.

He knew Seido lacked a reliable replacement pitcher of equal caliber. If Hidezawa were forced out, the game’s balance would shift dramatically.

Meanwhile, on the mound, Hidezawa was unaware of the calculations unfolding against him.

He was immersed in his rhythm.

Ever since arriving at Koshien, something within him had awakened. Each pitch felt condensed with focus and strength. Every throw carried clarity.

Although he struggled early in the game, Osaka Kiryuu’s power had forced him to elevate himself. Now, he felt fully adapted.

I can do this.

Even against the Cosmic Team, he felt no fear.

He did not promise perfection.

He did not promise zero runs allowed.

But he believed one thing firmly.

He would not allow more runs than his team scored.

“Snap!”

“Out!”

The second batter was retired quickly.

Two outs. No runners on base.

Hidezawa’s presence seemed to expand with each pitch. The stadium’s attention gradually shifted toward him.

In this moment, he dominated the field.

“Hidezawa! Hidezawa!”

Seido’s supporters roared his name, their volume even surpassing the cheers previously reserved for Zhang Han.

Riding that wave of energy, Hidezawa faced the third batter.

“Strike!”

“Strike!”

“Strike!”

“Strikeout!”

Three pitches, clean and decisive.

The core third batter of Osaka Kiryuu did not even manage to make contact.

Three outs. Side retired.

Logically, it was an ideal outcome.

Yet Miyuki Kazuya, crouched behind home plate, felt an unusual sensation creeping into his mind.

Every hitter in Osaka Kiryuu’s lineup possessed considerable skill. Even if they failed to secure hits, they typically made solid contact. Especially the third batter, a position reserved for a team’s most reliable hitters.

And yet he had just struck out swinging, unable to touch the ball at all.

It felt… intentional.

Too clean.

Too sudden.

Miyuki narrowed his eyes slightly.

Something about that sequence unsettled him.

************************************

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