The top of the second inning began with the National Team back on defense.
There was no time for regret — not for Dranred. The failed homerun still burned in his mind, but he forced it down. He needed to switch gears.
And he did.
With each pitch, his focus sharpened like a blade. One strikeout. Then another. Then a third. The crowd roared — three up, three down. No hits. No mercy.
The commentators were quick to react.
"He's taking his anger out on the batters," one said. And maybe they were right.
But their celebration didn't last long. The American pitcher answered in kind, retiring the next three National Team hitters in brutal fashion — strikeout after strikeout, none even daring to swing.
Two innings gone. Still, two runs behind.
The third inning came fast.
Dranred's first pitch of the frame slipped — too slow, too high. The American leadoff batter sent it bouncing past first base, earning a single. Dranred bit back a curse, then reset his stance.
He didn't let another one through. The next batters went down swinging.
But the National Team's offense still couldn't find their rhythm. One strikeout. Two. Then Nathan — at least Nathan — connected, driving a clean hit into center field. The dugout erupted as he sprinted for second base.
Finally, Dranred thought. A chance.
The fourth batter stepped up, and for a moment, the air thickened with hope. The pitch came fast, the swing crisp — and then a sudden snap! as the second baseman caught it cleanly out of the air.
Inning over. Nathan stranded on second.
By the fourth inning, the batting cycle reset. Dranred found himself once more facing the American cleanup hitter — the same monster who had sent his pitch flying in the first inning. The duel began again. Pitch after pitch, each fouled or missed by inches.
The rally stretched on.
Dranred's breathing turned uneven. His arm felt heavier with each throw.
Then — it happened.
As he wound up for another pitch, the ball slipped from his fingers and fell limply to the dirt.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. Rosette shot up from her seat, her hands pressed to her mouth. She remembered his words — the numbness. This wasn't just nerves. It was something worse.
"Nathan!" someone shouted from the dugout.
The catcher was already moving. "Time out!" he barked, sprinting to the mound.
He scooped up the ball and looked at his teammate. "What happened?"
Dranred forced a smirk. "I'm fine. He's just... annoying."
But when Nathan handed the ball back, Dranred's hand trembled. He couldn't grip it. Both men froze.
"You're not okay," Nathan said quietly.
Dranred met his eyes. Around them, their teammates were watching. He couldn't let them see weakness.
"It's just fatigue," he insisted. "That rally took a lot out of me. He's... persistent, that's all."
Nathan frowned. "You can tell yourself that lie, but not me. How can you keep—"
"Don't." Dranred's voice dropped low. "Don't make them worry. If you act like nothing's wrong, we can keep their morale up."
Nathan stared at him for a long moment, then muttered, "And you'll just keep pitching with that arm?"
Dranred's smile faded. He didn't answer.
"What choice do we have?" Dranred muttered, flexing his arm as if to prove something to himself. "It's just temporary numbness."
He picked up the ball again, forcing his fingers to tighten around the seams. "See? I can still pitch. Let's finish this one."
Nathan watched him quietly, his jaw tightening. He couldn't decide whether to admire the man's grit or curse his recklessness.
"Two strikes," Nathan said at last, his tone controlled. "Finish him on your next pitch. The longer this drags on, the heavier your arm gets. Strike him out, then take down the next batter. After that, we'll switch gears."
He turned to go, adding over his shoulder, "Do your best."
As Nathan walked back to home plate, frustration twisted inside him. He knew he was letting Dranred continue despite the risk — despite knowing it could cost them the game or worse, Dranred's arm. But how could he stop him? This was the man who carried them to the finals.
Before pitching, Dranred took a moment to feel his arm. The numbness had dulled, replaced by a slow burn that crawled from his fingers to his shoulder. It wasn't gone — but it would have to be enough. He couldn't let this rally drag any longer.
In the stands, Rosette clasped her brother's hand tightly as Dranred wound up for the next pitch. Her knuckles turned white.
James glanced at her and chuckled softly. "Are you that worried?"
"I'm scared," Rosette whispered. "He's not in good shape."
"He wouldn't still be standing there if he wasn't ready," James replied calmly. "He's fighting in a game where he knows he could lose everything. Don't close your eyes now. Look at him — until the end. He needs your light more than ever. How can a light fade at the very moment when—"
He stopped when Rosette's eyes shot up to his.
"How did you know that?" she asked quietly.
"Know what?" James said, feigning innocence.
"About the light."
He smiled, a rare, knowing smile. "You two are obvious, you know. Always lovey-dovey, wherever you go."
"Strike! Batter out!"
The umpire's call cut through the noise just as Rosette turned back toward the field. The batter had swung and missed, the ball snapping cleanly into Nathan's mitt.
The crowd erupted.
Two outs for the American team. One more, and it would be the National Team's turn to fight back.
Nathan caught Dranred's eye from the plate and gave a small, proud nod. Despite everything — the pain, the risk, the fear — he'd done it.
And Rosette, tears gathering in her eyes, finally let go of her brother's hand.
The light, however faint, was still burning.
"See?" James said softly, his eyes fixed on the field. "He's still fighting. Trust him, Rosette… and be his light."
He gave her hand a reassuring tap before turning back toward the diamond.
Dranred's next opponent — the third batter — barely lasted three pitches.
Strike one. Strike two. Strike three.
The crowd erupted, their earlier unease forgotten. No one was thinking about the ball that had slipped from his hand just minutes ago. For now, Dranred was untouchable again.
When he returned to the dugout, their coach immediately approached.
"Are you alright? Anything wrong with your arm?"
Dranred only smiled and shook his head. "I'm fine, Coach."
He wasn't, but admitting it now would do nothing but rattle his team. They were still scoreless, four innings in — and he was due to bat second.
The first batter struck out quickly, leaving the bases empty. As Dranred stepped into the box, the air around the stadium tightened. The crowd still remembered his defiant rally from the first inning — the way he fought pitch after pitch. Every fan believed this might be the moment he'd connect again.
The pitcher wound up and fired.
Dranred started to swing — but his arm froze mid-motion. He couldn't move. The ball zipped past the plate.
"Strike one!"
Nathan, crouched behind the plate, noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. The numbness was back.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath. "We're doomed if this keeps up."
Another pitch. Another frozen moment.
"Strike two!"
The crowd began to stir uneasily. Dranred exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to tighten on the bat. He could feel something — a faint pulse returning to his arm, the dull burn replacing numbness.
Not yet.
He leaned forward, muscles coiled, and waited for the next pitch. As the ball sped toward him, he stepped into the plate and swung — hard.
The crack of the bat echoed across the stadium like a gunshot.
The ball soared high, spinning toward the deep arc of the outfield. Every head in the stands tilted upward, holding their breath as it sailed—
And then, the explosion of sound.
The ball disappeared into the stands. A home run.
The stadium erupted into chaos — cheers, chants, waving flags. Dranred's teammates leaped to their feet, and even Nathan couldn't hide his grin.
From the stands, Rosette covered her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. James only smiled.
"He's unbelievable," he said. "That was one of the best pitches that guy's ever thrown — and he just sent it flying."
Dranred rounded the bases, expression unreadable beneath the cheers. He touched home plate, exchanged a quick nod with Nathan, and disappeared into the dugout.
Now, the score was 2–1. One run behind. Hope was alive again.
The next batters, fired up by his homer, refused to go down easily. They fouled, battled, and fought for every swing. Even when they struck out, their resolve didn't falter — because Dranred's hit had reminded them what was possible.
Top of the fifth inning, Dranred was back on the mound.
Three batters up. Three batters down.
Each pitch was deliberate, his strategy razor-sharp — throwing just enough for the fielders to finish the job.
By the end of the first half, the scoreboard glowed: 2–1.
They only needed one more run to tie.
One more spark — to turn this into a game no one would forget.