The West Tokyo finals between Seido High School and Ichidai Third High had finally begun.
Top of the first inning, no outs, no runners on.
Ichidai's leadoff batter stepped up: Akita.
He wasn't tall—about 1.75 meters—but his frame was thick and powerful, built like a lightweight boxer. Normally, the top of the order was reserved for quick, agile runners. Akita didn't fit that mold, but compared to Ichidai's heavy sluggers, he was as close to "normal" as they had.
Ichidai's reputation was built on power. Their lineup wasn't as exaggerated as Seikou's, but man-for-man, they were stronger than both Seido and Inashiro.
Take Azuma Kiyokuni, Seido's cleanup hitter: within Seido's lineup, his muscular build stood out. But if you dropped him into Ichidai's order, he wouldn't look unusual at all—just another heavy bat.
Akita dug into the batter's box, eyes narrowing at the pitcher.
On the mound stood Seido's new Ace—first-year Zhou Hao.
The fact he was starting today told the whole story. After the game against Inashiro, both the team and the coaching staff had accepted what was already obvious: the Ace no longer belonged to Yoshida. A rookie had taken it.
In the world of powerhouse baseball programs, that sort of thing simply didn't happen. Yet now, no one questioned it. Not Seido. Not Ichidai.
Because Zhou Hao hadn't been handed the role—he'd seized it, pitch by pitch.
And until now, he hadn't given up a single run.
Even Inashiro's vaunted lineup had been silenced when he was on the mound. That dominance was why he stood here as Ace.
Ichidai knew it too. Their coach, Tahara, had drilled it into them:
"Boys, I know you don't want to admit it, but it's the truth. That first-year rookie is our biggest obstacle. Treat him as your final boss to clear the stage!"
Those words were carved into every player's mind.
Akita lifted his bat into position. His stance made it clear—he wasn't looking to crush the first pitch.
From behind the plate, Miyuki frowned. So, they're playing for attrition…
With Inashiro as a lesson, Ichidai had clearly planned to grind Zhou Hao down from the very start. If it was the Spiral, they'd let it pass. If it was the Straight, they'd only swing when confident. If not, they'd foul it off. Anything to drive up the pitch count.
Miyuki could already see it without them even moving—wear him down, make him labor, and once fatigue set in, strike. It was the safest way to deal with a dangerous rookie.
After all, Zhou Hao and Narumiya Mei had something in common: they were unknowns. Data on them was scarce, their arsenals nearly complete, and their stuff overwhelming. Face them head-on, and you risked getting swallowed whole.
That was why some teams deliberately hid their Aces until critical games—to drop them like a hammer on unsuspecting opponents. And against a "dark horse," the best counter was patience. Stretch at-bats. Raise pitch counts. Force mistakes.
And with Zhou Hao, whose stamina wasn't his strongest asset, that plan was especially tempting.
Miyuki exhaled, steadying himself. So this is how they'll play it… Fine. Then let's respond.
He shot Zhou Hao a look.
The rookie's nod came instantly, firm and unshaken.
"Come on," Miyuki whispered.
He crouched low. Zhou Hao began his motion—smooth, fluid, unwavering.
Perfect form. Miyuki's eyes gleamed. His Straight had improved to the point where the ball went exactly where Miyuki wanted, not an inch off.
The pitch fired in.
Akita had planned not to swing. That was the strategy. But when the ball came, his body betrayed him.
It was a Straight—dead center of the zone. A pitch every batter dreamed of. To let it pass would haunt him in the middle of the night.
Move!
His arms reacted before his mind did.
Crack!
The bat connected flush, the sound exploding through the stadium.
The white ball soared high into the air.
For a moment, the crowd froze.
The rookie who had silenced Inashiro—the pitcher who hadn't given up a single run—
had his very first pitch of the finals blasted into the sky.
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