"The ninth one!!"
"Consecutive strikeout record!!!"
Seidō's cheering section had lost all sense of restraint. Fans screamed, fists in the air, voices hoarse. To them, this kind of exhilaration — witnessing history — was something only Zhou Hao could give them.
Even the commentator couldn't help smiling, swept along by the fever in the stands.
"Congratulations to Seidō… and congratulations to Zhou Hao. A rare record, not just in Tokyo, but across the entire country."
Rare? In truth, it was almost unthinkable. Nine straight strikeouts wasn't just baseball — it was dominance bordering on fantasy.
On the field, Ichidai's cleanup hitter Gotou still stood stunned, replaying the last pitch in his mind. Why had Zhou Hao switched to the Spiral Ball?
Then it struck him: Zhou Hao didn't need to prove anything. His goal wasn't pride in the straight ball, or the record itself. His only aim was simple — outs.
Whatever pitch achieved that, he would use without hesitation.
Gotou clenched his teeth. I was too presumptuous…
Bottom of the fourth.
Seidō led 6–0. Their batters came up hungry, trying to pad the lead, to end the game before it could even turn. But this time, Kimura — Ichidai's ace — stood tall.
His pitches snapped like arrows, carving corners, forcing weak contact.
Ping!
Whack!
One by one, Seidō's swings died in the dirt or found gloves. Three up, three down.
Kimura had finally shown the strength that earned him the title of Tokyo's top pitcher.
But it was too late. Six runs too late.
Top of the fifth.
Many fans braced themselves for the change. Surely now Seidō would rest Zhou Hao. He had gone deeper than usual already. Three innings was his limit as an opener — this was uncharted territory.
But when the team took the field, the dugout stayed quiet. Zhou Hao laced up, walked calmly to the mound, and took his stance once again.
The stands erupted.
"He's still pitching?!"
"Zhou Hao's not done yet!!"
Hearts pounded. A collective sense of anticipation spread like static in the air. Something extraordinary was about to happen.
Leading off for Ichidai was their cleanup man, eyes blazing. He muttered under his breath:
"I swing a thousand times a day. I will not be broken here."
He was their pride, their hope — the last wall standing.
Miyuki crouched behind the plate, studying him. Originally, he hadn't planned to push further. But seeing the fire in the batter's stance, something shifted.
This is our chance to shatter Ichidai completely.
He gave a sharp signal.
"Spiral ball."
Zhou Hao nodded. No hesitation.
"Boom!!"
The pitch tore the air like a missile. The batter froze, eyes wide — this wasn't speed, this was destruction.
Whack!
"Strike one!!"
The second pitch came. He swung with every ounce of strength. Whiff.
Whack!
"Strike two!!"
By the third, his determination burned, but it didn't matter. The Spiral ball ripped through him as if the bat didn't exist.
Whack!
"Strike three!! Strikeout!!"
One out. No one on base. Ten straight Strikeouts.
The stands nearly collapsed under the weight of Seidō's celebration. Fans jumped, screamed, waved arms as if trying to tear the sky apart.
"The tenth one!!!"
"Ten consecutive strikeouts!!!"
It was madness. It was history. It was Zhou Hao.
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