As Zhang Han walked toward the batter’s box, the screaming from that corner of the stands did not let up for a single second.

The players from both teams watched it happen, and more than a few of them felt something twist inside. If the rules had not existed and the law had not applied, several of them might have seriously considered going up into the stands and hitting someone. They had never seen anything so infuriating. Who did this guy think he was — Rukawa Kaede? Walking in with his own personal fan club?

In Inashiro’s dugout, the substitutes were grinding their teeth.

In Seido’s dugout, the mood was not entirely different. Envy was visible on more than a few faces, even among his own teammates.

“Why is this guy so popular?”

Higasa, freshly promoted to the first string, touched his gleaming bald head and asked the question with genuine confusion. Everyone on the team was too buried in practice to have a proper relationship. And yet Zhang Han was walking around with a registered fan club.

Kusunoki, also newly promoted and an upperclassman in Zhang Han’s dormitory, turned and looked at Higasa’s shining head for a moment before raising his eyebrows.

“Isn’t it obvious? Whether it’s baseball or looks, who here can honestly comp—”

He did not need to finish. Everyone understood perfectly. Higasa’s face went red.

On the field, the facts spoke for themselves. Zhang Han was the team’s core third batter, previously fifth. He currently led the team in batting average, sat second in on-base percentage, and held the most home runs. He had been called a super rookie at Koshien Stadium. His defense had never dragged the team down. And now, on top of everything, he was developing as a pitcher — with the coaching staff projecting a realistic ceiling above 150 kilometers per hour.

From any angle, Zhang Han was a rising star. Not a future one. A current one. Even now, he stood above ninety-nine percent of high school players in the country. Higasa, without question, was somewhere in that remaining majority, and not near the front of it. In terms of baseball, he could not catch Zhang Han on horseback. In terms of looks, there was simply no comparison to make.

Zhang Han shot commercials. He modeled. Magazines featuring him sold ten to twenty percent more copies, and some readers bought them specifically to collect. Measured against all of that, twenty or thirty girls forming a dedicated fan club was not remarkable. It was, if anything, a modest showing. With his combination of talent and appearance, a crowd of several hundred would not have seemed out of place.

On the mound, Narumiya glanced up at the girls in the stands, then back down at Zhang Han settling into the batter’s box. Zhang Han looked completely unbothered by all of it.

“This kid got popular fast.”

Two months ago, during the Summer Tournament semi-finals, Narumiya had faced Zhang Han directly. At that point, Zhang Han had been strong, but not like this. Not this visible. After just two months, he had not only grown sharper on the field but had become someone people paid attention to off it.

Koshien Stadium was a strange place. It did something to players. Narumiya filed that away quietly. He would get there himself. But first, he had to handle the man standing in front of him right now.

On second base, Kuramochi stood still. He had no intention of trying for third. The success rate on that steal was too low even for someone with his speed. Carlos himself would not take that gamble lightly. There was no reason for Kuramochi to try. Narumiya did not need to spare him any more thought. He turned his full attention back to Zhang Han.

To get through this matchup cleanly, he was going to need something deliberate. Something with a bit more behind it.

He stepped into his delivery and threw.

The pitch landed in the lowest corner of the inside strike zone — about as difficult a location to attack as existed. The plan was straightforward. Get a strike first, then finish with something decisive.

What Narumiya had not expected was Zhang Han swinging at it.

Zhang Han almost never attacked an extreme inside low changeup unless the situation forced him into it. Yet his bat came out.

And at the same moment, Kuramochi — who had been standing obediently at second base — broke for third without hesitation.

Behind the plate, Harada’s eyes went wide.

A hit and run. Right now.

Seido’s hunger to score this run was several times more intense than Inashiro had anticipated. They were willing to sacrifice Zhang Han’s hitting advantage entirely just to move the runner.

Kuramochi was already closing in on third, moving like something released from a spring. And Zhang Han, reading the incoming ball, swung without mercy.

“Ping!”

The ball shot out flat, barely thirty centimeters above the ground. It moved like a hunting falcon skimming the earth, covering twenty meters in an instant before bouncing off the grass.

In Seido’s dugout, players rose to their feet, a cheer already forming in their throats.

Then they saw a body throw itself into the path of the ball.

Hirai, Inashiro’s second baseman, had gotten down and pinned the white ball under him.

The dugout went silent.

Nobody could quite believe what they had just seen. A line drive from Zhang Han, stopped like that? Inashiro’s defense was something else entirely.

Hirai pushed himself up, ball in hand, and turned toward first base to retire Zhang Han. Then Narumiya’s voice cut across the field, sharp and urgent.

“Home base! Throw home!”

Hirai stopped. He did not immediately understand why he was being asked to give up the out at first.

Then he looked up.

Kuramochi, who had started from second, had blown through third and was already pointing himself toward home plate.

Hirai stopped thinking and threw.

Zhang Han jogged to first base, quietly furious. He had gotten on base. Technically, the hit and run had worked. But the planned outcome — Kuramochi scoring — had been calmly neutralized. The whole sequence, built so carefully, had been taken apart without any apparent panic from Inashiro.

Kuramochi, reading that the throw home had cut off any chance, pulled up and retreated to third base. He and Zhang Han had drilled this exact scenario in private practice more times than he could count. To see it produce nothing the first time they ran it in a real game was deeply frustrating.

One out. Runners on first and third.

“Fourth batter — first baseman, Yuuki Tetsuya.”

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