The finals of the West Tokyo Tournant—
Seidō High School vs. Ichidai Third High School.
By the eighth inning, the scoreboard still read: 8–0.
Ichidai had failed to score in the seventh. Their fate was already sealed. They would be rembered not as finalists, but as a powerhouse nailed to the pillar of sha.
Coach Tahara frantically shuffled pinch hitters, and for the first ti all ga, Ichidai strung together a few clean hits. Their strength as a national powerhouse was undeniable.
They weren't going down quietly.
Their swings carried the madness of a cornered beast, their dugout echoing with shouts that felt more desperate than determined. Seidō's supporters clutched their chests, their hearts leaping at every crack of the bat.
Victory was secure, but Ichidai's counterattack was frightening to witness.
Fortunately, Seidō's pitcher remained calm. No panic. No flinch. Every pitch carried steel resolve.
Top of the eighth. Two outs. Runners on first and third.
For Ichidai, this was their best chance of the day.
On the mound, Yoshida stood tall. His earlier brilliance had already surprised the crowd, and now they urged him to slam the door.
"One more, finish it!"
"End their rally!!"
"They're just second-years, don't give them anything!!"
The batter was Omae—a second-year, steady and unshakable. Facing Yoshida for the second ti, in the most critical mont of the ga, his eyes were sharp and unblinking.
Like a hawk locking onto prey.
Yoshida's blood boiled with exhilaration. Every nerve scread with joy—he was alive in this mont. He knew he wasn't Zhou Hao, the overwhelming monster, but he had faith in his own strength.
He inhaled, focused, and let the pitch fly.
Whoosh!
The ball cut through the air like a blade.
Ichidai's dugout froze for a heartbeat. They knew pitching quality, and this was no ordinary pitch.
Tricky. Heavy. Sharp.
But they had no choice. Pushed to the cliff's edge, hesitation ant death.
"Swing it!!"
"Crush it!!!"
"Blast it out!!!!"
All of Ichidai's desperation poured into their shouts.
Omae needed no thought. For two years he had lived in the batting cage, swinging until his hands bled, longer than his seniors, later than anyone else. His body had long since learned to decide on instinct.
He saw the pitch.
His muscles rembered.
His bat unleashed.
Boom!!
The swing howled like a storm. Behind the plate, Miyuki's instincts recoiled. His chest tightened—the raw force Omae unleashed was terrifying, like facing Seidō's own cleanup, Yuki.
This was the true strength of Ichidai's batting lineup, hidden all ga under Zhou Hao's suffocating dominance.
Ping!
The crisp crack rang out. The ball shot into the outfield, bouncing hard on the grass.
Akita, sprinting from third, slid across ho plate.
"Safe!!"
Ichidai had scored at last.
Their dugout erupted, players and supporters leaping with tears in their eyes. For a mont, it felt glorious.
But that joy soured instantly.
When had Ichidai fallen this low?
They, a national powerhouse, reduced to celebrating a single run as if it were salvation?
It was pathetic. It was humiliating.
"Ridiculous…"
"Tragic…"
The words hung unspoken in their hearts.
Still, the inning wasn't over. Omae stretched his hit into a double, leaving runners on second and third.
The cleanup hitter strode to the plate.
Ichidai's last pillar.
Their Fourth Batter.
The announcer's voice thundered:
"Fourth batter… Itsudani!!"
Even if they couldn't win, Ichidai would die swinging, determined to show the nation that their pride had not crumbled.
The madness had only just begun.
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