As expected, the American team was a wall of power — disciplined, relentless, and terrifyingly precise. Their lineup was stacked with names that shone in the major leagues, players whose swings could send a ball soaring into the stratosphere.
But none of that mattered now.
The National Team stood tall beneath the burning lights of Tokyo Dome, hearts pounding in unison. They had already achieved what many called impossible — reaching the World Cup Finals. For them, this wasn't just a game anymore. It was proof that dreams, no matter how small or distant, could stand against giants.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a mix of cheers, chants, and the thunderous beat of drums echoing through the stands. Reporters were shouting into cameras; flashbulbs lit the air like fireflies. Even government officials and sports commissioners had come to witness this historic moment.
Rosette watched from the audience, hands clasped tight against her chest. Every nerve in her body thrummed with pride and fear. Somewhere beside her, James folded his arms, silent but attentive, his expression caught between admiration and quiet tension.
Down on the field, Dranred stepped onto the mound. The dirt felt different today — heavier, sacred. The weight of the ball in his hand was familiar, yet it carried something new now: the trust of a nation, the expectations of everyone he loved.
He drew a deep breath, lifted his eyes, and met Nathan's gaze behind the catcher's mask.
No words passed between them — they didn't need any. That single look was enough.
Let's do this.
The game had barely begun, and already the Americans were pressing hard. A clean single from their leadoff hitter put a man on first base. Two outs later, that runner had stolen his way to scoring position. And now, the fourth batter — the cleanup — stepped into the box.
The crowd shifted in tone. Excitement mixed with dread. Everyone knew this man.
In every game of the series, he'd been flawless. Not a single miss. Every ball he'd hit had sailed into the audience stands.
The atmosphere thickened until it was hard to breathe. Even the air seemed to vibrate with tension.
Dranred tightened his grip on the ball inside his mitt. His fingers found their rhythm against the seams — the familiar grooves of fate and chance. He exhaled slowly.
He could hear his heartbeat, the soft crunch of dirt under his cleats, and the faint call of Nathan's signal.
Fastball low and inside.
Dranred nodded almost imperceptibly. He shifted his stance, shoulders squaring, eyes locked on the target.
"He can only trust his arsenal," Nathan had once said. And he did. Every ounce of training, every scar, every failure — all of it led here.
A half-hearted pitch would give the batter the edge. One mistake, and they'd lose the momentum before it even began.
So there was only one choice: throw it with everything he had.
He raised his arm, the leather of his glove glinting under the stadium lights.
For a heartbeat, Tokyo Dome fell silent. Tens of thousands of people stopped breathing all at once. Even Rosette's hands froze mid-clasp.
"Here goes," Dranred whispered.
He pivoted, coiled, and released — a blur of motion faster than thought. The ball screamed through the air, a white streak carving its way to destiny.
The batter's eyes widened. He swung — a clean, vicious arc. The crack of the bat split the silence in half.
Every head in the stadium tilted upward, tracking the ball as it soared high — impossibly high — into the lights.
For a terrifying second, it seemed bound for the stands.
Then, as if the heavens themselves had bent its path, the ball curved, losing speed, and dropped straight into the outfielder's glove.
Out.
The crowd erupted. The cheers were thunderous, shaking the stadium down to its steel frame. Dranred stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, disbelief flickering into exhilaration.
Nathan pumped his fist, grinning behind the mask. "That's how you start a game!"
Dranred exhaled hard, a smile breaking through his focus. He looked toward the stands — not at the officials or the cameras, but at her.
Rosette was on her feet, clapping and laughing through her tears. James beside her let out a low, proud whistle.
It was only the top of the first inning, but something had already shifted.
For the first time, the American team looked… surprised.
And as Dranred walked back to the dugout, ball still warm in his hand, he knew this — win or lose, they had already earned the right to stand here.
He looked up once more at the roaring crowd, at Rosette's radiant smile, and whispered under his breath,
"Let's make history."
"Strike!"
The umpire's voice echoed through the stadium, sharp and clear. Nathan caught the ball cleanly in his mitt, the leather snapping like a whip. The batter didn't move. He stood frozen, eyes locked on Dranred as if dissecting him, memorizing every twitch of his wrist and the angle of his throw.
Nathan noticed it too. His gaze dropped to the batter's feet — perfectly still. No shift, no flinch. He's reading us.
"Time out!" Nathan called, raising his glove.
The umpire nodded, granting the pause. Nathan jogged toward the mound, his chest rising and falling beneath his gear. The air was thick with the roar of the crowd, but in that moment, it felt like the two of them stood in a world of their own.
Dranred met him halfway. "Why?" he asked, his voice steady, though his heartbeat wasn't.
"He's observing our pitches," Nathan said, lowering his voice. "The next one will be critical."
"I saw that," Dranred replied, eyes narrowing toward the batter's box. "He responded well even to that curve. He's waiting for the next one." A small smirk crossed his lips. "He's scary — hasn't missed once since the series began. One mistake, and that ball's gone."
Nathan crossed his arms. "You scared of him?"
Dranred chuckled. "Scared? Me?"
"You sound like it," Nathan shot back. "Don't dump your nerves on me."
"I'm saying," Dranred replied, his grin sharpening, "he won't fall for a simple strikeout."
Nathan arched a brow. "You're talking big."
"You're the best catcher in the game, right?" Dranred countered. "Just give me your best calls — and wait for the ball in your mitt."
Nathan snorted. "Cocky as ever."
Dranred's eyes gleamed with confidence. "Don't worry so much. I trust your signals. So trust my arm, Mr. Catcher."
Nathan turned back toward the plate, shaking his head but smiling beneath his mask. "Trust, huh…" he muttered. "Fine. Let's see you back it up."
Even if they didn't always see eye to eye off the field, there was one truth they both understood — on the diamond, they spoke the same language.