In the eighth inning, Ichidai Third High School’s batting order had reached their seventh batter.

Even though he was part of the lower lineup, anyone who could make it onto the roster of a powerhouse team and represent them in a game like this was, without exception, an outstanding player. Just like Seido, although the lower batting order was slightly weaker than the core lineup, that did not mean it lacked offensive capability.

In fact, up to this point, Seido High School Baseball Team had scored several crucial runs precisely because of their lower-order batters.

Ichidai Third High School was no different.

Their lower-order hitters were absolutely not to be underestimated.

If Seido showed even the slightest lapse in focus, these players would seize the opportunity and launch a fierce counterattack.

Behind home plate, Miyuki Kazuya felt a faint sense of unease.

Up to now, his cooperation with Hidezawa had been nearly flawless. Still, the reality could not be ignored. Hidezawa had already thrown more than 120 pitches, his count rapidly approaching 130. Even if his stamina was better than Kameshima’s, there was no way his pitching would remain unaffected.

In fact, compared to the beginning of the game, Hidezawa’s current pitches had clearly lost speed and sharpness.

From a purely tactical standpoint, the safest option was obvious.

Change the pitcher.

Let Hidezawa move to the outfield for now, and if the situation turned dangerous, bring him back.

That would be a double layer of insurance.

Miyuki voiced this suggestion to the bench, but Coach Kataoka showed no sign of reacting. His expression remained calm, as if he were weighing something far deeper.

What Miyuki didn’t know was that at this moment, Coach Kataoka had chosen to place his trust in Hidezawa’s struggle—and his desperation.

Coach Kataoka himself had once been a pitcher. In his first year, he had risen to become the team’s ace. After becoming Seido’s director, he had always carried a dream in his heart: to cultivate a true ace pitcher for Seido.

Because of this belief, he was willing to give promising pitchers more opportunities, hoping they could grow under pressure.

Although Kataoka was not completely satisfied with Hidezawa, he was still the most promising pitching prospect Seido had produced in recent years.

Naturally, Kataoka held higher expectations for him.

Beyond expectation, however, there was also helplessness.

Ichidai Third High School had reliable substitute pitchers waiting in their dugout.

Seido did not.

From Kataoka’s perspective, Tanba was still too immature. In such a crucial match, at such a critical juncture, how could he confidently hand everything over to him?

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Because of these two factors, even though Coach Kataoka understood Miyuki’s suggestion was reasonable, he ultimately chose not to adopt it.

Instead, he placed his faith in Hidezawa.

“Can you still go?” Kataoka asked quietly.

“No problem!”

Hidezawa nodded hard.

His breathing was uneven, his body wracked with fatigue, and his pitching shoulder felt as heavy as lead. Even lifting it now required enormous effort.

Yet his mental state was completely different.

It wasn’t just excitement—it was euphoria.

Watching this, Zhang Han couldn’t help but feel uneasy. For a moment, he even wondered if this senior had taken some kind of prohibited substance. Even if the tournament didn’t test for it, relying on something like that wouldn’t get him through the next game.

But before stepping onto the field, Hidezawa suddenly ran over and asked Zhang Han a question that instantly dispelled those doubts.

“If you were an Ichidai San batter,” Hidezawa asked seriously, “what would you hate most for me to do right now?”

To be honest, given Hidezawa’s current condition, Zhang Han felt confident he could hit almost anything.

If he had to choose—

“Control,” Zhang Han replied after a moment’s thought. “Rely on control and fielding to get outs. I don’t know what Ichidai San is thinking, but if it were me, that’s what I’d hate the most right now.”

If they went head-to-head, Zhang Han couldn’t say he’d succeed every time, but he was confident he had at least a fifty to sixty percent chance of blasting a home run.

Hidezawa smiled.

That smile sent a chill down Zhang Han’s spine.

Ever since the Summer Tournament began, Zhang Han had felt that Hidezawa’s gaze toward him was… strange.

Surely he didn’t have any impure thoughts, right?

Recalling the military combat techniques his grandfather had taught him, Zhang Han felt a bit more at ease. He couldn’t fight ten people—three or five would already be difficult. But as long as he wasn’t surrounded, seven or eight opponents wouldn’t be able to stop him.

After all, he could still run.

And in a one-on-one situation, aside from older military veterans, Zhang Han had never lost to anyone his age. Hidezawa didn’t look particularly burly either. He shouldn’t be a problem.

The game resumed.

Ichidai San’s batter stepped into the box with a desperate expression, swinging with all his might. But Hidezawa had completely changed his approach.

He abandoned power and focused on precision, relentlessly targeting the corners of the strike zone. At the same time, he actively directed the positioning of his fielders.

Logically speaking, with his pitch count exceeding 130 and his stamina nearly depleted, Hidezawa shouldn’t have been able to maintain such control.

This was exactly what Ichidai San believed.

They were certain that Hidezawa would eventually be forced into a head-on duel, just like Kameshima.

If he didn’t go all-out now, when would he?

Once his stamina collapsed, it would be a question whether he could even throw the ball—let alone throw it into the strike zone.

But Hidezawa showed no concern at all.

He wasn’t afraid to waste pitches. He wasn’t afraid to throw balls. Little by little, he seized control of the game.

Finally, he used a high pitch to force Ichidai Third High School’s seventh batter into a weak pop fly.

The white ball rose straight up, barely leaving home plate before dropping back down.

Miyuki stepped forward, raised his glove, and caught it cleanly.

“Pop!”

“Out!!”

It wasn’t over yet.

Facing the eighth batter, Hidezawa followed up with a low pitch, forcing a sharp grounder into the infield.

Zhang Han charged forward, scooped the ball into his glove, stood up smoothly, and fired it to first base.

“Pop!”

“Out!”

It took seven pitches to retire the seventh batter.

Six more to deal with the eighth.

Thirteen pitches. Two outs.

At the same time, Hidezawa’s total pitch count climbed past 140.

Even at Koshien, such a strategy was rarely seen.

The Ichidai San players were completely caught off guard. They had never imagined that Hidezawa would choose deception and control at the very end.

Was he not afraid of collapsing on the mound himself?

Was he not afraid that winning today would drain him so completely that he wouldn’t be able to pitch tomorrow?

If he were afraid, why would he still do this? How could he still do this?

On the pitcher’s mound, Hidezawa lifted his head and looked toward Ichidai San’s dugout.

Kameshima had already been helped to his feet. He was watching the field, worry etched clearly across his face.

Hidezawa clenched his fist.

‘The final showdown of our third-year summer, I won.’

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

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