Inashiro Industrial’s dormitory had gone mostly dark by the time the light in Harada Masatoshi’s room was still burning.

Harada was the team’s current captain. His roommate was present, and so was a third person who had pulled up a chair and was making his dissatisfaction with the hour known at regular intervals.

“I’m exhausted. When can I go back to sleep?”

Narumiya Mei, baby-faced and currently not looking like someone who had just shut out East Tokyo’s best program, slumped in his chair while Harada continued working through the pitching chart in front of him without acknowledging the complaint.

Inashiro’s scouting operation was detailed and systematic. High school baseball had become increasingly competitive in the information space, and Inashiro had made a point of being ahead of the curve. Several of Seido’s games had been broken down into individual charts, and the three men in the room were working through them methodically.

Harada’s roommate looked up from his own chart with genuine surprise.

“This Kawakami who just appeared. One run allowed against Sensen. That’s a serious performance.”

Harada agreed. Nobody had expected Seido to produce another pitcher from outside their established rotation, and Kawakami had used one game to make the question of being overlooked irrelevant.

Narumiya Mei made a face.

“A breaking ball pitcher sitting at 130 kilometers per hour. His control is fine, but that fastball speed won’t survive against our lineup.”

The assessment was blunt and also largely accurate. Against Sensen’s batters, 130 was workable. Against what Inashiro was sending to the plate, it was a different conversation entirely.

“Tanba is the more threatening one,” the roommate said.

Narumiya nodded, though the expression of agreement came with characteristic reluctance.

Tanba’s curveball was legitimate. Maki from Sensen had a stylistically similar approach, but the comparison revealed how much further along Tanba was. Maki’s fastball and breaking ball were still distinguishable to a careful observer. Tanba’s were not, and his curveball drop was considerably more severe. At full capacity, with his stamina and mental state holding, Tanba could be a genuine problem.

The qualification was significant. Tanba’s history made full capacity a conditional rather than a given.

The substitute pitcher’s experience had worn grooves in his psychology that showed up in the important moments. Late in games, when the pressure concentrated, the probability of something going wrong with Tanba increased meaningfully. Inashiro’s analysis had identified this as his defining limitation: the heart of an Ace was mostly something you had or didn’t, and everything in Tanba’s record suggested the conditioning hadn’t fully taken hold.

“Don’t forget,” Harada said, his tone less gentle than the words, “that team beat us two months ago.”

Narumiya’s face shifted. The loss in the summer tournament had not been processed quickly or cleanly. Two weeks in bed, Coach Kunimoto declining to send anyone in to pull him out of it, trusting that the time needed to be taken rather than managed. When Narumiya had come back to the field, he looked the same. Harada, who had been watching, knew he was not.

The eyes were different. Something that had been competitive before had become aggressive.

“It won’t happen again.”

He said it simply and meant it entirely.

Harada let it sit for a moment, then moved the conversation forward.

“So who do you think Kataoka puts on the mound against us?”

“If I were Kataoka, I’d pull the team from the tournament.”

Harada rubbed his forehead.

“I’m not being dramatic,” Narumiya continued, with the tone of someone who wanted to be taken seriously. “All three of their pitchers are in adjustment periods. If they lose badly, the psychological damage could set any of them back significantly. Withdrawing and spending the year building toward next summer is the rational choice.”

Harada had not expected genuine strategic analysis to follow the comment. He sat with it for a moment.

The approach was not unheard of. Some coaches used tournament losses deliberately as developmental pressure, while others chose to protect young pitchers from damage that took longer to repair than the experience was worth. Sacrificing an autumn run to build a more complete team for the summer had its own logic.

“Kataoka won’t do it.”

Harada said it with certainty. Not because the suggestion lacked merit, but because it required a personality type that Kataoka did not have. The Seido players were the same. A team that had made national noise at Koshien three months ago was not going to quietly withdraw from a quarterfinal against their district rivals.

“What about Zhang Han? Does Kataoka play him?”

“A guy who gave up his dominant hand to re-learn pitching from scratch isn’t something I lose sleep over.”

“His left-handed fastball was measured at 144 kilometers per hour.”

Narumiya’s expression sharpened immediately.

“I pitch 147.”

The response came fast enough that it wasn’t really a response to the information. It was a reflex. Narumiya held the title of Tokyo’s fastest pitcher at this stage of the season, and the idea of Zhang Han closing that gap from a non-dominant arm was a specific irritant that operated independently of any tactical concern.

The Matsukata connection made everything involving those players feel like a personal matter. Junior high, then the summer tournament. The losses had accumulated into something that went beyond normal competitive rivalry.

Harada watched his partner’s expression and decided not to continue pulling that thread.

“Let’s go through Seido’s batting data one more time. Once you’ve got it memorized, you can sleep.”

Narumiya pulled the chart toward him without further complaint, which was as close to cooperative as he was going to get at this hour.

The light in Harada’s room stayed on a while longer.

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

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