The finals had reached the top of the fifth inning. Ichidai Third High was on offense.

Their Ace had already collapsed, forcing second-year Manaka to take the mound. With no outs and a runner on second, the situation was dire.

Yet Manaka flipped the script—three consecutive outs, escaping unscathed.

The crowd roared, his name echoing in praise. At that moment, Manaka looked every inch an Ace.

West Tokyo's three giants now seemed to have revealed their future leaders:

Seidō's dark horse, Zhou Hao.

Inashiro's substitute Ace, Narumiya Mei.

And Manaka Kaname, who had salvaged Ichidai's pride at the brink of collapse.

Each one shone brilliantly.

But brilliance alone couldn't rewrite the score.

By now, Seidō led 8–0. A gap wide enough to smother any hope.

Seidō's supporters jeered mercilessly:

"Lucky for Ichidai this is the finals!"

"Otherwise, the game would've been called early already."

They were right. Tournament rules ended games if a team trailed by ten runs after five innings or by seven after seven. By that standard, Ichidai would have been mercy-ruled. Only the finals forced all nine innings to be played.

A small mercy. Had the game ended early, Ichidai—a national powerhouse—would have been humiliated beyond repair.

Still, their pride was already shattered.

When Ichidai came to bat in the sixth, their eyes were red with desperation.

They weren't swinging for victory anymore. Not even for the Koshien ticket.

They were swinging for face.

For dignity.

They had to put runs on the board, no matter what.

And then Seidō made a change.

Zhou Hao shifted to the outfield. The mound now belonged to Yoshida—the former Ace, still wearing the No. 1 jersey.

It was Ichidai's chance.

The batter stepping in glared at Yoshida like a starving wolf. We'll rip him apart.

To them, he was the weak link. Not Zhou Hao, the untouchable monster. Yoshida, the stand-in, the soft persimmon.

But Yoshida only smirked coldly. He understood. He'd been overlooked, pushed aside, his Ace's title usurped. Yet in his heart, he knew he still had it. Against Inashiro he had felt it—that his peak was waiting, ready to be summoned.

Now was his moment.

He wound up. Miyuki's eyes narrowed. He could tell instantly: This pitch… it's coming in heavy.

"Whoosh!"

The ball ripped through the air.

The Ichidai batter's eyes widened. So fast! So strong!

The swing came late, helpless.

Thwack!

"Strike!!"

The stadium trembled with cheers.

The second batter fell the same way.

"Strike!"

"Strike!!"

"Strikeout!!"

The third followed—overpowered, frozen, defeated.

Three up, three down. All on strikeouts.

The same players who moments ago had burned with fighting spirit now slumped like frostbitten eggplants.

Was this real? Struck out in succession, not by the rookie monster Zhou Hao, but by the supposed "discarded Ace"?

On the sidelines, a fashionable reporter shook her head.

"No. Ichidai isn't weak. It's just that Seidō… is far too strong."

And luck? That had abandoned Ichidai long before the fifth inning.

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