In the bottom of the seventh inning, Seido High School Baseball Team was on offense.

“First Batter, Second Base, Tanaka.”

For the fifth time in this game, Tanaka Kakuei stepped into the batter’s box. There was no trace of relaxation on his face. It did not look like the expression of someone who had already gone through four intense at-bats. There was no impatience, no visible fatigue. Only focus.

At present, the most talked-about players in Seido High School Baseball Team were always the three core batters.

Azuma Kiyokuni, the third-year Fourth batter.

Yuuki Tetsuya, the second-year Fifth batter.

Zhang Han, the first-year Sixth batter.

Although Yuuki’s fame was less dazzling compared to his senior and junior, his importance was just as irreplaceable. His greatest contribution was his ability to connect Azuma Kiyokuni and Zhang Han, allowing those two to unleash their full power without restraint.

Without Yuuki stabilizing the middle of the lineup, Azuma and Zhang Han’s performances would likely have been much weaker. They would not have scored as many runs, nor would they have had as much freedom at the plate.

Because of this, the three were known as the Three Musketeers of Seido High School Baseball Team.

The runs produced by those three accounted for more than sixty percent of Seido’s total scoring. If only critical runs were counted, the proportion would probably increase by another ten to twenty percent.

Frankly speaking, those three had become the absolute core of the team. No one could shake their position.

However, before those three rose to prominence, Seido High School Baseball Team had once had another trio.

Tanaka, the First batter.

Hidezawa, the Second batter.

Azuma Kiyokuni, the Fourth batter.

Those three had formed the solid foundation of Seido’s previous lineup. Their runs once accounted for forty percent of the team’s total production. Compared to the current Three Musketeers, their firepower might have been slightly less explosive, but their influence was no less significant.

It was during that time that Tanaka and Hidezawa forged a strong friendship.

For Tanaka, Hidezawa was not only a teammate. He was an important partner and a close friend.

Just moments ago, Tanaka had watched helplessly as his good friend was outmaneuvered and forced off the field. He had been powerless, able only to stand there and watch Hidezawa struggle in exhaustion.

This game, no matter what, we must win.

Tanaka repeated that sentence over and over in his heart. He wanted victory not only for the team, but also to give his friend some closure.

His gaze shifted to Komochi.

Although Komochi had only pitched four innings since coming in during the third inning, Seido’s powerful offense had forced him to throw a large number of pitches. He had already surpassed seventy.

It was not only the pitch count that mattered. Because of the prolonged defensive pressure and the intensity of each confrontation, his stamina was draining much faster than expected. The temperature was still over thirty degrees Celsius. Sweat poured down his forehead without restraint.

Hidezawa had thrown a little over one hundred pitches before collapsing.

Komochi was not much better now.

Even though he had entered later, his breathing rhythm was chaotic, and his condition was clearly different from when he first took the mound.

He is almost at his limit.

Tanaka quickly reached that conclusion. Yet the more he realized this, the calmer he became.

If Komochi’s stamina was rapidly depleting, then his thoughts would likely mirror Hidezawa’s earlier. He would hope for a direct confrontation. He would want quick contact to reduce his pitch count.

What a beautiful plan.

If we let you succeed, wouldn’t we be the ones suffering?

“Whoosh!”

The small white ball cut through the air.

Tanaka watched it pass without moving.

“Thwack!”

“Strike!”

The pitch deviated slightly from the center of the strike zone, but only by about ten centimeters. An average batter would not have let that pitch go. A skilled hitter like Tanaka certainly had the ability to swing.

But he did not.

When Komochi threw that pitch, he was not trying to induce a swing and miss. He wanted a head-on confrontation.

As the Ace of Osaka Kiryuu High School Baseball Team, his thinking at this moment was exactly the same as Hidezawa’s earlier. He believed he could not afford to drag the inning out any longer and needed to regain control with decisive outs. With a four-run lead, even allowing one or two runs would not be disastrous.

As long as he could reestablish his rhythm, everything would be acceptable.

For a powerhouse like Osaka Kiryuu, every player was elite. They knew exactly what to do in each situation.

It was this confidence that allowed them to face Seido’s challenge head-on.

When Komochi chose a direct confrontation, Osaka’s fielders adjusted almost simultaneously. They compressed their defense slightly and intentionally left deeper outfield space, predicting that Tanaka would not be able to drive the ball that far.

They trusted their Ace.

What they did not expect was Seido’s refusal to cooperate.

The situation immediately became awkward.

Behind the plate, Shibata hesitated briefly before signaling again.

If they do not swing, then so be it. Maintain the rhythm.

If one pitch cannot solve it, then three. There are only nine outs left. At most, perhaps thirty more pitches.

Even if Komochi’s total pitch count approached eighty, adding thirty more would only push him to around one hundred ten.

Shibata trusted his partner. That number was still within range.

On the mound, Komochi nodded slightly.

His stamina was dropping, but he had not yet reached absolute exhaustion. With the team holding a significant advantage, his confidence remained firm.

“Whoosh!”

The second pitch came almost immediately.

As expected, Tanaka remained calm and did not react.

“Strike!”

Two strikes. No balls.

The batter was cornered.

Under normal circumstances, Osaka Kiryuu might have thrown a tempting ball outside the zone to lure a swing. But past experiences had left a deep impression on them. They did not want to complicate matters, especially with Komochi’s stamina already in question.

Instead of throwing a waste pitch, Komochi sent another strike close to the center, intending to end the at-bat with solid defense.

This time, Tanaka swung.

“Ping!”

The bat brushed the ball, sending it rolling foul.

“Foul.”

At first, Osaka’s players thought little of it. A foul ball under two strikes was common.

Then came the next pitch.

“Ping!”

“Foul!”

Another.

“Ping!”

“Foul!”

Three consecutive foul balls.

Komochi’s pitch count rose to eighty-two.

What unsettled them was not just the number, but the uncertainty. Tanaka’s expression remained unchanged. He did not look pressured or desperate. Each foul ball was deliberate, controlled.

“How can this be?”

They believed they understood Tanaka well. Solid fundamentals. Excellent contact ability. Fast base running.

But they had never truly seen this side of him.

The ability to repeatedly make precise foul contact like this was not something ordinary hitters could achieve. It required calm judgment and refined bat control.

It was irritating.

Especially now, with Komochi’s stamina approaching crisis, this situation became increasingly troublesome.

“Is it a taste of our own medicine?”

In the Osaka Kiryuu dugout, Matsumoto Takahiro frowned as he spoke.

He vaguely sensed Seido’s intention. Although he was reluctant to admit it, it was likely true.

Seido had chosen to respond in kind. Just as Osaka had targeted Seido’s Ace earlier, Seido was now forcing their Ace to throw more pitches.

The method might not be elegant, but it was undeniably effective.

Matsumoto had considered this possibility before. What truly surprised him was that Seido’s First Batter possessed the ability to execute it so precisely.

In Seido’s dugout, Kominato Ryosuke’s eyes glinted faintly.

He understood exactly what Tanaka was doing.

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