Chapter 8 – Civil War Phantom God
The morning sun filtered into Seidou's dormitory, but the atmosphere inside was anything but calm.
After the practice match, tensions that had been quietly brewing finally began to surface. What once felt like friendly competition among the first-years was now something sharper, heavier—like the air before a storm.
Sawamura Eijun's voice echoed through the hallway as he argued with Kuramochi about breakfast. His usual antics drew laughs, but under the laughter there was a nervous edge. Everyone had noticed the same thing: Sendo Akira's relentless work ethic.
It wasn't just that he trained more than anyone else. It was the effect. His pitches, his throws, even the way he moved carried a weight that hadn't been there at the start of the month. Day by day, the gap widened—and nobody could ignore it.
On the practice field, the tension became visible.
Sawamura was the first to snap. "Hey, Sendo! You think just because you're sneaking out at night you'll get ahead of me? Don't underestimate me! I'll be the one standing on the mound as ace!"
His voice carried all the pride and stubbornness in his chest, but instead of the usual playful laugh, Sendo only glanced at him with calm eyes.
"I don't care what you say," Sendo replied evenly, tightening the laces of his glove. "What matters is who earns it."
That blunt answer silenced Sawamura for a moment, but the fire in his chest only burned hotter.
Before he could bark back, another voice cut through. "Doesn't matter. I'll beat both of you."
Furuya's tone was flat, but his words landed like a heavy fastball. His tall frame cast a shadow over the two of them as he stepped onto the field, glove resting casually on his shoulder. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes locked on Sendo with unmistakable intent.
The three of them stood there, sparks practically flying. It was no longer just friendly rivalry. It was war.
From the dugout, upperclassmen exchanged glances. Kuramochi smirked. "Hoo? Looks like our rookies are about to explode."
Miyuki leaned against the fence, his smirk sharp as ever. "Explode? No… This is what we've been waiting for. Real competition. Let's see who can handle the pressure."
That afternoon, coach Kataoka arranged an intra-squad scrimmage. At first, it looked like a normal practice match, but every player could feel the weight behind it. This wasn't just training—it was a battlefield where the hierarchy of Seidou would be challenged.
Sawamura pitched the first few innings, full of bluster and energy. His fastball still lacked control, but his determination was contagious. Every shout, every dramatic windup, screamed that he refused to be ignored.
Furuya followed, his pitches exploding into the catcher's mitt with raw power that made batters flinch. The upperclassmen couldn't help but nod; his talent was undeniable, even if his composure wavered.
And then it was Sendo's turn.
He stepped onto the mound with quiet focus. The ball rested in his hand as naturally as if it belonged there. The moment he wound up and released, the difference was clear.
Boom!
The ball snapped into the catcher's mitt with both speed and precision. Not just raw power like Furuya, not just wild passion like Sawamura—this was balance. Control. Stability.
Miyuki's eyes gleamed as he crouched behind the plate. (So he's leveled up again… His control is sharper. It's like facing a completely different pitcher than last week.)
Each pitch Sendo threw sliced through the strike zone like it was inevitable. His arm moved fluidly, his body mechanics clean and efficient. But more than that, there was a presence behind his throws—a suffocating pressure that weighed on the batters before the ball even left his hand.
The players whispered on the bench. "What the hell…? He wasn't this strong a few days ago.""Feels like he's carrying something different… Almost like—"
A chill ran down their spines.
The word spread like wildfire.
"—a Phantom God."
By the third batter, even the upperclassmen who had been smirking earlier now watched with serious eyes. Every swing came late, every attempt to read his pitches fell short.
Inside, Sendo's system chimed faintly.
[Ding—Kanto-level Control activated.]
The ball obeyed him like a loyal soldier, slipping just out of reach of the batters, painting the edges of the strike zone with surgical precision.
Sweat rolled down his temple, but his expression never wavered. He wasn't just pitching—he was declaring war.
On the sidelines, Sawamura clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. "Damn it…! If I let him get this far ahead, I'll never catch up!"
Furuya, arms crossed, didn't speak. But his gaze never left Sendo, and the competitive fire burning in his chest was clear for everyone to see.
The scrimmage ended, but the results spoke louder than any scoreboard. Sawamura's passion had heart, Furuya's fastball had power—but Sendo's presence had shaken the team to its core.
As the players gathered, murmurs spread among them. Even Tanba, the current ace, narrowed his eyes. He had felt it too. This first-year wasn't just another challenger—he was a storm on the horizon, threatening to engulf them all.
Later that night, the dorm was unusually quiet. Sawamura lay in his bunk staring at the ceiling, replaying every pitch Sendo threw. His heart burned with equal parts frustration and determination.
Furuya sat silently polishing his glove, but his mind was far from calm. The image of Sendo's sharp pitches replayed endlessly, pushing him to think of nothing but how to surpass him.
And in the hallway, Miyuki chuckled softly to himself. "Civil war, huh? Interesting. This year's team might tear itself apart before it reaches Koshien."
Meanwhile, on the darkened practice field, Sendo Akira ran laps long after everyone else had gone to bed. His legs screamed, his lungs begged for rest, but he pressed on.
The system's voice lingered in his mind.
[Continue signing in. Continue enduring. Your odds increase. Your path sharpens.]
He clenched his fists, his breath ragged but his will unshaken.
(If this is war… then so be it. I'll fight everyone—Sawamura, Furuya, even the seniors—until there's no doubt who the true ace is.)
The night wind brushed against his sweat-drenched skin as he kept running, each step echoing louder than words.
On this battlefield called Seidou, unity was a fragile illusion. Rivalries burned too brightly, pride clashed too fiercely.
And in the center of it all stood Sendo Akira—Phantom God in the making, a silent storm waiting to consume everything in his path.
End of Chapter 8