Total score: 2-1.

A huge roar erupted from the stands.

The sound was several times louder than when Zhang Han had gotten his hit earlier. Seido’s die-hard supporters could barely contain themselves. Most of them were on their feet, shouting at the top of their lungs, because anything less felt insufficient. They had been suppressed by Inashiro for so long. Now, finally, the tables had turned.

No matter what happened from here, they wanted those guys to lose convincingly.

Inside Inashiro’s dugout, the substitute players were all frowning.

Seido’s reputation as the strongest hitting lineup at Koshien had not been exaggerated. Their offensive power was something else entirely — relentless, almost unfair. Especially Zhang Han and Yuuki. Could you even call those two ordinary high school students?

They had seen Narumiya’s pitching up close for the first time today, and Seido’s batters had blasted it without mercy. Was that something ordinary humans were supposed to be able to do?

Precisely because they shared a dugout with Narumiya, Inashiro’s players understood their ace’s true strength better than anyone. That fastball, once seen in practice, was the kind of thing that showed up in your dreams at night.

Many of Inashiro’s own teammates, after facing Narumiya in scrimmages, had quietly considered giving up baseball altogether. They genuinely believed that no amount of effort in a lifetime would allow them to hit a pitch like that.

To them, Narumiya Mei was simply a monster.

And yet this very monster, playing against Seido, had not gained any advantage at all. He was being hit. Runs were coming in.

Narumiya himself, however, was not discouraged in the slightest.

Behind the plate, Harada gestured with his eyes — a quiet question. Should they call a timeout? Not because he thought Narumiya had a problem. Mainly, he wanted to slow the game’s momentum down and reset the pace.

Narumiya shook his head.

No need.

He had already considered this before the game. In the days leading up to facing Seido, Narumiya had run through every scenario in his mind, and giving up two or three runs had always been part of the picture. He had never intended to dodge any batter. If he walked someone to avoid a confrontation, even if he threw a shutout, he would not be happy with it.

This kind of game — direct, physical, no shortcuts — was exactly what excited him.

Keep going.

Standing short on the mound, Narumiya was as stubborn as a child digging in his heels.

Harada smiled wryly but decided to indulge him. Narumiya could seem unreliable at times, and he had a way of making people worry. But his strength was undeniable. He had never failed when it truly mattered. If he believed there was no problem, then there was no problem.

“Ping!”

Isashiki Jun, the fifth batter, barely managed to get his bat on the ball and sweep it out. But there was no relief in the contact. Both his hands were trembling slightly on the grip.

What is this guy made of? Not particularly tall. Not visibly powerful. So how was he throwing a fastball that felt like that?

The ball dribbled out with almost no power behind it, floating like a slow arc toward the shortstop. Shirakawa barely had to move.

“Pop!”

“Out!”

“Three outs — sides retired!”

The first inning was over. Seido was trailing by a run. But the game had been close and fierce throughout, and neither team had given the other an inch.

Top of the second inning. Inashiro on offense.

The game had entered a heated stage. It had the shape of a pitcher’s duel, but neither side was playing carefully anymore. Both teams had completely let loose. On offense or defense, they gave everything they had and held nothing back.

In the top of the second, Hirai, the sixth batter, found his pitch and hit it clean. The ball bypassed Seido’s fielders and landed in open space. Hirai reached first base without issue.

Behind the plate, Miyuki was genuinely a little stunned.

Tanba had not made any mistakes. The two of them had been working well together. The fastball Tanba had just thrown was not quite at his absolute peak, but it was firmly within his normal standard. The pitch had been fine. And it had still been hit.

All he could do was credit the batter.

But this was the seventh batter. A genuine lower-order hitter, no embellishment. And even a batter this far down the lineup could connect off Tanba’s fastball.

The depth of Inashiro’s roster was becoming clear. Even their standout this year, Yabe, was sitting on the bench with no role to play. The players ahead of him on the depth chart were simply that strong.

The eighth batter stepping in was no easier. Despite his position in the order, his raw power was not inferior to a typical team’s cleanup hitter. In a previous game, this same batter had hit a two-run home run. An eighth batter. Essentially the weakest spot in their lineup on paper. And he had the ability to go deep.

That alone put Inashiro ahead of Seido in at least one way. Three or four of Seido’s own starters could not claim the same.

That was the gap.

Miyuki studied him for a moment and began setting a trap. Extraordinary power was certainly an advantage, but it could also be a vulnerability, depending on how it was approached. Miyuki’s mind worked quickly. He called the pitch and guided Tanba into throwing something tempting — just on the edge, begging to be swung at.

The batter took the bait.

“Ping!”

The ball came off the bat and bounced hard off the ground, rolling directly toward the shortstop.

“Hee-haw!”

Kuramochi charged forward, scooped the ball cleanly into his glove, and fired immediately to second base. Kominato Ryosuke was already waiting there, positioned perfectly. He caught the throw, stepped on the bag without breaking stride, and fired to first base in one fluid motion.

“Pop!”

“Double play!”

After giving up the hit, Seido had answered immediately with a double play. It was a statement. It reminded Inashiro’s players and supporters that they were not only dealing with Seido’s pitcher — they were dealing with a defense that would not give ground.

The fans in the stands were wound so tight they forgot to cheer. They stared at the field in complete silence, unwilling to look away for even a second.

The second inning ended in that tense atmosphere. Tanba got the ninth batter to pop up for the final out and the inning closed cleanly.

Then Seido went on offense.

And the first one to get a hit was Miyuki.

He swung at the very first pitch he saw. Nobody expected it — least of all his own teammates. They knew his habits too well. With runners on base, maybe. But in a no-out, nobody-on situation, the odds of Miyuki swinging at the first pitch were almost too low to consider.

Yet he swung, and he hit it cleanly.

No outs, runner on first base.

Some of the more optimistic Seido fans felt a surge of possibility. Maybe their luck was turning. Maybe they would tie it this inning.

Then Narumiya erupted.

Whatever had gotten under his skin — giving up that hit, the situation, pure pride — he responded with a cold expression and a run of sharp breaking balls that left no room for argument. Masuko and Sakai had no answer. One after another, they went down on strikes.

Three consecutive strikeouts. Narumiya closed out the inning cleanly and walked off the mound without a word.

The two teams continued trading blows. Neither gave an inch.

By the top of the third inning, the scoreboard still read 2-1, Seido trailing by one run.

“First batter, center fielder — Carlos.”

Inashiro’s lineup had cycled back around to the top. The dark-skinned Carlos stepped up to the plate, and the game pressed forward.

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