Ichidai's dugout had never known despair like this.

They'd been battered before—taken ambush hits, fallen behind by margins that seemed impossible to erase. But this was different.

When their ace finally looked like himself again, when he should've dominated a "weaker" batter—he got punished.

By a rookie.

And worse, they were already four runs behind. Against Seido's fearsome pitching duo, clawing back even one run was hard. More than that? Nearly unthinkable. The more they thought about it, the tighter despair coiled around their hearts.

That feeling peaked when Miyuki Kazuya connected.

Ping!

The ball landed cleanly in the outfield grass. Fielders scrambled—but too late. Miyuki reached first safely.

Shimoi, blazing down the basepaths, didn't stop at third. The base coach's windmill sent him barreling home.

"You wouldn't dare!!"

The throw came in like a bullet.

But Shimoi's stride was lightning. His long legs carried him past the plate just before the mitt closed.

"Safe!"

The scoreboard jumped: 5–0.

The stadium trembled under Seido's cheering section.

"Seido's fifth batter is unbelievably fast!"

"That's two pure sprinters they've got!"

"This lineup has everything—power, speed, balance…!"

The praise poured from the stands.

Even Seido's own dugout looked stunned.

This was the West Tokyo Final. Finals usually meant caution, tightrope games, grinding for runs. Yet here they were—scoring five on Kimura in the first inning.

Before the game, they'd planned for maybe three runs across nine innings. Five would've been a dream. But five before Ichidai even swung their bats? Unreal.

"Too easy…" someone whispered, half in disbelief.

Yet the evidence blared on the scoreboard.

From the bench, Seido's second-stringers roared.

"Crush them now!"

"Don't let them breathe—send us to Koshien!"

They had been waiting years for this moment.

In Ichidai's dugout, the air froze over. Even their fiery coach, Tahara, was silent. Five runs surrendered already. No one could picture a clear path to victory.

"Play it safe, Kimura boy. One out at a time! Don't collapse!!"

Their director's words rang like a lifeline. If they quit here, it was over.

On the mound, Kimura tilted his head back. The July sky blazed above him, sunlight dripping onto his sweat-streaked face.

"What am I doing?"

West Tokyo's best pitcher… giving up five runs in one inning? The thought stabbed him.

But then resolve surged through his eyes.

"Our past glory is gone. From now on—we're the challengers!"

Seido's eighth batter stepped in.

Kimura unleashed.

Whoosh!

"Strike!"

The batter whiffed.

Another pitch. Another whiff.

The third came like a thunderbolt. The swing cut air.

"Strikeout!"

The crowd gasped. The assassin had returned.

Another batter. Another strikeout. Back-to-back Ks.

For a moment, Ichidai glimpsed the shadow of their ace again. But their hearts couldn't rejoice.

Because the truth glared above them: 5–0.

As Seido changed sides, Kataoka's voice suddenly rang.

"Zhou Hao."

Everyone paused mid-step, turning toward their coach.

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