"We've basically taken control of the situation."
Coach Kataoka's voice was steady as the players huddled around.
A 5–0 lead. Against Ichidai. In the West Tokyo Final. That should be enough.
In past years, even if Seidō led early, they never felt secure. Without a true ace, no cushion was ever safe.
But now—things were different.
Their ace was Zhou Hao. Still a rookie, still lacking the stamina to go a full nine innings… but the difference between having a real ace and not having one was like night and day.
With him on the mound, even Kataoka—cautious to his core—felt victory already within reach.
"As long as no disasters strike, we'll win," he declared.
He fixed his players with a hard look.
"Remember, Ichidai won't accept this result quietly. Their director will send them to attack with everything they've got. Don't panic. Even if you give up hits, don't give up runs. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!"
Zhou Hao nodded firmly.
Beside him, Azuma Kiyokuni scratched his head, confused. He couldn't quite grasp the full meaning of Kataoka's command—but as the team's spiritual leader, he couldn't ask aloud. He'd find the answer out on the field.
Top of the second inning.
Ichidai's core batters stepped up, metal bats gleaming, eyes sharp with hostility.
"They're coming for blood," Miyuki murmured.
Zhou Hao only exhaled once, steady as stone. Then he let fly.
Whoosh!
His motion was clean, practiced, flawless. No wasted strength, no wasted movement. The ball blurred to the plate.
Ichidai's cleanup hitter, Gotou, loomed over the box. A beast of a man, bat gripped tight.
"Don't think—just swing! Feel it!" his director had drilled into him. "Even a piece of it—send it flying! Raw strength is the only way to break him!"
Gotou's instincts, sharpened by thousands of swings, flared to life.
Crack!
The sound was like a tree splitting. The ball shot off his bat, skipping past the infield before Seidō's defenders could even react.
"Hit!!"
Gotou didn't stop at first. He thundered into second, sliding in safe.
No outs, runner on second.
The Ichidai bench roared.
"Seidō's rookie is human after all!"
"That's the first hit—more will come!"
Momentum, fragile but real, flickered back to life.
In Seidō's dugout, players scoffed loudly—but unease stirred under their bravado.
"Five-run lead, who cares about one hit?"
"They're celebrating like it's the winning run."
But still, they felt it. That creeping doubt. Zhou Hao had felt untouchable—until just now.
Was this the crack Ichidai needed?
On the mound, Zhou Hao didn't flinch. His eyes stayed cold, his rhythm unbroken.
Ichidai's fifth batter stepped in, bat poised.
Zhou Hao unleashed again.
Boom!
The pitch tore forward, spinning violently, the seams blurring into a spiral.
The batter's eyes widened.
"Spiral ball…!"
Only now, standing in the box, did he understand why so many before him had despaired.
It wasn't just speed. The ball twisted unnaturally, veering at the last instant.
Impossible. Unhittable.
He swung with everything—missed completely.
Thwack!
"Strike!"
In the stands, Seidō's fans roared in relief.
Azuma's eyes lit up in sudden clarity. Kataoka's words clicked.
Hits don't matter. Runs do.
"So that's it…" he breathed.
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