West Tokyo, quarterfinals.

The match between Aoyama High School and the powerhouse Seido High School was in full swing.

In today’s game, the previously unknown Aoyama High School had displayed true dark-horse combat power. By the time the game reached the second inning, the score was still 0–0.

Although Seido High School Baseball Team was more aggressive offensively, from the overall situation, the two teams were evenly matched. A dark horse was actually playing neck and neck with a national-level powerhouse like Seido.

The rhythm of the game had clearly entered a pitcher’s duel.

In the stands, Seido’s supporters were stunned. In this situation, they couldn’t even complain. To be honest, Seido’s players were performing well. Even Coach Kataoka, known for his strict standards, couldn’t find fault with his proud disciples.

During the break, Coach Kataoka arranged tactics while repeatedly glancing at the opposing dugout.

Before the game, Seido had carefully studied Aoyama’s data. The conclusion back then was that although Aoyama High School was fairly strong, they shouldn’t pose too much of a threat.

Unexpectedly, the opponent’s pitcher and catcher had clearly held back their strength in previous games.

“The opponent’s performance is good,” Kataoka said decisively. “But trust the results of your daily training. Maintain this rhythm and continue the game. They won’t be able to last.”

He had to admit that Aoyama deserved respect. But the gap between a powerhouse and an ordinary high school could not be bridged by one or two good innings. As the game dragged on, differences in physical strength and experience would inevitably emerge.

Right now, the most important thing for Seido was to maintain rhythm, avoid panic, and not fall into chaos.

Although Kataoka hadn’t been a director for an especially long time, he understood this principle very well. In classic underdog victories, the weaker team’s brilliance was only part of the story. More often, the stronger team made mistakes that handed the underdog an opportunity.

Seido could not afford to make such a low-level error.

Bottom of the second inning, Seido High School’s offense.

Although the director had instructed everyone not to rush and to maintain their own rhythm, how could the players on the field truly stay calm?

Azuma Kiyokuni stepped into the batter’s box, his large belly jutting forward, lips pursed, eyes fierce. He casually took a few practice swings.

As the baseball whistled past Nishi Kaze’s line of sight, the Aoyama catcher subconsciously swallowed.

This man is different.

Even without facing him directly, Nishi Kaze could feel it. They were no match for Azuma Kiyokuni. Azuma certainly had weaknesses, but compared to his near-foul-level power, those flaws were almost negligible. As long as his bat brushed the ball, it could fly out.

No outs. Bases empty.

From a tactical perspective, this wasn’t an ideal time to intentionally walk a batter. But Azuma’s speed was ordinary, and Nishi Kaze already had a plan for the batters that followed.

“There’s no need to confront him head-on,” Nishi Kaze said calmly. “Let’s walk him.”

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He was pragmatic. When facing high-risk opponents, avoidance was the safest strategy.

On the mound, Kujo hesitated.

Azuma Kiyokuni was the strongest batter in Tokyo. Even nationwide, his hitting ability ranked among the best. Facing such a master was the dream of every capable pitcher.

Kujo wanted that confrontation. But he was Aoyama’s ace. His duty wasn’t personal glory—it was leading the team to victory. From the team’s standpoint, walking Azuma was undoubtedly the correct choice.

“Ball!”

“Ball!”

“Ball!”

“Ball!”

“Intentional walk to first base!”

No theatrics. No hesitation.

Aoyama’s pitcher and catcher chose the simplest and most effective solution.

It was as if they were telling Seido directly that they would not face a true monster head-on.

“Aoyama is being too cowardly!”

“They were scared by Azuma!”

“As expected of Tokyo’s strongest batter!”

Whispers spread through the stands. There was some criticism of Aoyama, but far more admiration for Azuma Kiyokuni.

Even if Azuma himself disliked such treatment, it didn’t change public opinion.

No outs. Runner on first.

Yuuki, the fifth batter, stepped into the box.

In the next few seconds, everyone finally witnessed the truly terrifying side of Aoyama High School.

From behind the plate, Nishi Kaze glanced at Yuuki and gave a subtle nod. Kujo responded in kind, briefly scanning the field behind him.

Aoyama’s shortstop quietly retreated a few steps.

A trap had already been set.

At this moment, Seido’s players were still unaware.

Kujo delivered a pitch that looked like a mistake—slightly inside, a bit off the corner, and not very fast. Yuuki would never let such a pitch go. He gripped the bat tightly and swung with full force.

“Buzz!”

The sound echoed like muffled thunder.

Nishi Kaze’s heart sank.

Yuuki’s swing was even faster and more decisive than what the video footage had shown.

Fortunately—

Just before contact, the ball suddenly sank. Yuuki, already committed to the swing, had no time to adjust.

“Ping…”

The ball shot off the bat, skimming low like a hound chasing prey.

Seido’s players froze.

Not again.

In the first inning, Tanaka had reached base and Hidezawa grounded into a double play. Everyone had thought it was just bad luck.

Now it was happening again. At this point, calling it luck was no longer convincing.

This was strategy.

Aoyama was deliberately allowing runners on, then baiting ground balls to force double plays.

It sounded crazy—almost illogical.

Yet it was the only reasonable explanation.

Would tragedy repeat itself?

“Thud!”

The ball was stopped by Aoyama’s first baseman. He turned, preparing to throw to second, but hesitated. Azuma Kiyokuni was already sprinting, only seven or eight meters from the bag. The first baseman could only watch as Azuma slid safely into second.

One out. Runner on second.

“What just happened?”

Aoyama High School called a timeout. Their double-play plan had failed.

On Seido’s side, cold sweat broke out. The first time could be coincidence.

But this time, against Azuma and Yuuki, Aoyama had nearly pulled off the same trap again.

That said everything. This wasn’t luck—it was a premeditated plan. And the mastermind was clear.

Nishi Kaze Retsu.

This player who had suddenly emerged was delivering a heavy shock to Seido High School Baseball Team.

The stands fell silent.

Two or three seconds passed before cameras began clicking furiously. The Ichidai Third High School players exchanged looks.

They didn’t know what to complain about. Seido’s luck was simply, complicated.

The Aoyama High School in front of them was nothing like the team Ichidai had faced earlier.

If Seido was forced to expose too much strength here, it could only benefit others.

“It looks like even heaven is helping us,” Director Tahara said quietly.

“Don’t waste heaven’s kindness,” someone replied. “Let’s see how Seido handles this next.”

Coach Kataoka, what trump card did you prepare?

“Sixth batter, shortstop, Zhang Han.”

Under countless expectant gazes, Zhang Han stepped into the batter’s box.

Nishi Kaze and Kujo were familiar with him.

In the previous round, Zhang Han had only one hit—a far cry from his explosive debut. That fact explained a lot. It meant the pitching style in that game hadn’t suited him.

Metropolitan Third High School had already provided a successful blueprint.

Just follow it.

Kujo delivered a pitch slightly below the center of the strike zone. The same type of pitch that had troubled Zhang Han before. Confident, Kujo believed this would work again.

Unexpectedly, Zhang Han’s eyes lit up.

This pitch might be awkward for an ordinary batter.

But for him, it was perfect.

The bat whistled through the air.

Zhang Han swung diagonally, an unconventional but fluid motion.

“Ping!”

Solid contact.

The ball rocketed out.

2–0.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep