“Seido High School Baseball Team, requesting a timeout.”

Behind home plate, Miyuki raised his right hand and signaled to the umpire. The umpire did not hesitate and immediately granted it.

From the umpire’s perspective, it was understandable. If he were in Seido’s position, watching the game spiral out of control, he would not be able to remain silent either.

Several infielders jogged toward the mound.

When Hidezawa had been pitching, even while giving up runs, the team had not felt this suffocating sense of crisis. At that time, Seido still believed that victory would ultimately depend on their batters. As long as they kept scoring, everything could be salvaged.

But once Hidezawa left the field, reality hit them mercilessly.

They finally realized that a pitcher could truly determine life or death for a baseball team.

Seido High School Baseball Team was strong. This was not arrogance, but a conclusion drawn from actual competition. Facing Osaka Kiryuu High School Baseball Team, the so-called Cosmic Team, they had not been crushed. In some aspects, they had even held advantages.

If this were ranked like a game, they were competing at the highest tier, exchanging blows with an opponent of equal level.

In such a balanced battle, the difference in pitching strength became decisive.

When Hidezawa was on the mound, Seido did not fall far behind and had even taken the lead at one point. After he stepped down, two runs were conceded almost instantly. The score difference expanded to four runs for the first time.

It was already the seventh inning.

Four runs at this stage felt like a death sentence.

They were unwilling. Extremely unwilling. They had fought so hard to reach this stage. How could it end like this?

Miyuki called the timeout because he refused to accept that ending.

Even if it seemed futile, he would fight.

The infielders gathered. Tanba stood on the mound, breathing heavily, his earlier nervousness replaced by a blank, stunned expression.

Then Miyuki spoke.

“Senior, do you not understand human speech?”

The words landed like a thunderclap.

Zhang Han’s eyes widened. Of all the possibilities he had imagined, this was not one of them. In a country that valued the senior-junior relationship so strictly, such direct confrontation was nearly unthinkable.

“Don’t go too far.”

“It’s not your place, a first-year, to lecture here.”

Azuma Kiyokuni and Tanaka reacted immediately, their voices sharp. At this moment, the team needed unity more than anything. If the pitcher and catcher fell into conflict, Seido would collapse completely.

In the stands, the audience sensed something wrong. They could not hear clearly, but the tension on the players’ faces was obvious.

“They’re not going to start fighting, are they?”

“If they argue now, it’s over.”

Tanba stopped trembling.

He stared at Miyuki, eyes burning.

“What did you say?”

“If Senior understood human speech,” Miyuki replied calmly, “you would know what the Director sent you out here to do. If you can’t handle it, there are other pitchers in the dugout. Please make way.”

His tone was not pleading. It was decisive.

“We came out to win the game, not to clean up your mess.”

Silence fell.

Azuma and Tanaka understood immediately. Miyuki was not rebelling. He was provoking.

Instead of comforting Tanba and worsening his hesitation, Miyuki chose the harshest method possible.

Tanba’s face flushed red.

“You don’t need to lecture me. Just catch properly.”

The anger in his voice was unmistakable.

In that instant, the confusion and fear that had clogged his mind vanished. There was no room for anxiety when pride was challenged so directly.

He would not be looked down upon by a first-year.

The fire in his eyes returned.

The infielders dispersed. Azuma and Tanaka exchanged a glance.

Tanaka thought, I never knew that junior could do this.

Azuma grudgingly admitted the effectiveness. Without Miyuki’s provocation, they might already have raised the white flag.

For the first- and second-year players, reaching Koshien and entering the top eight was already an achievement. But for the third-years, this could be their final game.

They were unwilling to let it end here.

Even Azuma, who still found Miyuki irritatingly arrogant, understood that the first-year had risked everything for them.

“I still don’t like him,” Azuma muttered inwardly.

But the effect was undeniable.

Tanba stepped onto the rubber again. His shoulders were steady. His eyes sharp.

He threw.

The pitch rose high before breaking downward sharply.

“Strike!”

The High curveball.

Osaka Kiryuu’s batter swung late, his timing disrupted.

Another High curveball followed.

“Strike!”

The batter hesitated on the next pitch, expecting the same trajectory, only to see the ball dip differently.

“Strikeout!”

The rhythm shifted.

Tanba used his height and long arm to full advantage. The High breaking ball descended from a steep angle, and Osaka Kiryuu’s hitters, who had just been aggressive, found their timing thrown into chaos.

“Strike!”

“Strike!”

“Strikeout!”

Two consecutive strikeouts.

In the stands, murmurs spread. Osaka Kiryuu supporters stared in disbelief.

This was the same pitcher who had just given up a homerun?

Even from afar, the quality of that High curveball was visible. Against ordinary teams it would be difficult. Against Osaka Kiryuu it was still formidable.

The next batter, Osaka’s leadoff hitter, stepped in with caution.

Tanba did not hesitate.

He threw a fastball.

The batter, overly focused on the curveball, was half a beat slow.

“Ping!”

The ball rolled weakly toward the infield.

Tanaka at second darted forward, scooped it cleanly, and fired to first.

“Out!”

Three outs.

The inning ended.

Seido had conceded two runs, but they had prevented further disaster. Considering the bases had been loaded with no outs, this result was acceptable.

In West Tokyo, inside Ichidai Third High School’s conference room, a young man named Manaka stared at the screen in disbelief.

“Is that really Koichiro?”

They had once been teammates in youth baseball. Tanba had been the ace, Manaka the substitute. After entering high school, their paths diverged.

Manaka had always believed Tanba had wasted his opportunity at Seido.

Now, watching Tanba dominate on the Koshien stage, he felt as if he were seeing someone reborn.

The growth was undeniable.

Back at Koshien, the teams switched sides.

Bottom of the seventh inning.

Seido High School Baseball Team’s offense.

Tanaka stepped into the batter’s box for the fifth time in this game. The lineup had rotated quickly. Both teams had accumulated hits. The pace had been relentless.

Hidezawa had collapsed. Tanba had barely stabilized the situation.

Komochi, who had entered two innings late, still looked composed, but even he had been forced into long battles.

The score read 12–8.

Four runs.

It was a difficult gap, but not impossible.

Seido’s dugout was no longer silent.

They had just witnessed a comeback within an inning. They had seen a pitcher pull himself back from the edge.

Now it was the batters’ turn again.

If they wanted to survive, they had to answer immediately.

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