"Spiral ball?!"
It wasn't just a pitch; it was an eviction notice delivered via high-velocity gyroscopic menace. The Spiral Ball—Zhou Hao's signature pitch—didn't just find the strike zone; it occupied it, established a small, terrifying republic there, and immediately declared war on the batter's confidence.
Even against the lower-order sacrificial lambs of the mighty Seibō High, Zhou Hao showed no mercy. He didn't just get the out; he executed the batter with a clean, decisive, and utterly demoralizing flourish.
The fans were hypnotized, their collective breath snagged in their throats. They weren't watching a game; they were attending a high-altitude demonstration of human athletic supremacy, starring a first-year phenomenon who seemed to have bypassed the laws of physics entirely.
In sports, the strong don't just reign; they stage a hostile takeover. Standing on the mound, Zhou Hao was the strongest of the strong, a baseball deity taking his afternoon stroll. It felt utterly, terrifyingly natural.
In the Seibō High dugout, the atmosphere was less "elite powerhouse" and more "funeral home with good lighting." Every player looked like they'd just seen their favorite puppy vaporized by a fastball.
Their Coach, a man whose face was dominated by a bulbous, perpetually alarmed nose—a feature that now pulsed a desperate, angry crimson—was reeling. Facing this monster, Zhou Hao, they felt like helpless elementary school students attempting to duel a T-Rex armed only with geometry textbooks.
"These hateful bastards," the Coach hissed, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel that was already saturated. "Do they truly believe they can score in the bottom half of the inning?"
Zhou Hao had just deployed a physically grueling, high-effort Spiral Ball against a batter who barely knew which end of the bat to hold. Logically, he should have tossed a gentle, lazy curve just to save his arm. But Zhou Hao didn't do logic; he chose dominance.
The Coach's expression turned grave—a look usually reserved for realizing you've left the stove on while flying internationally.
"It might not be what you think—" he suddenly declared, his voice cutting through the silent despair.
The players snapped their heads up, eyes wide with the desperate, flickering hope that perhaps their demise was merely delayed. Could they still have a chance?
The Coach leaned in conspiratorially, his bulbous nose twitching. "Perhaps Zhou Hao isn't unwilling to conserve energy, but unable to."
Unable to do that?
The Seibō players, sharp geniuses all, immediately began chewing on this tantalizing bone of possibility.
The Coach continued, sounding like a desperate stage manager trying to rally a failing play. "Haven't you noticed? His control has dropped! He's relying solely on raw, terrifying speed to hold on. His stamina might no longer allow for the precise, surgical control needed for finesse pitches. He did this against Osaka Kiryuu late in the game! This is our glorious, sweaty chance! Drag it into extra innings, gentlemen! He won't last much longer!"
The analysis was a lifeline, a shot of adrenaline directly into their collective weary hearts.
Yes! As long as they held off Seido's offense in the bottom of the ninth, the advantage would swing wildly back to them.
"He's just a first-year rookie, damn it! How can we lose to a child?" one player roared, the shame momentarily forgotten, replaced by renewed fury.
The Coach, rubbing his throbbing nose, secretly sighed a monumental sigh of relief. Morale: salvaged.
He hadn't exactly lied. Zhou Hao was probably tired. But there was another, far more terrifying possibility: Zhou Hao might have been throwing the Spiral Ball because he simply felt like it, because he wanted to remind the Seibō scrubs that even his half-hearted effort was an act of God. But mentioning that would send them all into immediate, existential crisis.
"Go all out!" he boomed, channeling every ounce of his pride into the command. "We are a national powerhouse! We don't lose to exhausted children!"
Just as the Seibō players were pumping themselves up with the belief that Zhou Hao was merely running on fumes, the man on the mound got two outs in a row. Both were strikeouts. Clean. Decisive.
Two outs, no one on base.
The Seibō Coach, needing a miracle, deployed his secret weapon: a pinch hitter, a specialist whose bat speed was rumored to violate local speed limits. This was Seibō's depth—the kind of talent Seido could only dream of gathering.
The pinch hitter, a young man named Tetsu, stepped up, the weight of the entire nation's expectations resting on his shoulders. He adjusted his helmet, took a deep, shaky breath, and prepared to unleash his fury.
Zhou Hao, however, was unimpressed by Seibō's tactical maneuvers. He was throwing a party, and the only guest was the Spiral Ball.
"Whoosh!"
Tetsu felt his blood pressure spike. The ball was a white blur, a flash of judgment. The poor pinch hitter—a man whose batting average was usually measured in miracles—only registered two thoughts: Fast. And I am utterly, hopelessly insignificant.
His brain hadn't even finished processing the decision to swing when the sound of the catcher's mitt echoed like a gunshot.
"Snap!"
Strike!
Tetsu blinked.
"Strike!!"
Tetsu felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
"Strike!!!"
The umpire's arm shot up, a rigid, final decree.
"Strikeout!!!"
Tetsu was struck out without his bat even leaving his shoulder—a humiliating, three-pitch execution. The bat might as well have been glued to his hands.
The hopeful anticipation in the Seibō stands died a brutal, silent death. What was the point of their incredible depth if their best substitute could only serve as a witness to Zhou Hao's invincibility?
Oishibashi, Seibō's silent, stoic cleanup batter, finally broke the silence in the dugout, his voice low but cutting.
"At this moment," he stated flatly, staring at the mound, "Zhou Hao is not someone anyone can contend with. He's operating in a different dimension."
The Coach's bulbous nose swelled further, stinging with the humiliation of the public defeat. Oishibashi had just delivered a truth bomb that undermined his entire motivational speech.
"Bottom of the ninth, we hold on, and the scales tip," the Coach roared, ignoring Oishibashi completely. "This is the final, decisive moment! If we win, we are champions! If we lose... we are the eternal, cosmic runner-up!"
The phrase "eternal runner-up" sounded less like a position and more like a fate worse than death. It galvanized the team. They thought of the vomit-inducing training sessions, the brutal summer heat, the sacrifices. They had come too far to be defeated by a single, terrifying arm.
"No!"
"We will definitely win!!"
The Coach nodded, satisfied with the renewed, frantic energy. He fixed his gaze on his own Ace, Shirazawa.
"The rest is up to you, Shirazawa. Your moment."
Shirazawa, the other half of this epic pitcher's duel, nodded firmly, a fierce, almost manic light in his eyes.
"Don't worry, Coach. I won't give up any runs. Not even a single, dirty, accidental run."
A strange surge of heroic, almost joyful spirit rose in his chest. This was the game he lived for—the razor's edge, the final, desperate confrontation. He understood now why even the teams they defeated spoke of Zhou Hao with reverence. Competing against this Seido team, against this phenomenon, was a privilege.
But first, he had to deal with the inevitable.
Bottom of the ninth. No outs, no one on base. The scoreboard mocked them all with its pristine, frozen 0-0.
Stepping up to the plate: the second batter, the pitcher, Zhou Hao.
"Second batter, pitcher, Zhou Hao!"
The Seido stands erupted in a chaotic symphony of hope.
"Let's finish them off in one shot!"
"He's the best! The absolute best!"
"Zhou Hao, it's time to deliver the championship via rocket launch!"
The fantasy was universal: the walk-off home run. Zhou Hao had already managed two hits off Shirazawa—a pitcher who had masterfully danced around Seido's monstrous cleanup hitters, Yuki and Azuma Kiyokuni, denying them any chance to score. Shirazawa was cunning, surgical, and utterly elite.
But he was also tired. The heat, the stress, the endless confrontation—it had to be wearing him down. If Zhou Hao connected now, the game was over.
In the batter's box, Zhou Hao narrowed his eyes. He read Shirazawa like a cheaply printed instruction manual.
Here it comes.
Shirazawa, standing on the mound, looked like a man who'd just crawled out of a swamp. His uniform was a soggy, clinging second skin. Sweat poured from beneath his cap, plastering stray black hairs to his forehead. Yet, he was smiling—a thin, determined, almost insane grin of pure focus.
He looked at Zhou Hao. The pitcher, seemingly slender, was now visibly defined by the sweat-soaked jersey clinging to his frame. The eight-pack abs were etched clearly, the biceps bulging like coiled steel springs. He wasn't built like a typical power hitter; he was built like a lean, efficient killing machine.
How could I have ever thought he was weak? Shirazawa thought, admiring the sheer, terrifying geometry of Zhou Hao's form.
Shirazawa wound up. He took his stance, pulled back, and unleashed the ball—the last, desperate, championship-saving pitch he had left in his arm.
"Whoosh!"
The baseball, a pale missile of hope and dread, screamed out of his hand, hugging the far outside edge of the plate, a surgical strike designed to be almost impossible to reach, yet still a strike.
The final showdown had begun.