Fujio, watching from the press box, could only sigh.
Zhou Hao was pitching a masterpiece. Seidou's players were fighting with all their heart. And yet—the scoreboard still read 2–3.
One run. Just a single run.
And that fragile gap threatened to erase everything Seidou had built, every strike Zhou Hao had carved into history.
After two outs, Osaka Kiryu's leadoff man, Kitamura, strode into the box.
He was no ordinary batter—he was their table-setter, a proven slugger, and this was his third look at Zhou Hao.
"I don't believe he isn't tired by now," Kitamura muttered under his breath.
He didn't need Zhou Hao at full power. If there was even the slightest dip in speed or spin, he could punish it.
But when the next Spiral Ball came screaming in—
Boom!
Kitamura froze. His pupils shrank.
Too fast.
Even after seventy pitches, even after countless Spiral Balls, Zhou Hao was still throwing like a machine built for destruction.
"Thud!"
"Strike!"
"Strike!!"
"Strikeout!!!"
Three up, three down. Side retired.
The stands erupted with gasps and murmurs. Kiryu fans, neutrals, even casual onlookers—everybody was stunned into awe.
This wasn't just a freshman. This was a monster.
Bottom of the eighth. Seidou came to bat. Their dugout was blazing with energy, their determination fueled by Zhou Hao's brilliance.
But Kuroda, Osaka Kiryu's ace, wasn't going to yield easily.
Though his velocity had dipped from 155 km/h to the mid-140s, his control sharpened. Yoshida, Jun Isashiki, and the ninth batter all made contact—but every ball found a glove.
"Out!"
"Out!"
"Out!"
With just four pitches, Kuroda shut down the inning.
In the dugout, Director Matsumoto wore a serene smile.
"Don't underestimate our ace. He's not just speed—his control is among the best in the nation."
The game crept into the final inning. Osaka Kiryu still clung to their one-run lead.
Top of the ninth.
Second batter Kujo stepped in, eyes sharp. He sneered toward the mound.
"Let's see if you can still throw like that, rookie. If you've got the guts, show me!"
Zhou Hao obliged.
Boom!!
The Spiral Ball came like a comet, spinning violently, the seams flashing like blades under the stadium lights. Kujo's pupils widened as the pitch disappeared past him.
"Strike!"
"Strike!!"
"Strikeout!!!"
One out.
Matsumoto's expression darkened. Zhou Hao hadn't faded—he looked endless, inhuman.
"What a wicked kid," he muttered. "Doesn't he know pitchers are supposed to tire?"
Then came the third batter—Kuroda himself.
As ace pitcher and third batter, he carried the team's pride. But even he felt the weight of Zhou Hao's dominance.
Boom!
Thud!
"Strike!"
"Strike!!"
Two pitches, and his bat hadn't even moved.
He gritted his teeth. "There must be a way…!"
The third Spiral Ball exploded toward him. Kuroda swung desperately, with every ounce of strength.
Ping!
Shock flashed in his eyes. Contact?!
The connection was brief, unnatural. The sheer force of Zhou Hao's Spiral Ball wrenched the bat from his hands.
Clang—!
The bat spun through the air, soaring out of his grip, a blur of wood against the floodlights.
The crowd erupted in gasps. Some even rose to their feet, mouths agape.
A batter from the nation's top powerhouse—his bat had been blown away.
The sound, the image, would echo across highlight reels for years:
Zhou Hao, the rookie, shattering the pride of Osaka Kiryu with a single pitch.
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