Everyone in the stands fell silent in awe as the seventh inning began.
Dranred stepped back onto the mound, and the entire stadium held its breath. Moments ago, he had stunned the crowd with that incredible home run—but most expected him to return to the same lifeless form he'd shown in the sixth.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
From his very first pitch, the energy shifted. The batter didn't even have time to react; before he could swing, the ball had already landed in the catcher's mitt.
"Strike!" the umpire called.
A thunderous roar erupted from the crowd. Even the opposing team's fielders glanced toward the stands, momentarily distracted by the sudden explosion of cheers.
The excitement only grew as Dranred struck out the next two batters with the same precision—three straight outs, nine pitches, not a single hit. The fans were on their feet, chanting his name, their earlier doubts replaced by electric admiration.
By the time the national team returned to the dugout, spirits were high again.
In the bottom of the seventh, their energy surged. Dranred's fiery performance seemed to ignite the entire team. Still, the opposing major league squad was just as fierce. Their foreign pitcher matched Dranred's intensity, striking out three batters in quick succession. For a moment, the two teams stood deadlocked—flame against flame.
But by the eighth inning, Dranred's dominance had reached another level. His focus was razor-sharp. Every pitch came out faster, cleaner, stronger.
Then it happened—his fastest pitch yet, clocking at 100 mph. The crowd gasped, the sound echoing through the stadium like a cannon blast. One by one, the batters went down—three up, three out. They couldn't even swing before the ball hit the catcher's glove.
His teammates fed off the energy. Their offense surged again at the bottom of the eighth. They nearly scored another run, but Nathan's grounded hit trapped their runner before he could reach home.
Now came the top of the ninth—the final inning.
If they could protect their one-run lead, they'd win against the major league team.
The tension was palpable. Every eye was on Dranred.
His first pitch—"Ball!" the umpire called.
A murmur swept through the stands. Dranred didn't argue. His tempo had been too quick; excitement had thrown off his rhythm. Before things could spiral, Nathan called for a time-out and jogged toward the mound.
"What the hell are you doing?" Nathan snapped, stopping just in front of him.
"I'm not doing anything. My hand slipped," Dranred replied calmly.
"You'd better not mess this up," Nathan warned, his tone sharp. "This is the last inning."
"I know," Dranred said, flashing a small, confident smile. "Just relax."
Nathan glared at him. "You've got a lot of nerve telling me that—if Rosette hadn't shown up, you wouldn't even—"
"I won't deny that," Dranred said, tossing the baseball lightly in his hand, a confident smile playing on his lips. "That's exactly why I have to win this game. Only then can I secure everything that matters."
He looked up, determination burning in his eyes.
"You and Rosette may have known each other for years," he continued, "but I'm the only one who truly sees her worth."
Nathan's expression hardened.
"Just give it up already," Dranred said calmly. "You don't stand a chance. And for the record, I'm not letting her go."
Nathan froze, eyes narrowing.
"Are you declaring war?" he asked, his voice low.
"Of course not," Dranred replied coolly. "There's no reason to. Now get back to your position—and make sure you catch my pitch."
"Do it properly!" Nathan snapped before turning away.
Dranred chuckled softly. "Don't complain later if you get cramps," he murmured, watching Nathan return to his spot. His gaze drifted toward the stands. He knew he had seen James earlier—it was the first time his old friend had come to watch him play. And beside him sat Rosette.
That alone was enough reason to win.
He needed this victory—not just for the team, but for himself. For her.
Only by winning could he find the courage to tell Rosette how he truly felt.
As the game resumed, Dranred wound up for his next pitch.
The ball tore through the air with a sharp hiss—a devastating breaking ball, his first of the night. The batter froze, stunned. The crowd erupted into gasps and cheers; no one had seen Dranred use that pitch before, and the sheer speed matched his fastball.
Three batters later, it was over.
Strikeout. Strikeout. Strikeout.
The game ended with the national team's victory over the visiting major league squad—thanks to Dranred's flawless pitching and his unforgettable home run earlier in the night.
After the game, the opposing pitcher approached him with a handshake.
"That was incredible," he said with a smile. "I'll be waiting to face you again—on the big stage."
Even the major league players congratulated Dranred, praising his control, speed, and composure.
"He's got what it takes to stand with the best," one of them said. "We hope to meet him again in the majors."
Later, during the post-game interview, the national team's coach proudly announced,
"Our new lineup is nearly ready. We'll soon be heading overseas—to represent our country at the World Cup."
After the post-game interview, Dranred wasted no time.
Even while facing the reporters' flashing cameras, his mind wasn't on their questions — it was on Rosette.
He kept nodding and smiling, trying to rush every answer, hoping to finish as quickly as possible.
As soon as he could, he left the press area and scanned the audience stands, his eyes darting through the thinning crowd.
But Rosette was nowhere to be found.
James was gone too.
A faint ache settled in his chest as he hurried toward the exit, only to be stopped by a small crowd of fans. They called out his name, waving notebooks, caps, and phones.
He couldn't bring himself to ignore them. Despite his impatience, he greeted each one with a tired but polite smile, shaking hands, signing autographs, and taking a few quick photos.
"You were amazing out there, Dranred!" one fan said.
"We'll be cheering for you at the World Cup!" added another.
"Thank you," he replied sincerely. Their encouragement warmed him — but as soon as they stepped aside, his heart sank again. Rosette still wasn't there.
He glanced around the dim corridor one last time. Empty.
A sigh escaped him, and his shoulders slumped.
Maybe she didn't want to see him after all.
Was that visit to the dugout earlier… her way of saying goodbye?
His jaw tightened, and he clenched his fist in frustration.
How could he not have realized it sooner?
"Red!"
The familiar voice froze him in place. For a second, his heart stopped — then leapt in pure relief. He turned toward the sound, and there she was.
"Are you done with—" Rosette began, but her words were cut off as Dranred suddenly pulled her into a tight embrace.
She stiffened in surprise, her face brushing against his chest. People walking past slowed down, some whispering, others stopping to stare.
"W-what are you doing?" she whispered, her cheeks burning as she glanced around. "There are people watching us."
Dranred didn't seem to care.
For the first time that night, he looked truly at peace.