The sun rose over Seidou Academy, casting golden light over the perfectly cut grass of the baseball field.
Today was no ordinary practice.
Today was the First-Year Exhibition Game.
An internal scrimmage to see which rookies had what it took to climb the ladder — and which ones would vanish into the background.
Bleachers were packed with second and third-years watching closely. Coaches stood near the dugout with clipboards in hand. Even the captain, Miyuki Kazuya, sat on the bench, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Kenji Takahashi stood in the dugout, helmet under his arm, bat in hand.
His expression was calm.
But his heart pounded with focused intensity.
"This is it."
His shot to prove he wasn't just a freak at batting practice — but a weapon in real competition.
The game started fast.
The opposing pitcher was a second-year who had good command and a nasty two-seamer. First-years were striking out quickly, nerves showing, timing off.
Kenji watched every pitch from the dugout, eyes tracking spin, delivery, release points. He memorized the pattern before his first at-bat even came.
Bottom of the second. Two outs. Nobody on base.
Kenji stepped up to the plate.
The air shifted.
The noise quieted.
Even the second and third-years leaned forward.
The pitcher narrowed his eyes. He'd heard the hype.
He wasn't going easy.
First pitch: two-seamer. Outside corner.
Kenji stepped forward and crushed it.
CRACK!
The ball tore through right-center, bouncing off the wall.
A clean stand-up double.
No celebration. No fist pump. Kenji just adjusted his gloves and stared at second base.
The stadium began to murmur.
"He's the real deal."
"That swing… it's pro-level."
By the fourth inning, Kenji had already gone 2-for-2 — one double, one RBI single. The pressure was building not just on the opposing team, but on the other rookies trying to stand out.
On the bench, a fellow first-year sat beside him.
"You're insane, man. Who are you?"
Kenji didn't answer at first.
Then he said:
"Someone who doesn't plan on sitting on the bench. Ever."
Top of the fifth. The other team finally got a runner on base.
Coach Kataoka signaled a pitching change — and called Kenji from left field.
"Takahashi! Shift to shortstop."
Heads turned.
Shortstop?
Kenji blinked in surprise — he hadn't played defense seriously in his past life. He'd always been a batter first.
But he didn't hesitate.
He jogged out, took his position, and set his stance.
The batter squared up. A sharp grounder zipped toward short.
Kenji's eyes tracked the ball the instant it left the bat.
Perfect vision. Godlike reflexes.
He dove.
Snagged it clean.
Popped up.
Laser throw to first.
OUT.
The dugout exploded.
Even Miyuki raised an eyebrow.
"Okay… he's not just a bat. He's an animal."
By the time the game ended, Kenji had gone 3-for-3 with two RBIs and a stolen base. He had made three clean plays at shortstop. Every coach had written his name down.
Coach Kataoka stood in front of the dugout post-game.
"Only two rookies stood out today."
He raised his clipboard.
"Takahashi Kenji. Starting roster. First-string training begins tomorrow."
Gasps. Some of the upperclassmen glanced at each other.
A first-year — on the starting roster?
Kenji didn't react.
He simply nodded once.
"First-string or nothing. I told you."