Zhang Han was actually on the pitcher’s mound.

The audience reacted the same way the Seisenji players had, with a visible ripple of surprise spreading through the stands. Nobody had expected this. The lineup had been one thing on paper, and this was something else entirely.

“Minako is going to be devastated. She missed this!”

A girl in a Seido High School uniform said it with a flushed face and barely concealed delight. As a core member of Zhang Han’s fan club, Minako had chosen today of all days to be absent, and she was going to have a very strong reaction when she found out what she had missed.

“Han-san, you can do it!!”

The girl wasn’t alone. Around her, a dozen or so others shared the sentiment, all of them loyal members of the same following. Their interest in Zhang Han had not originated on the baseball field. It had started with a magazine photoshoot, and the image that had come out of it had apparently been difficult to recover from.

The features, the bearing, the quality of presence that came through even in a still photograph. Baseball Prince was the phrase that had attached itself to him in those circles, and it had stuck with the kind of permanence that suggested it had been earned rather than assigned.

If an animation studio ever wanted to build a story around that archetype, these girls were in unanimous agreement about who the only possible male lead could be. There was no flaw they were willing to acknowledge, with one reluctant exception: his family background was, by any honest accounting, modest. That was the single item on the list that couldn’t be overlooked entirely.

Fortunately, he was exceptional enough in every other dimension that the weakness wasn’t considered fatal.

Today, watching him walk to the pitcher’s mound and take the ball, the response was immediate and warm. Every position on a baseball field mattered, but only one position controlled the entire rhythm of the game. Only one position allowed a single player to carry a team forward through force of individual will.

Zhang Han was already someone people admired. Zhang Han as a pitcher was something that elevated the image further. The aura around him in that moment, as far as his fans were concerned, had shifted into a different category entirely.

He had grown up in front of these people. They had watched him move through his first year at Seido and come out of it as someone who felt genuinely significant. How significant? That question didn’t have an answer yet. But they were all prepared to believe the ceiling was high.

The Seisenji players, standing on the other side of that same moment, had more practical concerns.

Zhang Han, who had done nearly everything at Koshien, was now standing on a pitcher’s mound. What did that mean for the game they were about to play?

“He was a main pitcher for Matsukata Little League,” Ueki said from behind his catcher’s mask, his brow tight. “His pitching probably isn’t simple.”

The general feeling among the Seisenji players leaned toward agreement. The pessimism that had briefly receded during the bowing ceremony was beginning to creep back.

“Don’t talk yourselves into being beaten before a pitch has been thrown.”

Nishikawa’s voice was level and clear.

“At Koshien, Seido lost because their pitcher broke down. Their offense was strong enough to win that game. If the pitching had held, they would have advanced. Think about what that means.” He looked around at his teammates. “If Zhang Han’s pitching were as dominant as his reputation suggests, Coach Kataoka would have put him on the mound at Koshien. The psychological pressure alone of having Zhang Han pitch would have been enormous, regardless of how he actually performed against Osaka Kiryuu. He wasn’t used. That tells you something about how much trust the coaching staff had in his pitching at that point.”

The logic was clean and the Seisenji players followed it without difficulty.

“He shouldn’t be nearly as frightening as everyone is assuming.”

The effect of those words was immediate. Nishikawa had earned enough trust through the group stage that his analysis carried genuine weight. The tightness in the dugout eased. The Seisenji players straightened up slightly, and something that looked like real confidence began to reassemble itself.

So the Seido coaching staff wasn’t lying in their pre-tournament interviews after all. They genuinely were treating the Autumn Tournament as a developmental exercise. Sending Zhang Han to the mound in a first-round game was the kind of decision you made when results mattered less than process.

That framing gave the Seisenji players room to breathe.

Their first batter stepped into the box and settled into his stance, letting his peripheral vision drift toward the figure on the mound.

Something immediately snagged his attention.

The scouting report on Zhang Han had been thorough. Right-handed hitter. That was in everything they had collected. So why was Zhang Han taking his grip with his left hand?

The batter turned this over quickly, trying to find an explanation that fit. Had Zhang Han been pitching left-handed at Matsukata? He had never heard that. The information they had gathered hadn’t mentioned anything like it. For a player as closely covered as Zhang Han had been since Koshien, something that significant should have surfaced somewhere.

The fact that it hadn’t surfaced made the batter’s stomach do something unpleasant.

His instincts had a reliable track record. When that particular feeling settled in before an at-bat, it tended to mean the next few minutes were going to be uncomfortable.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at Zhang Han more carefully, trying to find whatever it was that had triggered the unease.

Behind the plate, Miyuki had already finished his first assessment of the batter’s stance and posture before the man had fully settled into his position. He had also noticed something worth noting: the Seisenji leadoff hitter was already thinking too hard, and Zhang Han hadn’t thrown a single pitch yet.

Reputation had done the work before the game even started.

A batter who was already in his own head was a batter with a shorter runway. Miyuki recognized the opportunity the moment he saw it, and he was not the kind of person who let opportunities sit.

The plan formed quickly and simply. Straight down the middle. Full speed. Show them exactly what this left arm was capable of and let that image do its own damage for the rest of the game.

He put down the signal.

Zhang Han read it, gave a small nod, and set his feet.

The leg came up high. The weight shifted. As the center of gravity dropped and transferred forward, the arm came through with a whipping acceleration that was clearly operating at a different speed from anything the batter had calibrated for.

“Whoosh!”

The ball covered the eighteen meters between the mound and home plate in a streak of white that seemed to compress the distance. It split the center of the strike zone cleanly and buried itself in Miyuki’s glove before most of the people watching had fully registered that the arm had completed its motion.

“Thwack!”

The referee paused.

Two full seconds passed before the call came.

“Strike, strike!”

In the hitting box, the Seisenji leadoff batter stood completely still.

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

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep