Kenji Takahashi had always believed that life didn't give second chances.
He was wrong.
He died on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, in a world far removed from the one he now stood in. A speeding truck. A little girl frozen in place. A single decision—and the impact that stole his life.
But when he opened his eyes, there was no blood. No asphalt. No cries.
Just sunlight. A clear blue sky.
And the sound of metal bats striking baseballs in the distance.
Where the hell… am I?
Kenji sat up, heart pounding. His hands were smaller. His arms leaner, but firm. He rushed to the nearest mirror inside what looked like a school's changing room—and saw a teenage boy's face staring back.
It wasn't a dream.
His name was still Kenji Takahashi, but this body was fifteen years old.
That's when he heard it:
"Tryouts begin in fifteen minutes! All first-years, report to the field!"
He turned slowly. Outside, through the dusty window, he could see a group of boys in Seidou uniforms stretching, jogging, tossing balls. Coaches barked orders. One catcher laughed loudly—his voice unmistakable.
Miyuki Kazuya.
Kenji's breath caught in his throat.
Diamond no Ace…?
He staggered backward, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of memory. The anime. The characters. The story. Somehow, he had reincarnated into the world of Diamond no Ace—just as the main story was beginning.
This is insane…
But he didn't panic.
He clenched his fists.
A second chance.A new life.And this time… I won't waste it.
He grabbed a bat leaning by the wall—wooden, light, smooth in his grip.
It felt natural. Familiar. Alive.
Minutes later, Kenji stood among the sea of first-years on Seidou's practice field. Dozens of eyes scanned the competition, some sizing him up, others ignoring him entirely.
Kenji said nothing. He didn't need to.
Coach Kataoka stood in front of them, clipboard in hand.
"Welcome to Seidou. Most of you won't make the team. That's reality. But for those who do—show us something worth believing in."
Kenji's gaze sharpened.
I will.You'll remember my name before the sun sets.
The first test: batting drills.
Players were lined up, one by one, to face a pitching machine set at 135 km/h. Most could barely connect. A few grounded out. Only a handful managed line drives.
When Kenji's turn came, silence fell.
He stepped into the box with casual confidence, eyes scanning the machine. His heart rate barely rose.
And then—his eyes lit up.
Time slowed.
The moment the ball launched, Kenji saw everything. The spin. The seam. The slight dip in trajectory. His muscles responded before thought could catch up.
CRACK!
The ball soared into left field. It didn't drop.
It flew.
Over the fence.
A home run.
Gasps erupted. Even the assistant coaches raised their eyebrows. Some of the upperclassmen watching from the bleachers leaned forward.
"Who… is that kid?"
Kenji didn't gloat.
He returned to the back of the line.
One swing was enough.
Miyuki Kazuya watched from the catcher's area, arms folded, a sharp smirk on his lips.
That wasn't luck, he thought. That was control. Power. Precision.Looks like we've got a monster on our hands this year.