Ping!

The crack of the bat stunned Ichidai Third's battery. Both pitcher and catcher froze.

They had believed their plan airtight—Kimura's pinpoint control would be enough to put Zhou Hao, a mere first-year rookie, in his place.

After all, outside of his miraculous performance against Inashiro, Zhou Hao's previous game footage had offered little value. In their eyes, this kid wasn't on the same level as the true aces of West Tokyo.

Kimura, their ace, was in another class entirely. Neither Inashiro's Narumiya nor Seido's Yoshida could match his control. That conviction gave him confidence: with precise pitching, he would dominate Zhou Hao.

And to be fair, the logic wasn't wrong. Precision is the classic answer to strong hitters.

But Zhou Hao wasn't an ordinary batter.

With his Sharingan activated, not a single nuance of Kimura's motion escaped him. Every twitch, every seam, every tilt of the wrist telegraphed the pitch. By the time the ball left Kimura's hand, Zhou Hao already knew what was coming.

His raw batting mechanics weren't even elite—among Seido's First String, he ranked no better than middle tier. But in actual games? No one racked up more hits. He'd even produced home runs in key moments.

The secret was simple: in Zhou Hao's eyes, control meant nothing. Deception meant nothing. Only speed and power could truly suppress him.

Narumiya Mei had once done it, overwhelming Zhou Hao's bat with blistering velocity. But against Kimura's finesse? The outcome had been decided the moment he chose control over raw force.

Thud!

The ball ripped into the gap, skipping past Ichidai's defense. Kimura's late movement had nearly carried it to the stands—only the heavy tailing spin kept it in play.

The outfielders broke into a desperate sprint.

At the plate, Zhou Hao dropped his bat and tore down the line. First base came in a blur, then second. A double, clean and easy.

But the play wasn't over.

Matsumoto, who had reached first earlier, now thundered forward with blazing speed. He devoured the bases—first to second, second to third. Normally that would be enough.

But Seido's third-base coach didn't hesitate. Arms slicing down like a command flag, he bellowed:

"Run it home!"

Matsumoto didn't slow. Like a tiger chasing prey, he lunged headlong for the plate.

Thud!

The throw came in—but too late. Matsumoto slid across the plate, dust flying.

"Safe!"

The umpire's arms spread wide.

Cheers exploded from Seido's bench. The first run of the game was theirs.

Ichidai's plan had backfired spectacularly. Instead of neutralizing Zhou Hao, they had gifted Seido an early lead.

"One run isn't fatal," their dugout reminded themselves. Ichidai's reputation was built on their powerhouse lineup of sluggers—they could score with the best of them.

But today's opponent wasn't just anyone. It was Seido. And they had already seen Zhou Hao's pitching with their own eyes. If they couldn't break him, even scratching out runs would be a struggle. Every concession mattered.

"When did Seido become this troublesome?" Director Tahara muttered, eyes narrowing at Kataoka across the field. A pang of envy struck him.

He had his own rookie pitcher, talented but insubordinate. The boy hadn't even earned a roster spot thanks to constant discipline issues. Yet Kataoka had Zhou Hao—obedient, sharp, and already a game-changer. Alongside Narumiya Mei at Inashiro, these new-generation aces were reshaping West Tokyo.

Tahara exhaled and refocused. The game wasn't over.

"Boys, calm down! It's only one run. Get us that first out!"

His sharp signal steadied his players. They couldn't afford to rush. Normally Ichidai thrived on overwhelming pressure, striking like a sudden storm. But Seido knew their style inside and out—and today, Zhou Hao tilted the balance.

In intelligence and adaptability, Seido held the edge. Ichidai could only grit their teeth, slow the tempo, and play to their full strength.

"Third batter, number three, first baseman—Yuki Tetsuya."

As Ichidai's defense tightened, Yuki strode to the plate, posture solid, presence unshakable.

The catcher's chest tightened involuntarily. His instincts screamed that this man was trouble.

"This stance… it covers everything!" he thought, sweat prickling his neck. Wherever he set his glove, Yuki's bat seemed poised to punish it.

There was no safe zone.

"We'll have to challenge him head-on," the catcher decided. "Go with the breaking ball we used before—it's the only way."

The familiarity between these two teams cut both ways. They knew Seido; Seido knew them. And once again, it was down to execution.

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