Top of the ninth inning—Seidou High School's last chance on offense.
The scoreboard still read 3:3.
No one—neither the players on the field nor the thousands of fans in the stands—would have predicted such a deadlock at the start. Yet here they were, with one inning left and everything still undecided.
Leading off for Seidou was their fifth batter, Shimoi.
Facing Inashiro's first-year pitcher, Narumiya i, ShimoI knew exactly what was at stake. He needed to connect, even if it ant sacrificing style for substance.
Narumiya, however, showed no rcy.
"Whoosh!"
The ball zipped from his hand, blurring through the air and thudding into the catcher's mitt before ShimoI could even swing.
"Strike!"
Inashiro's bench erupted.
ShimoI might be one of Seidou's core batters, but compared to the cleanup hitters, he was the weakest link. If Inashiro could get him out quickly, the pressure on the rest of the inning would drop considerably.
Narumiya wasted no ti—he fired the second pitch.
Most first-years would be shaking under this kind of tension. This was the Jingu Stadium spotlight, against a powerhouse like Seidou, in the most critical inning of the ga.
But Narumiya wasn't just any first-year—his composure was unsettling.
ShimoI swung desperately.
"Ping!"
The ball sailed high—a lazy pop fly.
Inashiro's second baseman camped under it and made the routine catch.
"Out!"
One down, no one on base.
Next up: Miyuki Kazuya.
He had been the defensive anchor behind the plate all ga, dazzling the crowd with his leadership and pitch-calling. Seidou's fans hoped—prayed—that he could do the sa with the bat.
But Narumiya wasn't having it.
Miyuki managed to get his bat on the ball, sending a grounder straight to Inashiro's first baseman.
"Out!"
Two outs.
Yoshida followed, but his at-bat was a disaster—three straight swings, three straight misses.
"Strike! Strike! Strike three—out!"
Just like that, the top of the ninth was over.
Seidou had squandered their final offensive fra.
The ga moved into the bottom of the ninth.
Inashiro's turn—batting second, third, and fourth. Their most dangerous hitters.
Before they stepped in, Coach Kunimoto gave his orders:
"Rember—he's still a first-year. You know what that ans. Put pressure on him. Make him nervous. If you have to, crowd the plate. Force him to crack."
The players nodded grimly.
Their goal wasn't to score in style—it was to get on base by any ans necessary, even if it ant taking a pitch to the body.
The second batter stepped in, his stance deliberately hugging the inside edge of the strike zone.
From the stands, even the neutral fans frowned.
"Seriously? This is the West Tokyo powerhouse? Going all out against a first-year like this?"
Seidou's bench bristled with anger.
"That's low…"
"They're just trying to intimidate him!"
But Zhou Hao didn't flinch.
He got the sign from Miyuki, wound up, and let the pitch fly—skimming the absolute inside corner.
The ball missed the batter's chest by barely two centiters.
"Strike!"
The Inashiro dugout froze. That pitch… was laser-precise.
Crowding the plate suddenly felt like a terrible idea—because if Zhou Hao could hit that spot at will, they'd be helpless against inside pitches.
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