Three outs. The inning was over.

The final out had come through Miyuki’s pitch calling rather than through any spectacular individual play, the sequence designed around Yamaoka’s eagerness and executed with the kind of quiet precision that didn’t produce highlight moments but produced results. Two runs had scored. The damage could have been significantly worse.

When the players returned to the dugout, Coach Kataoka looked at Tanba briefly and said nothing to him directly. He turned to the full group.

“They’ve taken the initiative. We respond by scoring. Show them what the past months of preparation have produced.”

The players acknowledged this without needing elaboration. The situation was clear: two runs down, Narumiya Mei on the mound, and an opponent that had just demonstrated it was not going to make any of this easy.

After the batters moved to prepare, Coach Kataoka turned back to Tanba.

“Was there a disagreement with Miyuki at the start?”

Tanba had no reasonable response to this, because the answer was visible to anyone paying close attention, and Coach Kataoka never missed things that were visible.

“On the field, you fight as teammates. I expect a unified approach going forward.”

The tone was measured rather than sharp. The message was not.

“Yes.”

Tanba understood that unified approach meant following Miyuki’s calls. He accepted it and said nothing further.

Bottom of the first inning. Seido’s offense.

Kuramochi stepped to the plate first with the particular mood of someone who had been hearing about Narumiya Mei for weeks and had arrived at a settled skepticism about the level of the threat.

He had his own reference point for what extraordinary looked like in a first-year player, and that reference point lived in the same dugout. Zhang Han had broken two Koshien records in his first tournament appearance. Narumiya Mei had faced the Seido team two months ago and had lost. The narrative that had built up around him since then felt inflated to Kuramochi, the product of outside observers who hadn’t been on the field for the actual game.

The first pitch changed his opinion immediately.

Seido had prepared with a pitching machine set to 150 kilometers per hour. The simulation had been jarring even in practice, the speed requiring a recalibration of timing that felt unnatural. Kuramochi had done the work and had gotten through it.

The ball Narumiya threw was not the same as the machine.

It arrived faster than the preparation had suggested was possible from a human arm, and it arrived with a quality of force behind it that the machine’s mechanical delivery didn’t replicate. By the time Kuramochi’s brain had processed the pitch, the ball was already in Harada’s glove.

“Pop!”

“Strike!”

He had not moved the bat.

In the Seido dugout, the silence that followed was the silence of players absorbing information they had not been fully prepared to receive.

“His velocity increased again in two months?”

“Players like him tend to accelerate after a loss. He’s exactly that type.”

“One hundred and forty-eight kilometers.”

Someone in the stands had measured it and the number moved through the crowd quickly, producing reactions that ranged from impressed to alarmed.

Kuramochi gripped the bat and reassembled himself.

He had been in contact with this speed in practice, and contact with it in practice was the foundation he was working from. Unusual, demanding, but not completely beyond reach.

The second pitch came in.

He swung.

The contact he made was not what he had intended. The ball came off the bat with the specific feeling of a player who had found the timing but not the location, the barrel meeting the ball at the wrong point on its surface. The ball deflected sideways rather than forward, slipping past Harada’s catching position.

Harada caught it late and was not pleased about what it meant.

The data on Kuramochi’s hitting had described an average bat in the context of the Seido lineup. What had just happened was a batter adjusting to 148-kilometer-per-hour pitching in two pitches and making contact on the third attempt. That was not what average looked like.

Narumiya registered the same information from the other direction and found it more interesting than concerning. A team that had actually defeated him deserved opponents who could put some pressure on him. If there was no resistance, winning against Seido for the second time would have a diminished flavor.

The third pitch came in with everything Narumiya had available.

Kuramochi swung with full commitment.

The ball did not behave as expected. In the final distance before the strike zone, it rose slightly rather than maintaining its trajectory, the spin-induced upward force that fast pitches with high rotation generated pushing the ball out of the plane that Kuramochi’s swing had been calibrated to meet.

The bat passed under the ball by the specific margin that good fastballs and slightly miscalibrated swings produced.

“Pop.”

“Strike!! Struck out!!!”

One out. Nobody on base.

Kuramochi passed Kominato Ryosuke on the way back to the dugout. He started to say something about the fastball, about the way it moved in the final stretch, then stopped. The description that formed in his mind was too imprecise to be useful. Telling someone a ball disappeared was not information they could act on. Better to let Kominato face it himself and form his own read.

He sat down and told the dugout what he had experienced anyway.

“It vanished right at the zone.”

Coach Kataoka provided the explanation.

At high rotational velocity, a baseball generated lift. The upward force was not enough to make the ball actually rise from its release trajectory, but it was enough to cause it to drop less than a normal fastball would across the same distance. A batter calibrated to the expected drop of a conventional fastball would swing below a pitch that had arrived higher than anticipated.

The solution was mechanical: swing approximately one ball higher than instinct suggested.

The explanation was received with the specific quality of understanding that did not immediately translate into comfort. Knowing why something was happening and being able to adjust for it in real time, with a 148-kilometer-per-hour pitch approaching, were different operations.

Zhang Han listened from his spot near the dugout entrance, in the process of switching his glove for the at-bat ahead. He held the thought that the explanation had produced and stayed with it.

His left-handed pitching was still limited in what it offered. Velocity that was real but not exceptional. Command that was improving but not yet reliable. No secondary pitch that created a meaningful different problem from the fastball. Tanba’s curveball was better. Kawakami’s sinker created a different kind of difficulty than anything Zhang Han currently had available.

The fastball that rose.

A ball with enough rotation and enough velocity generated upward force. That same principle applied in reverse: with the right spin orientation, a ball could drop more sharply than its release angle suggested. Maki had built his approach around descending angle from height. There was more than one way to create movement that betrayed a batter’s timing expectations.

The thought was incomplete and he knew it. He filed it and focused on the at-bat in front of him.

Kominato Ryosuke was already walking to the plate.

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

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