Score: 4–0.

West Tokyo Final. Seido vs. Ichidai Third.

The first inning wasn't even over, and the scoreboard already looked like a nightmare for Ichidai. Four runs down against Seido was more than just a disadvantage—it was a chokehold.

Seido's fans were on the verge of losing their minds. Their voices shook the very steel of Jingu Stadium.

If not for that last sliver of rationality, they would've already unfurled their massive victory banners. The ones every finalist secretly prepared before the game.

Years of pent-up frustration burned in their chests. Seido hadn't touched Koshien in too long. Every time, critics mocked them.

"No matter how strong they look, they'll fold to West Tokyo's giants."

"Even if they beat Inashiro, they'll never make it past Ichidai."

"With Chris injured, their chances are dead anyway."

But here they were—blasting apart one of West Tokyo's powerhouses. By strength, not luck. And every pitch proved it.

Ichidai's ace Kimura, though, was unraveling.

The fifth batter, Shimoi, smashed his pitch cleanly, reaching first base.

"Safe!"

No outs. Runner on. Score still 4–0.

Ichidai's dugout turned pale. Against Seido's rotation of Sawamura and Furuya, scoring even two runs was a battle. With each mistake, the wall in front of them grew taller.

They could not afford to fall further behind.

Next came Yoshida.

He grounded out, but advanced Shimoi to second.

One out, runner in scoring position.

Kimura's eyes were bloodshot. His icy facade shattered.

"We can't give up another run!" he muttered through gritted teeth.

Then came Seido's seventh batter.

"Seventh batter, catcher—Miyuki Kazuya!"

The first-year rookie stepped into the box, face calm, body loose.

Kimura's fury spiked. He didn't hesitate—he opened with a sharp breaking ball.

Whoosh!

Miyuki didn't swing. The ball sliced past.

Thwack!

"Strike!"

The crowd murmured.

"Against a rookie? He's already throwing his best stuff?"

"He's burning stamina way too fast…"

But Kimura didn't care. Four runs down, with a runner waiting on second, there was no room to play cautious.

He had to bury this first-year.

Miyuki's lips curled into a grin.

"So that's how it is…"

The first pitch was a breaking ball inside. The second, he knew, would be the outside razor.

Everyone feared Kimura's Razor. Only Yuki Tetsuya had ever hit it. Miyuki wouldn't even try.

"No… the real chance is the outside corner fastball. From their point of view, even if I hit it, it'll just go foul."

The grin widened.

"Kimura-senpai… you're thinking exactly that, aren't you?"

Kimura wound up.

Whoosh!

A blistering fastball cut diagonally across the outside corner. The Ichidai dugout lit up.

"That's it!"

"Perfect control! He's back!"

But then—Miyuki moved.

He stepped forward, collapsing the distance. The ball that should've died outside suddenly looked like a fat pitch right over the heart of the plate.

The Ichidai bench froze.

"No way…"

"He read it??"

Ping!

The crack rang out, clean and sharp.

The rookie hadn't just hit the ace's fastball—he'd turned Kimura's very strategy against him.

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