Total score: 3–2!

In a tightly contested game like this, the team that breaks the deadlock first always gains a tremendous psychological advantage.

This was especially true in clashes between powerhouse schools.

At this level, neither side made many mistakes. One crack in the armor was often all it took. Once a team seized the lead, it could slowly but surely snowball that advantage—tightening its defense, sharpening its pitching, and forcing the opponent into impatience.

For the Seido High School Baseball Team, this one run felt like the opening of a long-sealed door.

They were ecstatic.

Cheers erupted from the dugout, fists clenched in the air, backs slapped hard enough to sting. Some players even forgot to sit, standing at the railing and staring out at the field as if they were afraid the score might change the moment they looked away.

They could see it now.

The dawn of victory.

To be honest, before this game had begun, not many people—players included—had truly believed Seido could defeat Ichidai Third High School.

It wasn’t cowardice.

It was experience.

Over the years, Ichidai Third had become a wall Seido could never quite climb. No matter how well they started, no matter how sharp their preparation, they always seemed to falter at the most critical moment. Loss after loss had quietly eroded their confidence.

Even today, despite the fiery morale before the first pitch, most of them had carried an unspoken doubt in their hearts.

Could they really do it?

It wasn’t until the game truly began—until pitch after pitch was exchanged without collapse—that they started to believe, just a little.

Maybe… just maybe… Ichidai Third High School wasn’t so invincible after all.

And now, Zhang Han had delivered the blow that shattered the stalemate.

The Seido players felt as if honey had been poured straight into their chests.

For the first time, they truly felt it.

Today… we might be the ones who break through.

But baseball was never that kind.

Reality arrived swiftly and without mercy.

Kameshima, who had just surrendered a run, did not crumble the way many had expected. On the contrary, his eyes burned even brighter, and his presence on the mound seemed to grow heavier with every step.

He adjusted his cap, rolled his shoulders, and fired back with terrifying composure.

One strikeout.

Then another.

And just like that, the third out was secured.

Seido’s momentum slammed into an invisible wall.

Back in the Ichidai Third High School dugout, Kameshima walked in calmly, towel draped around his neck, breathing rough but controlled.

“The game isn’t over yet,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“Who are you making those long faces for? I can still pitch. Scoring… that part is up to you guys.”

Those simple words struck like thunder.

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The Ichidai Third players straightened as if electricity had passed through them. Some clenched their fists. Others nodded silently, teeth grinding.

They were ready.

Ready to fight Seido to the very end.

Meanwhile, Seido’s dugout was still basking in the glow of their narrow lead.

“You’re ridiculous, kid!”

“You seriously stole all the spotlight by yourself!”

“That swing just now—what was that?!”

Zhang Han was immediately surrounded.

Hands clapped his back. Someone nearly put him in a headlock. Praise poured down on him from every direction, loud and unrestrained.

Even Coach Kataoka, usually stern and unreadable, looked at him with noticeably gentler eyes. That alone was enough to make Zhang Han’s heart skip a beat.

Then Azuma Kiyokuni stepped forward.

“Kid,” he said bluntly, wasting no words, “how did you hit that pitch just now?”

Azuma had faced that Gyroball himself. He knew exactly how terrifying it was.

Yuuki, standing nearby, also turned his gaze over. His sharp eyes were filled with unmistakable interest.

All eyes fell on Zhang Han.

And suddenly… Zhang Han didn’t know what to say. If he spoke honestly, would anyone believe him?

Coach Kataoka noticed the hesitation immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he spoke in a calm, commanding tone.

“Say it exactly as it happened.”

With the coach’s words backing him, Zhang Han finally exhaled and scratched his head with a wry smile.

“To be honest… I’m still confused myself,” he admitted. “When I saw the ball coming, my body just moved. I didn’t think about it. By the time I realized what I’d done… the ball was already gone.”

Silence fell.

Zhang Han braced himself for disbelief. Instead, the upperclassmen all showed thoughtful expressions.

No laughter.

No ridicule.

Coach Kataoka looked at him steadily. “How many practice swings are you doing per day now?”

Zhang Han answered honestly. “Five hundred. Two hundred during morning practice. I wake up early and swing another hundred on my own. Then two hundred more in the evening.”

“…So in the past few months,” Coach Kataoka said slowly, “you’ve swung the bat more than twenty thousand times?”

“Roughly.”

That was enough.

The surrounding players stared at Zhang Han with expressions filled with deep, uncontrollable envy. Seido was a team known for brutal training.

Anyone who stayed on the First-string practiced beyond the official schedule. Extra swings. Extra drills. Extra pain. And among them, many had experienced that strange moment Zhang Han described.

That moment when the brain lagged behind the body. When the eyes saw the ball—and the swing was already there. Perhaps a sports scientist could explain it with theories and terminology.

But ballplayers didn’t need that. They only needed to know one thing.

It happens.

A rare stroke of genius.

Defense. Hitting. Pitching.

With enough repetition, skill became instinct.

Like the old saying about pouring oil through a coin’s hole—practice long enough, and precision became inevitable.

Among Seido’s players, five had achieved such moments before.

Azuma Kiyokuni. Tanaka. Hidezawa. Yuuki. Yamada.

Each of them had only reached that state after more than a hundred thousand swings. And even then, only occasionally. Zhang Han had done it with barely a fifth of that effort.

Of course, such moments weren’t magic. They didn’t make every swing successful.

And against a high-level Gyroball like Kameshima’s, even that instinct was terrifyingly hard to reproduce.

As the Seido players were still digesting this realization, the situation on the field shifted once again.

Ichidai Third High School attacked with desperate ferocity.

Every batter who stepped into the box looked as if they were prepared to leave everything behind on that swing.

Hits appeared.

Outs followed.

The tension mounted with every pitch.

Eventually—

Two outs.

Runners on first and third.

The batter was Omae, a second-year.

Up to now, this well-known hitter had been completely silent.

With Miyuki and Hidezawa working in perfect sync, Omae had already been retired twice.

This was the third confrontation.

The air in the stadium seemed to tighten.

One swing.

That was all it would take.

“Just one more out!”

“Two outs! Two outs!!!”

The Seido fielders shouted encouragement behind Hidezawa, their voices sharp and relentless.

At the same time, it was pressure.

Heavy, suffocating pressure.

If they could hold this one-run lead into the eighth inning…

Victory would be within reach.

Years of suppression. Years of frustration.

Revenge was right there.

Omae stood in the batter’s box, gripping his bat.

He felt the pressure.

But strangely, it didn’t crush him.

Instead, one thing echoed endlessly in his mind.

I can still pitch. Scoring is up to you guys.

Kameshima-senpai wasn’t built like a machine.

He was chubby. His stamina had never been exceptional.

And after more than 120 pitches—after forcing his body to throw explosive Gyroballs again and again—he was clearly nearing his limit.

Yet he was still standing on the mound.

Still fighting.

All for the sake of advancing the team.

Omae’s chest tightened.

He was rough on the outside, but soft on the inside.

He had to hit this ball.

The pitch came.

“Whizz—!”

Omae swung with everything he had.

A swing that seemed to tear through the air itself.

“Ping!”

The sound exploded through the stadium.

The ball screamed into deep outfield, slammed hard against the wall, and rebounded back onto the field.

The runner from third scored.

Then the runner from first.

Two runs crossed home plate.

The scoreboard flipped.

Ichidai Third High School had taken the lead.

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

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