“Seido High School requesting a pitcher change!”

Coach Kataoka had appeared at the top of the dugout steps. Beside him stood a slender young man.

The substitution caught Inashiro’s players off guard. It caught Seido’s own teammates off guard too. Nobody had expected their coach to pull the change this quickly.

Tanba walked back to the dugout and sat down. It felt as though the color had drained out of everything around him.

Kataoka’s words followed him in.

“If you don’t want to experience this again, open your eyes and see it clearly. Whether it’s anger or unwillingness, hold onto that feeling. There won’t be a next time.”

Tanba said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Inside Inashiro’s dugout, the club’s director scratched his head and turned to Kunimoto.

“He’s pulling their ace this quickly? Is Seido giving up on the rest of the game?”

Kunimoto shook his head.

“Taking him off this decisively means one of two things. Either Kataoka has lost confidence in their number one pitcher, or there is someone on that staff he trusts even more than Tanba.”

A truly reliable ace would not come off the mound this easily. Even for conditioning purposes, a pitcher of that standing would be moved to the outfield to stay eligible, not sent back to the dugout, where he loses any chance of returning to the game. The speed and finality of this change said something.

Two weeks ago, nobody would have believed that Kawakami, a pitcher with no significant competitive experience would be brought into a game like this with runners on base and a dangerous batter standing in the box. And yet here he was. That alone told Kunimoto something. Not only had Kawakami pitched well in the previous game, but the work he had put in during the week since had been enough to earn Kataoka’s trust. The entire Seido coaching staff had signed off on this.

That was not good news for Inashiro.

One out. Runner on first base.

“Fourth batter. Catcher, Harada Masatoshi.”

Kunimoto gave the signal. The situation was still in Inashiro’s favor, and the opposing pitcher had only just stepped onto the mound. If they could hit him hard before he found his footing, they might rattle the freshman badly enough to unravel him entirely. Even if they could not break him completely, adding more runs here would be valuable.

Harada stepped into the box.

He was Inashiro’s captain this year, and one of the recognized representatives of the new generation across West Tokyo’s three great powerhouses, standing alongside Seido’s Yuuki Tetsuya and Ichidai Third High’s Omae. The weight of that standing was felt just in how he carried himself at the plate. Earlier in the game, he had muscled a hit off Tanba even without finding the sweet spot, grinding the ball out through sheer force of will.

And now Kawakami, fresh onto the mound, had to face him immediately.

Seido’s players could not help but feel the anxiety creeping in. They watched from the dugout and the field, all of them quietly wondering whether Kawakami could really hold his ground here.

Kawakami himself, standing on the mound, would not have claimed he was calm. He was not. His blood was moving fast, his heart hammering against his chest like it was trying to get out. He was nervous. Genuinely, deeply nervous.

But underneath the nerves was something else entirely.

He was excited.

Nobody outside of him fully understood the despair he had quietly lived with. Tanba had never been considered among the elite, but his high breaking ball was a real weapon — one that had always put a ceiling on Kawakami’s path to the mound. And then Zhang Han had arrived, and the sense of threat had multiplied instantly. There had been a moment, not long ago, when Kawakami had seriously considered walking away from pitching altogether.

But at the lowest point, something had kept him going. Words written in a notebook by someone he had never met — words of encouragement, of acknowledgment, of care. Someone had seen his effort. That had been enough to pull him back.

This moment on the mound was the product of every one of those days. Every early morning, every late evening, every pitch thrown into the dark when no one was watching. He had fought for this opportunity. He was not going to waste it.

Miyuki read all of it in Kawakami’s face and felt something settle inside him.

Good. As long as Kawakami could hold that state, they had a real chance against these Inashiro players. Starting with the man standing in the box right now — a fourth batter as famous and dangerous as Yuuki himself.

Miyuki gave the signal.

Kawakami took a slow breath, then threw with everything he had.

“Whoosh!”

The ball shot straight to the inside corner.

On first base, Yoshizawa had drifted off the bag and was applying quiet pressure, reminding Kawakami he was there. But he did not break — stealing had never been the plan. Inashiro needed Harada to hit the ball. That was where their faith was placed right now.

Harada did not swing. He watched the pitch come in and let it pass directly into Miyuki’s glove.

“Thwack!”

“Strike!”

From behind Harada, Narumiya — next in the order and waiting his turn voiced his displeasure without hesitation.

“Harada is too conservative. He should have swung at that.”

Harada gave no reaction. He had heard it.

But the truth was, he had almost nothing to work with on Kawakami. This was the first time he had ever seen this pitcher throw. As Inashiro’s cleanup hitter, he could not afford to go up to the plate swinging blindly. If he went down here, the psychological weight it placed on the batters behind him would be enormous. He needed to watch. He needed to understand what he was dealing with.

Miyuki, crouched behind the plate, read the hesitation in Harada’s posture and felt a quiet spark of calculation.

There was something there.

Harada was watching and waiting — but the count was not going to give him many more chances to do that. Miyuki had originally planned to throw a ball next, to probe a little further. He changed his mind on the spot and called for a breaking ball instead.

Kawakami, unlike Tanba, did not second-guess the sign. He was not the ace, and he had no illusions about it. His role coming into this game had been clear in his own mind from the first step onto the mound — support Miyuki completely, execute what was called for, and help the team win. He wound up and delivered cleanly.

Harada had seen one pitch now and formed a rough picture in his mind. Average velocity, but outstanding control. That first pitch to the inside corner had been placed with precision. He expected this one on the outside corner — the natural follow-up.

Inside, then outside. He had a read on the pattern. No need to wait any longer.

Harada gripped the bat and swung with confidence.

The composure on his face disappeared the moment the bat made contact.

“Ping!”

As the ball reached him, it slid outward unexpectedly — just enough to upset the timing of his pull swing. The contact he made was not the contact he had planned for. The ball bounced off his bat and dropped directly in front of the mound.

“You have time — throw to second.”

Miyuki’s voice came immediately.

“Thwack!”

The ball landed in Kawakami’s glove. Months of repetition took over before conscious thought could catch up. He turned and threw to second base.

A figure was already there, waiting.

“Thwack!”

The catch was clean. A heavy foot came down on the bag, and then the throw was already on its way to first base.

“Thwack!”

Both Yoshizawa coming from first and Harada running from the box were retired.

Double play. Three outs. Change of sides.

Two pitches. That was all it had taken Kawakami to walk off the mound with the inning closed.

The air went out of Inashiro’s dugout completely.

Bottom of the third inning. Seido’s offense.

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

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