The dugout of Seidou High was restless. Bats clinked, cleats scraped, voices overlapped as the players prepared for their final turn at the plate. The scoreboard loomed over them, its harsh glow a constant reminder: Teito, 3. Seidou, 2. Bottom of the ninth.
Three outs. That was all they had left.
Miyuki pulled his mask off and exhaled slowly. His eyes traced the field, then shifted to Sendo, who sat quietly at the end of the bench. The freshman's face was calm, his breathing controlled, as though he hadn't just battled Teito's cleanup hitters with everything he had. Sweat still clung to his hairline, but his eyes—those eyes still burned sharp.
(He really… held them down.)
"Oi, Miyuki," Kuramochi's voice cut in, his usual grin tugging at his lips. "Don't go getting lost in thought. You're up this inning. If you don't pull your weight, I'll have to steal us home myself."
Miyuki snorted. "Then maybe I'll just walk so you have a chance."
The tension eased a fraction, but everyone knew what was at stake. The seniors—Ryousuke, Masuko, Shirasu—all tightened their grips on their bats. For them, every game was another chance to prove they were worthy of the summer roster. For the first-years watching from the side, it was proof of what kind of mountain they were climbing.
Sawamura's knee bounced furiously as he leaned forward. "We can't lose here. Not after Sendo held them down. We just can't!"
Furuya, sitting stiff and tall, didn't reply. But his eyes never left the batter's box.
The umpire's call rang out. "Play ball!"
The crowd roared alive once more.
First up: Kuramochi.
The shortstop twirled his bat once, grinned at the pitcher, and dug his cleats into the dirt. He thrived on moments like this, when the air was thick with pressure and everyone expected a miracle.
The pitcher fired. A sharp fastball.
Kuramochi swung—crack! The ball skipped past third, hugging the line. Fair!
"Safe!"
The dugout exploded. Kuramochi's speed carried him to first before the throw had even left the fielder's hand.
"One on!"
The Seidou bench rattled with cheers. Sawamura nearly jumped into the air. "Yes! That's it! Let's go!"
Next: Ryousuke Kominato.
The older Kominato brother stepped in with a measured calm. Where Kuramochi brought fire, Ryousuke was ice. His eyes tracked the pitcher, body loose but ready.
The pitch came—a breaking ball low and away. Ryousuke's bat flicked, smooth and precise. Tock! The ball bounced between first and second, rolling past the infield.
Kuramochi sprinted to second. Ryousuke slid into first.
"Safe!"
Two on, no outs.
The Seidou crowd erupted in chants. The dugout pounded the railing so hard it shook.
Masuko clenched his fists, his voice booming. "This is it, boys! Push them! Don't let up!"
The next batter struck out, unable to touch Teito's reliever. The dugout groaned, but Miyuki was already stepping up.
The catcher's smirk was gone, replaced with a predator's focus. His bat rested on his shoulder, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—never left the pitcher.
"Come on, Miyuki," Sawamura whispered, his nails digging into his palms. "You're the cleanup. Show them who you are."
The first pitch—fastball, inside. Ball.The second—curve, dipping late. Miyuki didn't move. Ball two.
The pitcher scowled.
Third pitch—another fastball, this time high. Miyuki's bat whipped forward.
CRACK!
The ball screamed into the gap between right and center, soaring past the outfielders. The crowd roared as Kuramochi flew around third, sliding into home.
"Safe! Game tied!"
Ryousuke dashed in behind him, diving across the plate.
"Safe! Seidou takes the lead!!"
The stands erupted into chaos. The scoreboard flipped—Seidou, 4. Teito, 3.
Miyuki stood tall at second, fist pumping once, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. The dugout surged with energy, players leaping and shouting.
On the bench, Sawamura nearly cried with joy. "He did it! He actually did it! We're ahead!"
Furuya's expression didn't change, but his grip on his glove tightened. (So this is the power of their core… and Sendo's the one who gave them the chance to show it.)
Teito's pitcher fought back, striking out the next two batters, but the damage was done. Seidou had stolen the lead in the bottom of the ninth.
As they took the field again, the weight shifted entirely. The pressure that had crushed Seidou now bore down on Teito.
And at the heart of the dugout, Sendo sat silently, his chest still heaving. His arm throbbed, his muscles ached, but inside, he felt something ignite.
He hadn't thrown the last pitch. He hadn't scored the winning run. But the tide of the game—the chance for victory—had been born from his innings on the mound.
Coach Kataoka's voice carried, steady and resolute. "Masuko. Finish this."
The senior nodded, striding to the mound.
From the bench, Sendo watched, sweat cooling on his skin. Sawamura leaned close, his voice low, almost grudging. "You… you really held them, huh."
Sendo glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but he said nothing.
Furuya's eyes lingered, sharp as ever. (I won't let him get ahead. I'll surpass him. No matter what it takes.)
The ninth inning closed with Masuko slamming the door, striking out Teito's final batter. The umpire's call rang loud—
"Game set! Seidou wins!"
The dugout erupted. Players stormed the field, helmets tossed, arms raised in triumph. The crowd thundered, chanting Seidou's name.
In the chaos, Sendo stood slowly, his gaze lifting to the scoreboard. Victory glowed back at him, sweet and undeniable.
For the first time, a small grin cracked his usually calm face.
(So this… is what it feels like. Winning, together.)
And in that moment, he knew—
This was only the beginning.