Just when everyone, including the supporters of Seido High School Baseball Team, believed that Seido was on its last breath, Yamada, baring his small tiger teeth, drove a beautiful double down the line and pushed the batting order forward to Azuma Kiyokuni.

Two outs. Runner on Second Base.

The scoreboard showed 14:11. Seido trailed by three runs.

The situation was still unfavorable, yet the mindset of Seido’s supporters had undergone a dramatic transformation.

They saw hope.

No matter how desperate the circumstances appeared, as long as the lineup rotated back to Seido’s three core hitters, the supporters firmly believed that the outcome of this game was not yet sealed.

Excitement surged through the stands. A wave began to roll across the sea of blue uniforms.

“This is really stressful.”

Azuma Kiyokuni walked toward the batter’s box, his large belly swaying slightly with each step.

To be fair, Azuma’s facial features were well defined. His expression was rugged, even resolute. If he were slimmer, he would look like the archetypal strong and unyielding man.

Unfortunately, he was not slim.

His belly was enormous, almost exaggerated in size. It bulged so prominently that it seemed comparable to that of someone seven months pregnant. Because of this, people often found his physique comical.

Azuma himself was aware of it.

However, with the daily training volume at Seido, how could he possibly endure that intensity without sufficient nutrition? He trained relentlessly in every season. Whether under the scorching summer sun or in the cold winds of winter, he never spared himself.

Perhaps his metabolism simply differed from others. When most people gained weight, a period of exercise could restore them to their previous form. For Azuma, excess fat stubbornly remained. Over time, it gathered around his midsection.

The result was a body that looked almost like a wild boar.

Yet once he stepped into the batter’s box, no one dared to laugh.

Even standing still, Azuma radiated pressure.

In this game alone, he had already hit two home runs. His total in this Koshien had climbed to six, only one short of the historical record of seven.

Such a hitter was a presence in himself. His physique no longer mattered. His mass only enhanced the impression of an immovable mountain.

“Haha.”

Even when he laughed, revealing the gap from his missing teeth, his aura remained undiminished.

On the mound, Komochi felt his body stiffen as Azuma’s gaze locked onto him.

If possible, he would have preferred to avoid a direct confrontation, especially with a runner on base.

He glanced toward his dugout.

Matsumoto Takahiro returned a steady, trusting look.

No need to avoid him.

Face him head on.

Even if it results in a home run, accept it.

Komochi swallowed and forced himself to calm down.

He did not truly want to challenge Azuma in this situation. Yet the director’s trust weighed heavily on him. How could he retreat?

Moreover, they still held a lead. Even if Azuma launched a home run, the gap would narrow to one run. If he could eliminate Azuma, the game would end immediately.

They could afford to gamble.

“I do not believe you are not nervous.”

At this life and death moment, Komochi chose decisiveness.

He drove his arm forward and released the baseball.

Doubt lingered in his heart, but so did confidence. He refused to believe that Azuma Kiyokuni felt no pressure. No player was immune to such tension.

Azuma’s eyes widened.

They gleamed with something fierce and almost predatory.

Like a cat that had caught the scent of prey.

His hands tightened around the bat. In that instant, it felt as though every ounce of strength in his body flowed into his arms.

“Boom!”

His swing was overwhelming, as if he intended to hurl the entire world away.

“Ping!”

The bat struck the white ball with thunderous force. The ball’s rotation was violent, and Azuma did not make perfect contact with its center.

It did not matter.

His raw power overpowered the spin entirely.

The ball shot forward.

It streaked over the head of Osaka Kiryuu’s first baseman.

Masaoka’s eyes sharpened immediately. From his angle, the ball seemed to appear above him in a flash.

His body reacted before conscious thought could intervene.

It was not only Seido’s players who endured harsh training. Top national powerhouses followed equally punishing regimens. Outside of class time, three to four hours of practice was routine. Weekends were filled with practice games.

That volume was astonishing.

Even professional players did not engage in endless physical training. Excessive fatigue reduced efficiency. But high school powerhouses often trained at a level not far behind professionals in sheer volume.

As the so called Cosmic Team, Osaka Kiryuu High School Baseball Team certainly did not train less than Seido.

Masaoka, as their cleanup hitter, was among the most diligent.

His reaction speed had long surpassed his conscious thinking.

He leaped high, glove extended.

For a split second, it seemed he would snatch the ball from the air.

On the sidelines, Zhang Han, already geared up to return to the field, widened his eyes.

Could he really catch that?

Masaoka’s glove met the ball.

But the force was too great.

The instant the ball struck the glove, it ricocheted upward instead of settling inside. The rebound sent it nearly two meters into the air before it dropped seven or eight meters behind him.

“Thud.”

When the ball hit the ground, realization swept across the field.

Then came the roar.

“Seido!”

“Azuma Kiyokuni!”

Yamada, who had been on Second Base, rounded Third and sprinted home.

He crossed the plate safely.

Seido regained one run.

The scoreboard shifted to 14:12.

The stadium shook with sound. For many supporters, this was a scene they would never forget.

Azuma had delivered once more.

In the Osaka Kiryuu dugout, Matsumoto Takahiro did not show anger.

Instead, a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

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

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