The play had lasted three or four seconds. The entire stadium had spent most of those seconds holding its breath.

Ninety percent of the people present had watched Carlos’s hit land between shortstop and second base and had already filed it under base hit. The remaining ten percent hadn’t fully processed what they were seeing. Then Kominato Ryosuke arrived at the ball before it stopped moving, secured it, and transferred to Kuramochi, who turned and threw to first base ahead of Carlos by one step.

When the out was called, the exhale that moved through the stands was collective and audible.

The quality of both teams’ play in that single exchange had produced the specific kind of excitement that even experienced spectators found difficult to prepare for. A veteran reporter in the press section was still clapping when the next batter was walking to the plate, his palms already reddened from the effort.

Both teams were looking at each other with a recalibrated assessment.

Inashiro had not expected Seido’s defense to close that gap. Seido had not expected Carlos to come that close to breaking through. The difficulty of the game had announced itself in the first at-bat, and nobody on either side had any remaining doubt about what the afternoon was going to cost them.

In the Seido dugout, Miyuki filed the Tanba situation away for after the inning. The immediate crisis had been resolved by the defense, and disrupting the team’s momentum now by going to the mound and having a visible disagreement with the pitcher would create a different kind of problem. The inning needed to finish first. The conversation could happen after.

One out, nobody on base.

Shirakawa Katsuyuki stepped to the plate.

He was one of the more complete players Narumiya had gathered at Inashiro, combining elite defensive skills at second base with a batting approach that was built on patience and precision rather than power. During his middle school days he had been consistently recognized as one of the best players of his generation, and what Miyuki was seeing now was a more developed version of those qualities.

The approach Shirakawa wanted to use against Tanba was identifiable within the first two pitches.

He did not swing at either of them. He was not waiting for a specific pitch type. He was extending the at-bat deliberately, running the pitch count up, applying the kind of slow pressure that accumulated in a pitcher’s arm and mind over innings rather than in a single dramatic confrontation. Tanba’s late-game reliability issues were documented and understood across the Tokyo baseball community. Forcing him to throw more pitches in the early innings was a sound tactical investment.

Miyuki had reached this same conclusion by the time the second pitch crossed the plate untouched.

After falling behind in the count, Shirakawa shifted to fouling pitches off. The bat made contact on each pitch that entered the zone, redirecting it into foul territory with the specific bat control that very few players at this level could consistently produce. Kominato Ryosuke was the most reliable practitioner of this approach in the Seido lineup. Shirakawa was doing something similar but with a different objective: not forcing a walk, but creating at-bats that lasted long enough for something to go wrong on the other side.

“Foul. Foul. Foul.”

When the third foul ball occurred, the atmosphere at the scene immediately underwent a dramatic change.

The voices originally supporting Tanba gradually faded away. Instead, the voices supporting Shirakawa grew louder and louder…

On the stands on Seido High School Baseball Team’s side, a player said discontentedly,

“This guy is shameless, he’s copying Kominato Ryosuke.”

Such a scene was not unfamiliar to the players of Seido High School Baseball Team. They had previously seen Kominato Ryosuke use the same strategy to outwit others.

At the time, they found it very enjoyable to watch.

However, when the same scenario played out against them, their perspective naturally changed.

“This kind of skill isn’t something just anyone can learn.”

Ono Hiroshi muttered his assessment.

So far, the only batters he had seen capable of doing this were Kominato Ryosuke and Shirakawa.

“And they’re not exactly the same. Kominato is trying to force the opponent to throw four balls, completely disrupting the pitcher’s rhythm. Shirakawa is slightly different; he’s just prolonging the at-bat, looking for an opportunity.”

As a former catcher from Matsukata, Ono Hiroshi was very familiar with the star players of their generation in Tokyo.

These guys from Inashiro Industrial High School Baseball Team were already quite extraordinary in middle school.

But compared to now, they were as naive as chicks back then.

What kind of training did they undergo after joining Inashiro to grow to this point?

Ono felt that since joining Seido High School Baseball Team, he had never been lazy and had always worked very hard.

But why was it that only his strength had fallen behind?

Hoshida, Zhang Han, Miyuki, Narumiya Mei, Shirakawa, Carlos…

These guys, who were only slightly stronger than him in the past, have now become core players of their respective teams.

Their strength is also the same!

Even with all his thick skin, Ono would not dare to say that he could stand shoulder to shoulder with them now.

They are no longer players of the same level!

The at-bat reached seven pitches.

Masuko Toru, standing at third base, had been in his position for the full duration of the extended exchange, his attention cycling between the pitcher, the batter, and the general requirements of the inning. Somewhere in the seventh pitch, the cycling broke.

Shirakawa’s eyes found the gap the moment it appeared.

The ball came off the bat at a ground-level angle toward third base. Masuko’s reaction arrived after the ball had already committed to its direction. He did not make a play. The ball reached the outfield grass, and Shirakawa ran to first base without being challenged.

Coach Kataoka’s face did not display the reaction of someone surprised. It displayed the reaction of someone who had assessed the situation as unacceptable and was already determining what would follow.

One out. Runner on first base.

Miyuki accepted the result without visible emotion and turned his attention to the next batter.

Yoshizawa Hidemasa stepped into the box.

The depth of Inashiro’s current roster was something Miyuki had been tracking throughout the scouting review, and Yoshizawa represented a specific part of what made the depth significant. He was not one of the players Narumiya had recruited.

He was a second-year player who had been part of the program before the assembled group arrived. The argument that Inashiro was strong because of Narumiya’s recruits was accurate but incomplete. The foundation that already existed at the program was what gave the recruits somewhere to land.

From the leadoff position through the nine spot, Inashiro’s lineup had no soft at-bats. Every batter presented a genuine problem. The compounded difficulty of managing nine consecutive genuine problems across a full game was a different experience from every other game on the Seido schedule.

Miyuki gave the signal and watched Tanba set himself on the mound.

Yoshizawa swung.

The contact was immediate and forceful, the ball driven into the outfield on a trajectory that made the Seido infielders turn and look.

Zhang Han had been moving before the ball completed its flight, reading the trajectory and adjusting his depth, retreating toward the outfield wall with the controlled urgency of someone who had been working on this specific skill set since the position change. He covered the ground, extended his glove, and settled under the ball near the warning track.

“I got it!”

“Thwack!”

“Out!”

Two outs recorded. The play finished cleanly.

Then something changed.

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

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