Narumiya Mei had actually fully recovered?

In Seido High School Baseball Team’s dugout, the atmosphere turned heavy. The players’ expressions were gloomy.

Through this confrontation, they had clearly realized that Inashiro Industrial High School Baseball Team was far from as strong as they had originally imagined. In fact, their overall strength was even inferior to Ichidai Third High School, whom Seido had defeated earlier.

Even with the emergence of a dark horse like Narumiya Mei, that judgment hadn’t really changed. Objectively speaking, the opponent’s strength wasn’t overwhelming. Winning this game shouldn’t have been that difficult.

Yet reality slapped them hard in the face.

Although Inashiro’s overall strength wasn’t that high, their tenacity was terrifying.

Both the ace pitcher and the relief pitcher had clearly broken down earlier. For most teams, that would have meant surrender long ago.

But Inashiro Industrial didn’t surrender.

Not only did they refuse to give up, they showed astonishing resilience.

The ace pitcher, Nishimonji, who had looked close to collapse, and the relief pitcher, Narumiya Mei, both recovered in a very short time and stood up again.

Tanaka was taken care of.

Hidezawa was struck out cleanly.

Finally, Yamada was forced out at first base.

Three batters up. Three batters down.

Seido’s core third-year players were eliminated one after another.

When Tanaka was retired, some players had already begun to worry, but no one dared to be certain. After all, coincidences and luck existed.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

But now, that excuse no longer held.

This wasn’t luck.

This was real strength—undeniable strength.

“This is unbelievable. How can he be this fierce?”

“He’s clearly a first-year rookie, yet he’s running the third-years in circles.”

“Narumiya Mei… he’s terrifying.”

“He was clearly broken earlier. How did he suddenly recover? What kind of magic did Coach Kunimoto use?”

People who didn’t understand began asking those around them.

The answer they got was simple.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This was reality.

In fact, not only the spectators and reporters but even many of Seido’s own players were confused.

They had clearly held the advantage in this game.

So how had things turned out like this?

With their experience, they were all too familiar with this rhythm.

This was the rhythm of being overturned.

What hurt the most was that even as they stood on the verge of being overturned, they still didn’t understand how they had ended up in this position.

“The opponent hasn’t fully recovered,” Coach Kataoka said, interrupting the chaotic speculation. “He’s just shouldering responsibility in a crisis. In this situation, he had no choice but to push himself through.”

Hearing this, Seido’s players felt it made sense.

Narumiya Mei wasn’t without pain or regret.

It was just that the flow of the game didn’t allow him the luxury of wallowing in it. He had to face the crisis head-on and resolve it.

What was the most terrifying punishment for someone who made a mistake?

It was having no chance to correct it.

When that chance appeared, how could anyone dare not seize it?

At least for Narumiya Mei, the answer was clear.

He wouldn’t hesitate.

“Don’t worry about his performance,” Kataoka said firmly. “Just maintain our rhythm. We only need six more outs.”

His gaze landed on Hidezawa.

Hidezawa nodded. “Don’t worry, Coach.”

Coach Kataoka then looked at the rest of the team.

One by one, they nodded as well.

Hidezawa’s physical burden was extremely heavy now, and no one could guarantee his pitching wouldn’t falter.

Fortunately, Seido had never relied on a single individual. They were a team. Every player was a part of Seido High School Baseball Team.

Only when they stood together were they complete.

On the other side, in Inashiro Industrial’s dugout, Coach Kunimoto was also giving instructions.

He wasn’t the type of coach who liked to micromanage.

But now, he had no choice.

“This is your last chance,” Kunimoto said calmly. “I’m not asking for much. Just one hit. Go up there and get on base first. First pitch, aim for the inside bad ball.”

He didn’t explain why.

The players didn’t ask.

They were already used to this.

Fully understanding the director’s thoughts and tactical reasoning in such a short time was difficult. Not everyone was a baseball genius, and not everyone had that level of comprehension.

So what should they do?

It was simple.

They didn’t need to understand why.

They just needed to trust their director—and execute.

This unspoken trust had long been forged between Inashiro Industrial and Kunimoto.

“Ping!”

The eighth batter, an outfielder, swung at the inside bad ball exactly as instructed.

The ball was hit cleanly. The white ball dropped into a defensive gap.

The batter sprinted straight to first base.

No outs. Runner on first.

For Inashiro Industrial, this was their best opportunity.

In terms of the overall flow of the game, this hit was critical. The team that had been suppressed for so long regained momentum through this single hit.

It looked like they had a chance.

A chance to get on base. A chance to score.

Coach Kunimoto, a seasoned veteran, would never waste such a carefully constructed opportunity.

“Substitution!”

The eighth batter was immediately replaced.

A tall, dark-skinned teenager stepped onto the field, his movements resembling a prowling African leopard.

“He’s so dark…”

Seido’s dugout was stunned.

They hadn’t expected Inashiro Industrial to still be hiding such a trump card.

As expected of the uncrowned king of West Tokyo. Their cards were hidden deeply.

“Is he also a first-year rookie?”

A senior asked in surprise.

Turning his head, he realized that Zhang Han and Miyuki—the two first-year rookies—weren’t even in the dugout.

They were on the field, playing defense. The feeling was suffocating.

Here he was, a dignified third-year, sitting in the dugout doing nothing.

Meanwhile, the first-years were carrying the team on the field.

“This really is fate…”

At shortstop, Zhang Han’s brows furrowed slightly.

To the second- and third-year seniors, this player might be unfamiliar. But to Zhang Han and Miyuki, the teenager with African heritage was all too familiar.

The little black guy, Carlos. If not nationwide, then at least in Tokyo, among players of their generation, this man was the fastest of them all.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep