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Chapter Text

The bat was too big for his tiny hands.

The helmet slipped down over his eyes.

And yet — Sawamura Eijun stood there in the dirt, back straight, fists clenched, trembling not with fear… but excitement.

“Choke up, you idiot!” a gruff voice barked from the bleachers. “This isn’t some TV cartoon, it’s baseball!”

That voice belonged to his grandfather — old-school to the bone, and twice as stubborn.

“Y-Yes, Grandpa!” A young Eijun shouted, adjusting the bat like his tiny life depended on it.

From behind the fence, his mother sighed, half-amused and half-worried. She leaned over to the coach beside her.

“He’s six. Isn’t this too much?”

The coach just laughed. “If he’s anything like his grandpa, he’ll be fine.”

Eijun’s mother had never planned for her son to be a baseball player.

She pictured books, maybe painting — something quiet.

But one summer afternoon, when Eijun was just five, her husband stormed into the house holding a youth league flyer.

“He’s got energy like a wild horse,” he said. “Might as well point him toward something useful before he breaks my furniture.”

The next thing she knew, Eijun was running laps around the field, cheeks red, shoes untied, arms flailing like a windmill.

And then — he laughed.

That kind of laugh.

Pure. Loud. Free.

She realized something then. He wasn’t just playing baseball. He was becoming something.

Eijun didn’t remember a time before baseball.

There was always a glove in his hand, a sore shoulder, a scraped knee.

He didn’t care about Koshien. He barely knew what the pros were. But he knew what it felt like to throw a perfect pitch.

He remembered the first time he struck someone out — how the world froze for just a second before exploding with cheers.

He remembered turning to see his grandpa’s wide grin, hands crossed over his cane.

“Finally did something right,” the old man had said, but his eyes sparkled with pride.

People always asked Eijun why he played.

His teammates had answers:

“To make it to Koshien.”

“To become a pro.”

“To be the best.”

Eijun… never knew how to answer.

He just played.

Not because he had a dream. Not because someone told him to.

But because it felt right.

Even now, as he walked the streets after middle school practice, bag slung over his shoulder, the question still echoed in his mind:

Why do I play?

He didn’t know.

But maybe someday, he would.

That night, his mother peeked into his room. He was fast asleep, glove still clutched in his hand like a comfort blanket.

She smiled.

“Just don’t lose your way,” she whispered.

Outside, a soft breeze rustled the trees — like a warning of the storm that would come. Of the choices he’d face. Of the path that still hadn’t shown itself.

But for now, Eijun slept soundly.

Because even if he didn’t know why…

He knew how to play.

Chapter Text

Sawamura Eijun wasn’t born with a dream.

He wasn’t like the other kids who watched Koshien broadcasts wide-eyed, imagining the crowd chanting their names.

No, Eijun just wanted to throw.

More than that — he wanted to win.

But not for glory. Not for fame. For something simpler:

Because it was fun.

Baseball in Akagi wasn’t flashy. It was the kind of town where dirt fields doubled as parking lots, and kids practiced with mismatched gear handed down from older siblings. Their team didn’t have fancy drills or strategy meetings. Half the team didn’t even wear the right cleats.

But they had heart. And they had Eijun.

He wasn’t polished. He wasn’t even consistent at first. His windup was wild, his release unpredictable, and his yelling… constant.

“C’MON, BRING IT!”
“LET’S GOOOOO!”
“SWING ALREADY, YOU COWARD!”

The first time he struck someone out, he screamed so loud that a teacher from the nearby building thought someone had gotten hurt.

But for all his chaos, Eijun felt.

He noticed things others didn’t.

How a batter’s front foot lifted a second too early.
How their shoulders tightened before a swing.
Where their weight shifted when they guessed wrong.

He didn’t know that was called game sense.

He just called it figuring them out.

It was during his second year when their temporary coach, a tired man with a permanent sunburn, an old whistle, and experience coaching a neighboring town’s elementary baseball team , pulled him aside after practice."

“You’ve got something. But even with that fastball, you can’t just throw heat every time.”

Eijun blinked. “Why not? It works.”

“Until it doesn’t. Trust me. Learn to mess with their timing. Throw ‘em off.”

The next day, the coach showed him how to grip a changeup.

“You don’t need to slow your motion. Just the speed of the ball.”

Eijun practiced it for weeks, frustrated when it didn’t break right.

Then, one day — it worked.

The batter swung too early. The ball dropped lazily into the mitt.

Eijun stared at his hand, blinking.

“…Whoa.”

The cutter came later — a visiting coach showed him the grip during a weekend clinic.

“Only use it when you’re ahead,” the coach warned. “It eats bats but it’s risky.”

Eijun filed that away in his head. He never used it during practice.

But in a game, when he was ahead 0-2?

He threw it.

CRACK.

The bat split clean in half.

“…Oops.”

Some pitches, though?
They weren’t taught.

They were discovered.

Once, after trying to throw a high fastball and adjusting his grip mid-motion, he watched the ball drop more than expected.

He tried it again, same grip, same finger pressure — it dropped harder.

“…That wasn’t a changeup.”

He called it his “weird drop thing” for a week before Nobu said, “Bro, that’s probably like a forkball.”

Eijun just shrugged. “If it works, it works.”

Another time, after a sleepless night spent binge-watching pro game reruns, he experimented — twisting his wrist slightly on release, trying to mimic a breaking ball.

The result: a slow curve that didn’t quite curve — but it slid awkwardly sideways.

Nobu ducked behind the fence, yelling, “What the hell was that?!”

Wakana, lazily chewing on a sports drink straw, replied dryly, “Congrats. You’ve just invented the Slinder.”

“…The what?”

“The slider and changeup had a baby. It breaks sideways like a lazy slider, but it moves slow like a changeup trying to sneak in late. It’s too weird to be either — so I mashed the names together.”

Nobu squinted at her. “Wait, how do you even know all that?”

Wakana raised an eyebrow. “I watch games. As a player and a manager — of course I do. Someone has to keep up, since you two barely know what pitch you're throwing half the time.”

Eijun blinked, then tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.

He could feel it now — the grip, the wrist twist, the awkward drag through the air. The velocity dipped like a changeup, but instead of falling cleanly, the ball tailed off, breaking sideways toward a left-handed batter’s back foot. The spin wasn’t sharp enough for a real slider, and it lacked the clean arc of a curveball. It didn’t look like much… but the movement? It was real. Unpredictable. Messy. And just weird enough to work.

“Ohh,” Eijun muttered to himself. “That makes sense.” He glanced down at his hand, already adjusting his fingers again.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t clean. But it was his.

Eijun lit up. “Cool!”

The banter never stopped with his two best friends.

Wakana was sharp-tongued, cool-headed, and always watching the game from behind the scenes. She kept the team from total chaos.

Nobu was the big brother type, catcher, comic relief, and part-time therapist to Eijun’s volume levels.

“You know,” Nabe said once while icing his arm, “you could be really good.”

Eijun blinked. “Huh?”

“If you took it seriously, I mean.”

“I do take it seriously!” Eijun protested, flopping dramatically into the grass.

“You scream like a banshee and forget the count half the time.”

“I remember the batter’s soul, not the count!”

Wakana muttered, “That’s not better.”

Despite their antics, Akagi started winning.

Not just by luck — by grit.

Eijun’s pitching became the talk of small-town Nagano. His fastball was heavy, his changeup deceptive, and now he had three or four other “mystery pitches” that worked whether or not he could name them.

The local teams hated facing him because there was no game tape, no predictability.

No pattern.

Just a loudmouth with a feel.

Still… something always tugged at him after games.

He wasn’t dreaming of Koshien. He didn’t think about the future much at all.

But when the field emptied and the sun dipped below the mountains, Eijun would stay behind.

Just for a few more throws.

“Why do you keep playing?” Wakana asked him once after a late practice.

Eijun scratched his cheek. “Dunno.”

“You don’t want to be pro?”

“…Not really.”

“You want to go to a baseball school?”

“I haven’t thought about high school yet.”

“Then… why?”

He thought about it.

The dirt under his cleats. The feel of the ball spinning off his fingers. The sound of the mitt popping.

“…I just like it,” he said at last. “Even when it sucks. Even when we lose. I still wanna throw.”

Wakana rolled her eyes. “You’re a disaster.”

“But I’m your disaster,” he grinned.

“Unfortunately.”

Eijun wasn’t born with a dream.

But on that cracked field in Akagi, with mismatched socks and an oversized glove, he found something close:

A reason to stay in the game.

Even if he didn’t know why he played…

He knew one thing for sure.

He wasn’t done throwing yet.

Chapter Text

It was the summer of his second year when things got real.

No more just playing for fun. No more sleepy practice sessions with friends and yelling for the sake of it.

This time, Akagi Middle School — a team most forgot even had a baseball club — clawed their way into the prestigious National Middle School Baseball Championship Tournament.

And they weren’t just there to make up numbers.

It started in the Nagano Regional Middle School Tournament, where Sawamura Eijun's wild, unorthodox style — now sharpened by instinct, ridiculous stamina, and way too many hours talking to himself on the practice field — sliced through well-funded lineups like a fastball that never read the rulebook. Teams who had better coaches, better gear, even bus budgets, were suddenly scrambling to catch up to a kid with a busted cap and lollipops in his back pocket.

The team was a mess on paper — no prodigies, no funding, no batting coach — but they had chemistry. They had Nobu's stability behind the plate, Wakana's dry logic on the bench, and most of all...

They had Eijun.

“Choke up a little more— NO, not that much!”

“Swing like it’s your last meal, dammit!”

“HE'S GOING FASTBALL, HE'S LYING WITH HIS EYES!”

These were Eijun’s mid-game commentaries.

Opposing teams laughed at first.

“That lefty’s too loud.”

“He’s got no form.”

“Looks like he learned pitching from a YouTube ad.”

Then they stepped into the batter’s box.

Fastball. Cutter. Changeup. Fork-sorta-thing. Slinder?

Whatever it was — it worked.

They didn’t know what hit them. And when they did guess right, Eijun adjusted. He was reading swings like comic books — easily, with glee, and just a little too loudly.

Semi-Final: Akagi vs Edogawa

By the semi-finals, things got serious.

Their opponent was Edogawa Middle School — a polished team with clean uniforms, a batting order like clockwork, and one player who stood out the moment he stepped onto the field.

Miyuki Kazuya.

Sharp-eyed. Smug. Confident. And very obviously dangerous.

“Watch that catcher,” Wakana said before the game. “He’s trouble.”

Nobu nodded. “He’s the one calling the whole game from behind the plate.”

Eijun just cracked his knuckles. “Then I’ll make his signs useless.”

Akagi scored first thanks to a wild pitch and a lucky blooper by their 6th batter. Nothing flashy. But the bench went wild.

Eijun, meanwhile, jogged onto the mound, grinning.

“Alright, let’s dance!”

Edogawa’s leadoff batter swung through a high fastball.

Strikeout.

Second batter made contact — a choppy grounder. Out at first.

Then..... Miyuki stepped up.

He tapped his bat twice against his cleats, adjusting his grip with easy confidence. He eyed Eijun with a smirk.

“You’re the loud one, right?”

Eijun tilted his head, smirking right back. “You’re the pretty-boy genius?”

“Let’s see who lives up to the name.”

Eijun grinned. “Let’s.”

First pitch: cutter, tight inside.

Miyuki backed off — ball.

He narrowed his eyes. That movement.. it tailed in late. Wasn’t just wild...

Second pitch: fastball, up and tight.

Miyuki fouled it off, but his brows furrowed slightly.

That spin... That wasn’t a plain two-seam.

Third pitch: changeup — floated dead center.

Miyuki held back. “Ball,” the umpire called.

“That was beautiful,” Eijun muttered under his breath, annoyed.

Fourth pitch: fastball — outside corner.

Miyuki ripped it.

But Wakana had predicted it — shifted the outfield just a step right.

Caught. Barely.

Back in the dugout, Miyuki peeled off his helmet and stared at the field.

“That guy’s wild... but he’s not just throwing,” he muttered to no one in particular. “He’s reading.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but the gears were already turning in his mind.

His mechanics are sloppy. His control’s barely there. But his instincts... that pitch sequencing — the unpredictability... That’s not luck.

Miyuki leaned against the fence, eyes following Eijun as he laughed on the mound like he owned the place.

He’s still raw. Still all over the place. But damn... he’s fun to watch.

That unspoken admiration sparked, quiet but real.

The game stayed close. Edogawa clawed back 1 run, but Eijun held steady, mixing speeds, spinning unpredictable pitches, and laughing the whole time.

There were times Miyuki changed the tempo, adjusted their batters’ approach, tried to lure Eijun into predictable patterns — and it nearly worked. Nearly.

But each time, Eijun adjusted just enough to throw it off — a side-arm curve that fell too early, a slowball with a delayed release, a double pitch-out that baited the steal attempt into an easy out.

“He’s annoying,” Miyuki finally said under his breath, lips twitching upward. “In the good way.”

Final score: 2–1.

Akagi moved to the national final.

The team was a mess — tackling each other, screaming, someone probably crying under the bench — and Eijun stood in the middle of it all, grinning like a kid who just got away with stealing fire.

Back in the dugout, Miyuki watched him.

Not with irritation.

With curiosity.

And something else… harder to define.

The catcher lifted his glove to hide a slight smile.

Interesting. I hope we meet again.

Meanwhile, the Akagi team was still bouncing off the dugout walls. The final out hadn’t even settled in the glove before they rushed the field.

Wakana was yelling about someone stepping on her bag.

Nobu was threatening to carry Eijun off the field bridal style.

Other members were sobbing in relief.

Eijun?

He flopped on the bench, pulled his towel over his face… and promptly fell asleep.

He was still asleep during the interview.

A local news crew tried to shove a mic in his face.

Wakana blocked it.

“He’s resting,” she said firmly.

Nobu grinned at the camera. “He’s not used to fame.”

“You scored the winning run,” the repor

ter said, turning to him.

“I did!” Nobu beamed. “But make no mistake — this win? It’s all thanks to our number one on the mound.”

“And he is?”

“Sawamura Eijun. Remember that name.”

The final was held in a real stadium .... grass, chalk lines, scouts, and nerves.

Eijun barely noticed. He was bouncing like a pinball on caffeine.

Their opponent: Aoba East, led by Narumiya Mei — the rising star, third year, flashy, and very much a monster on the mound.

His fastball blazed.

His strikeouts piled.

Scouts came for him ....from Tokyo, Osaka, even Hokkaido. You could spot them in the stands, clipboards in hand, barely blinking between pitches.

And yet, one scout wasn’t watching Mei.

Rei Takashima had her eyes locked on the loudmouth from Akagi.

Beside her, a familiar face ... Miyuki Kazuya, wearing a cap low over his eyes.

“You’re here too?” she asked, surprised.

“Just watching,” Miyuki replied, eyes sharp. “That guy’s something else.”

“He beat you?”

“Yeah,” Miyuki grinned. “And it wasn’t luck.”

Rei hummed, curious. She’d scouted Miyuki back when he was unknown — and now he was watching this kid with that same hungry gleam she once saw in a different catcher’s eyes.

A little voice in the back of her mind whispered: He’s dangerous.

Mei dominated.

Three up, three down. Again and again.

He strutted to the mound like it was his runway. Fastballs cracked into the glove like thunder. Aoba East’s defense barely had to move — nobody was hitting anything.

But Eijun… Eijun was chaos.

He opened with a fastball that shocked the crowd — not because of speed, but because of sound. It was wild, reckless, and loud. Just like him.

He followed with a cutter that nipped the inside corner — messy mechanics, but somehow pinpointed.

Then a change-up — the same drop pitch he used in the semifinal against Edogawa. One batter swung so early, the crowd audibly winced.

Aoba East blinked.

Their coaches leaned forward. “This kid’s no joke,” one of them muttered.

Still, Akagi’s flaws showed quickly.

In the second inning, a lazy fly ball to right the drifted just a little farther than Nobu expected. He reached — missed. Two-base error. The runner advanced on a grounder, then came home on a sac fly. Aoba East scored first.

The bench tensed. But Eijun just thumped his chest.

“Shake it off! We’re still breathing!”

And in the dugout, Wakana muttered, “It’s a miracle anyone listens to him…”

Her wrist was stiff — from a collision with the backstop fence two nights ago. She was still starting at shortstop, but her throws had lost snap.

The crowd noticed. “Akagi’s defense is shaky,” someone whispered. “They can’t last long.”

But somehow, they did.

In the fourth, a bloop single dropped in center. Then a wild pitch from Mei — rare — and a bunt from Wakana that hugged the line so tight, even Aoba East’s elite infield hesitated.

Next, Eijun stepped up.

He swung like a man trying to kill a hornet.

The ball skidded off the bat, bouncing past third.

Runner scores.

1–1.

Mei’s smirk twitched.

His next inning was brutal — five straight strikeouts. He wasn’t just throwing faster. He was pitching angry.

Even Wakana winced. “Okay, that guy’s terrifying.”

But Eijun adjusted too — not with power, but pattern. He mixed speeds, sequenced differently, used Nobu’s late signals like a compass. His change-up dipped beautifully in the sixth. His cutter carved the black of the plate.

His slinder — the unstable, sharp-bending pitch he never quite trusted — made a surprise appearance in the seventh. Aoba’s cleanup batter whiffed on it so hard he nearly spun.

“He’s improvising,” one scout whispered.

“He’s surviving,” another said.

Still tied, 1–1.

Then came the top of the ninth.

Wakana, wrists taped, reached base again — this time on a bunt that turned into a sprinting challenge with Mei himself. She won by a hair.

Nobu stepped in next. He was jumpy, twitching, nerves buzzing. But somehow, his swing connected with Mei’s change-up — a line drive to right. Runner advanced.

Eijun came up.

Mei stared him down.

“Let’s end this,” Mei muttered.

“Sure,” Eijun grinned. “Just make sure you’re awake for it.”

First pitch: fastball — fouled back.

Second pitch: change-up — ball.

Third pitch: fastball again — Eijun barely touched it, sending it trickling down the third base line.

Mei charged, glove down — and fumbled it.

Runner scores. Akagi leads. 2–1.

The next batter struck out, but the damage was done.

Bottom of the ninth.

Aoba East clawed back a runner after another near-miss in center. Wakana couldn’t reach a looping liner. Tie again. 2–2.

Then two outs.

Runner on third.

And guess who stepped up to pinch-hit?

Narumiya Mei.

Lefty vs. lefty.

The crowd held its breath.

Mei adjusted his helmet and gave a wild grin. “Let’s see who’s better.”

Eijun licked his lips. “Can’t wait to embarrass you.”

First pitch: fastball — fouled.

Second pitch: change-up — Mei swung, missed.

Third pitch: cutter, inside. Sharp.

Mei guessed.

Swung hard.

Missed.

Strike three.

Silence.

Then an explosion.

Akagi had done it.

National champions.

The dugout emptied. Players screamed. Nobu threw his glove into the air. Wakana slumped against the rail, half laughing, half crying.

Eijun?

He collapsed on the grass.

Snoring.

As the Aoba East dugout emptied and the teams lined up for post-game greetings, Mei lingered at the edge of the field.

He didn’t smile, for once.

Instead, he stared across the diamond, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap, as if trying to see through the noise and cheers to where that kid—that pitcher—was still surrounded by his team.

Sawamura hadn’t even noticed him yet.

"That guy..." Mei muttered, voice half-laced with irritation, half with a grin that threatened to return. "He's a mess... but damn if he doesn’t make pitching look fun."

One of his teammate, walking beside him, raised an eyebrow. “You saying he’s good?”

“No,” Mei replied, sticking a hand in his pocket. “I’m saying I wanna crush him when it actually matters.”

He turned away before he could say anything else, but his mind hadn’t left the mound—not really.

Because somewhere in that chaos, that kid from the middle of nowhere had stirred something dangerous in him:

Interest.

Reporters surged down again.

This time, Eijun nearly made it to the mic…

…before getting distracted by free juice boxes.

They found him later under the shade of the bus stop, snoring softly, arms behind his head.

Nobu got interviewed again.

“Seriously?” Wakana muttered. “Again?”

Rei watched the celebration from the stadium seats.

She scribbled furiously.

“Sawamura Eijun”

“Pitching sense: elite”

“Velocity: moderate but deceptive”

“Unrefined. Untamed. But dangerous.”

She didn’t even notice Miyuki had left the stands.

A question lingered in her mind:

Who is this kid? And how the hell hasn’t he been scouted already?

She was about to write “likely 3rd year” beside his name — but hesitated.

She hadn’t checked yet.

Rei stood, scanning the list of finalists that had been handed before the game.

Her eyes locked on a name and a grade level.

Sawamura Eijun — Year: 2

She blinked.

“…He’s a second year?”

She dropped her pen.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

Set in Akagi, Nagano – July 20, 2025, around 12:00 PM JST

Featuring: Sawamura Eijun & his family watching the live broadcast of Pacquiao vs. Barrios from Japan. 

The sound of the kettle clicking off was drowned out by the TV speakers blasting from the living room.

“Round six now,” Nobu called out, “and Pacquiao’s STILL dancing circles around him”

“HE’S NOT DANCING” Eijun shouted, practically vaulting over the kotatsu, “he’s manipulating lateral rhythm to distort Barrios’ sense of range!”

Their mom froze in the kitchen doorway, holding a tray of cold soba noodles. “...What?”

“He means dancing,” Wakana translated, sipping tea. “Just louder. And with more stats.”

___

It was just past noon in Japan—hot summer sunlight streamed through the sliding windows as the Pacquiao vs. Barrios main event played live on their dusty old flatscreen.

The Sawamura household had been unusually tense since breakfast. Grandpa insisted on early lunch. Dad had called off his usual nap. Even the neighbors next door could be heard yelling “GO PACQUIAO!”

And smack in the middle of the room....wearing glasses, holding a notebook, and chewing a lemon-flavored lollipop like a cigar—sat Sawamura Eijun, fully locked in.

___

Round 7 – Mid-fight Commentary:

“Did you see the inside drop step? That wasn’t retreat, that was bait. Barrios fell for it. Boom, right hook.”

“Did you pause it just now?” Wakana asked.

“No. I have it memorized already,” Eijun muttered. “Based on the angle of his shoulder roll, I predict a left uppercut feint followed by a switch-step and counterbody jab…”

“...What language is he speaking?” their dad whispered.

“Eijun language,” Nobu replied.

___

The room fell silent again as Pacquiao pivoted on the screen then struck. Eijun leapt up with both hands in the air.

“YES! CALLED IT!!” he crowed. “Frame 2:32 into Round 7.....check that rear leg drive. He stole Barrios’ momentum and converted it!”

Their grandpa grunted in approval. “That’s what it means to be a real athlete.”

“You should analyze boxing for a living,” Nobu said, half-joking.

Eijun shrugged. “It’s not so different from baseball. All motion tells a story. All rhythm hides intent. You just have to listen.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“...Is that from a quote?”

“No, I just made it up,” Eijun said, completely serious, scribbling it down in the margin of his notebook labeled “Pitching ≈ Boxing Theory: Rhythm, Feint, Impact”.

___

End of the Fight

As the decision was announced—a majority draw.....a wave of disbelief hit the room.

“WHAT?! DRAW?!”

Eijun stood frozen. “That’s not right. Pacquiao outlanded him. Higher ring control, effective aggression, clean counters, pace shifts from Round 4 to 9”

“You gonna write a formal complaint?” Wakana teased.

“I already drafted a thesis in my mind,” Eijun grumbled, slumping to the floor.

His mom sat beside him and offered a second lollipop. “Even geniuses need to rest, sweetie.”

He took it, muttering, “Still robbery though…”

___

Final Scene

Later that day, while their dad was washing dishes and grandpa dozed off, Eijun stared at the quiet TV.

His voice was soft now. “He’s forty-six. Everyone doubted him. But he didn’t flinch. Still fought like a monster.”

He tilted his head back, letting the lollipop rest on his tongue like a weightless crown.

“Kind of cool,” he murmured, “when people write you off... and you just prove them wrong.”

Wakana heard him but didn’t say anything. She just smiled.

---

[Final Scene: Tokyo – That Evening]

Rei Takashima’s Apartment, Seidou Recruitment Office Setup

---

Rei sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open, two recruitment lists half-highlighted and a third open tab showing the post-fight discussion from the Pacquiao vs. Barrios match.

She had originally clicked on the video to unwind, not expecting anything unusual—until a familiar name popped up.

“—and that viral slow-motion breakdown from earlier? Yeah, that came from a Japanese teen named Sawamura Eijun. Insane eye for movement. He uploaded an entire counter-analysis within two hours of the fight ending.”

Rei blinked.

Paused.

Then hit rewind.

“Japanese teen… Sawamura Eijun.”

She slowly removed her glasses, her brows furrowing.

“…Wait a second.”

She tapped quickly on her keyboard, searching:

"Sawamura Eijun Pacquiao analysis"

A video popped up.

Low-res. Some muffled background noise. But the voice was unmistakable.....fast, excited, and detailed in a way that reminded her of another kind of athlete entirely.

She watched as the screen showed fight footage paused frame-by-frame, Eijun’s voice narrating everything from balance shifts to power generation, all while casually comparing it to pitch timing and feints in baseball.

“This is similar to when I throw a cutter outside but aim my hips inside. It’s not about the glove—it’s about how much you can sell the angle.”

Rei stared, stunned.

“…You’re kidding me.”

She clicked over to her scouting log.

> Sawamura Eijun – Akagi MS – LHP

Status: Seen at Nationals, noted for unusual pitching style

Grade: Unknown – 2nd year at time

Did not respond to contact attempts.

Rei buried her face in both hands.

“Oh my god. I got scammed again.”

Chapter Text

The moment the final out was called, Akagi’s bench erupted.

Nobu launched his glove into the air. Wakana didn’t smile but her fist clenched, proud in her own way. The rest of the boys stormed the mound, shouting, slipping on the grass, dragging Eijun into a crushing group hug.

“Nationals, baby!”

“We did it!”

“I CAN’T FEEL MY RIBS!”

“Akagi!!!!!! ”

“Ei-channnnnnnnn/Eijunnnnnnn!!!! ”

Eijun, in the middle of it all, just stood there, breath caught in his throat, sweat and dirt plastered to his cheeks. He looked up at the stadium lights a sky made of steel and whispered to no one in particular:

“...We won.”

He laughed.

Then he laughed harder, wild and breathless.

He collapsed on the ground.

Snoring.

Because they actually did it.

They won , and he deserved to be relaxed .

Trophy ceremonies were awkward. None of the Akagi boys knew how to stand still in a line, and Eijun kept fidgeting with the medal around his neck like it itched. Their school banner looked like it had been pulled out of a forgotten cabinet that morning.

Still, when the announcer called, “Champions of the Junior National Baseball League: Akagi Middle School!” the crowd roared or at least, clapped very enthusiastically.

Even the reporters started pushing in.

“There he is ......that lefty ace!”

“Is it true he’s only a second-year?”

“What’s his fastball clocked at now?”

“Does he really have five different pitches?!”

“Has he already received offers from high school baseball programs? Is the team aiming for a second national title next year?”

But before the mob could close in, a wall formed in front of Eijun.

Their baseball advisor a sleepy-faced PE teacher who barely passed as “in charge” stepped forward, arms out.

“Sorry,” he said politely. “No interviews. The team’s catching a bus soon.”

Wakana joined him with her arms crossed and a death stare sharp enough to cut a mic cord. Nobu stepped between Eijun and the reporters like a loyal knight.

“He’s not great with crowds,” he said. “He’ll pass out or something.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie.

Eijun was too busy trying to open his juice box with his teeth.

Before anyone could press further, the team had already begun herding him toward the exit. Somewhere behind them, reporters continued shouting questions, flashes going off like fireworks.

“Wait , where’s the ace going?!”

“He didn’t say a word!”

“I didn’t even get a clear shot of his face—!”

Sure enough, Sawamura Eijun was already curled up in the back row of the team bus, lollipop in his mouth and towel over his head.

"Wake me up when we're back in Nagano," he mumbled, ignoring the chaos outside.

Their advisor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That boy’s allergic to interviews.”

Wakana turned to the press with a helpless grin. “Sorry, you won’t catch him today either. Maybe next year!”

The ride home was loud at first.

The team sang off-key, threw snacks at each other, and made grand promises like:

“We’re getting meat tomorrow!”

“I’m telling the principal to fund us next year!”

“Let’s paint the gym!”

But slowly, one by one, heads lolled against windows. Nobu fell asleep holding a souvenir bat. Wakana was already halfway into her notes on team improvement. Even the advisor was passed out, mouth open, snoring.

Eijun sat at the back, by the window, legs tucked up on the seat.

The trophy sat next to him.

He stared out at the darkness beyond the glass — empty roads, scattered lights, stars barely visible over the mountain curves.

Now what?

He didn’t dream of standing on a mound in Koshien.

Didn’t imagine pro contracts or draft picks.

He just— liked playing. Liked winning. Liked seeing the batter’s face when they swung and missed.

He remembered something Nobu had said a few days ago:

“You’re really not thinking of going to a baseball high school?”

And Eijun had shrugged.

"I dunno. Isn’t that for guys who wanna go pro?"

But now....

Now he wasn’t sure.

Not because of the title or the crowd. But because of something else.

Because it felt unfinished.

Like he’d just discovered something inside himself a part that wanted more, even if he didn’t know what that meant yet.

The next morning, Akagi Middle School felt different.

When Eijun walked in, casually sucking on a lollipop with the stick poking from his mouth, students actually looked at him.

Some nodded.

Some whispered.

Some just stared.

A few first years from other clubs peeked into the baseball room during cleanup.

Wakana arched an eyebrow. “New recruits?”

“They’re just curious,” Nobu said, wiping down a bat.

“Let ’em be curious,” Eijun grinned.

He glanced out the window toward the run-down field.

Not long ago, there were talks of Akagi shutting down — not enough students, no results, a dying countryside school.

But now?

Maybe they’d buy the team new equipment next year.

Maybe some younger kids would join after all.

Maybe, just maybe, the school wouldn’t disappear.

Their win might’ve bought them time.

He sat on the steps after cleanup, staring at the sunset.

Baseball had given him a lot already. He didn’t need the spotlight. He didn’t need fans.

But....

He remembered what happened in the semis.

Then the final.

All of it felt like a blur — fast, loud, and electric.

Now, on the quiet ride home, he sat alone near the back of the bus, the medal still warm in his palm.

Funny. A year ago, this would’ve felt like a dream.

Now?

He thought back to that sharp gleam in Miyuki Kazuya’s eyes — cool, calculating.

The way Edogawa’s catcher had tracked every pitch like he already knew what was coming.

Eijun had to dig deep in that game, change rhythm, mix speeds, play mind games he’d never needed before.

And still, Miyuki made him work for every out.

Then came the final.

Aoba East.

Mei Narumiya.

That damn grin.

Fastball for fastball, stubborn for stubborn — neither of them backing down.

The kind of game that burned into your bones.

The kind of game you wanted again.

And somehow.....he’d won.

He beat them.

The best in the country, and he’d come out on top.

A small laugh slipped out, breathless and disbelieving.

Maybe he did want to face them again.

Someday.

Somewhere.

But for now....

He unwrapped another lollipop and muttered,

“....This is the only prize I need anyway.”

He dropped it into his bag and got to his feet.

Wakana sighed from across the room. “You really have no sense of timing.”

Nobu didn’t even look up from his notebook. “As long as he doesn’t eat it during class again”

Eijun just grinned, the lollipop already between his lips. “No promises.”

But as he headed toward the door, he paused ....... turning slightly to glance out the window, where the school field shimmered in the afternoon sun.

He didn’t say it loud enough for anyone to hear, just a quiet murmur to himself:

One more year of middle school.

One more chapter to write.

And the road ahead?

Still empty —

but finally starting to take shape.

Chapter Text

The letters came quickly after Nationals.

Some had gold embossing. Some came with pamphlets. A few had handwritten notes and scholarship offers.

Akagi’s tiny mailbox was nearly buried in paperwork by the time their baseball advisor called Eijun over, holding out one envelope like it was made of gold leaf.

“This one’s from Tokyo,” the man said. “Seidou High School. Pretty prestigious.”

Eijun accepted the letter with a blank stare, a lollipop already half-melted in his mouth. He squinted at the school name.

“Seidou—never heard of it.”

He opened the envelope, scanned the contents for a minute, then folded it and stuffed it into his bag next to a bag of plum candy.

No response. No excitement.

Just another pitch to swing at  and Eijun didn’t feel like stepping into that batter’s box yet.

Weeks later, Rei Takashima stood in the administrative office of Akagi Middle School.

It was humbler than most schools she scouted from faded walls, dusty trophies, and an electric fan louder than the front desk clerk. Still, Rei stood with perfect posture, adjusting her glasses as the principal greeted her.

“You must be from Seidou,” he said. “Thank you for coming all this way.”

Rei offered a polite bow, her tone calm and businesslike.
“Takashima Rei, scouting manager for Seidou High School’s baseball program.”
She straightened and added,
“I’d like to speak with you about a student — Sawamura Eijun.”

The principal’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, your letter came through. He read it.”

“May I speak with him in person?”

He gave an apologetic bow. “Unfortunately, I can't guarantee that. Due to the class delays from last term and the baseball team’s post-tournament obligations, he’s currently prioritizing training and academics. His schedule is quite full.”

Rei’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So he’s not meeting with anyone?”

“You’re the fourth school to ask,” the principal said with a smile. “It’s not that he’s rejecting offers... he just doesn’t seem interested. Not yet.”

She handed over another letter, along with her contact card.

“Please pass it on. If he changes his mind, Seidou would still welcome him.”

She walked out thoughtful, muttering to herself.

“Focused on baseball and school, huh? He really is that type”

The following school year, Akagi Middle School defied expectations.

Instead of closing, they expanded.

Word of their national victory spread. Students enrolled from nearby towns. New clubs opened — chess, cooking, even a newspaper club that immediately asked to interview Eijun, only to be politely ignored in favor of practice.

The baseball team exploded with interest. Over twenty new students joined.

Their once-bare field now had proper lines, a shaded dugout, and even weight racks in the gym. The team got actual trainers. The PE teacher, their so called advisor retired early and was replaced with a former university coach who had zero patience for Eijun’s weird warm-ups but begrudgingly admired his pitch accuracy.

At the team’s opening assembly, all regulars stood at the front.

Eijun arrived five minutes late, chewing gum and holding a bat like a microphone.

“WELCOME TO HELL—I MEAN, PRACTICE,” he shouted.

The first-years flinched.

“I’m Sawamura Eijun, your ace. You mess up, I’ll make you run laps. You pitch slow, I’ll make you run backward. But if you try hard, I’ll help you survive.”

He grinned.

Then launched into an absurd speech on pitching velocity layers, kinetic torque theories, the psychological warfare of staring down a batter with zero expression, and something about "emotional layering in the glove."

By the time he finished, several first-years looked like their brains had melted.

One kid whispered, “I didn’t know you needed a PhD to join baseball.”

Wakana sighed from the side. “Don’t listen to him. He’s making up half of that.”

Nobu laughed. “But he believes all of it.”

Spring rolled in, and Akagi began their second national run.

They had clawed their way through another intense regional tournament—beating out veteran teams with grit, clever plays, and Eijun’s unpredictable pitching. Victory wasn’t easy, but when Nobu caught the final strikeout, the stadium roared. Akagi was going back to Koshien.

This time, their uniforms were sharp. Their fundamentals polished. Their defense smarter. But one thing never changed....

The fire in their ace’s eyes.

Eijun stood on the mound for the first game with a lollipop tucked into his cheek and that same ridiculous grin on his face.

“Let’s GO—FULL THROTTLE!” he yelled across the stadium, echoing like thunder.

A fastball snapped into Nobu’s glove during warmups. Loud. Clean. Confident.

In the stands, a group of older boys watched with interest.

“That's him, huh?” said Kanemaru, leaning forward with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah,” said Toujou, arms crossed beside him. “Akagi’s ace. They say if they win this, we might face them in the third round.”

Kanemaru hummed. “He doesn’t look like much.”

Then Eijun threw another pitch — a cutter that bit inside so hard the batter stumbled.

“....Okay, never mind,” Kanemaru muttered. “That guy’s scary.”

Toujou nodded. “His mechanics are weird. But his control is insane.”

They both kept watching, not speaking anymore.

Farther up in the VIP section sat Mei Narumiya, arms crossed, gum in his mouth, and hair tied back.

Carlos and Katsuyuki from Inashiro sat beside him, both a little bored .....until Eijun threw his first strike.

“You dragged us all the way here for this?” Carlos complained.

Mei didn’t even glance at him. “Watch.”

“That guy beat you last year, right?” Katsuyuki asked.

“Barely,” Mei muttered.

“...He struck you out.”

“Shut up.”

“Why are you watching middle school games anyway?”

Mei’s eyes narrowed as he tracked Eijun’s motion.

“I just want to see how that idiot’s grown.”

Carlos blinked. “You admire him?”

“No,” Mei scowled. “I want to crush him next time.”

The others exchanged glances.

“...Totally admiration,” Carlos whispered.

On the opposite end of the stadium sat Rei Takashima, taking notes.

And beside her?

Seidou's current first-string team.

Yuki, Ryosuke, Jun, and Yoichi sat with drinks and snacks, half-curious.

“So,” Ryosuke drawled, “This is the mystery pitcher our little catcher won't shut up about.”

“Seriously,” Jun laughed. “He talks about him in his sleep.”

“Even during stretches,” Yuki added. “You ask him for a towel and somehow you end up hearing about a lefty from Nagano.”

Miyuki Kazuya adjusted his glasses, eyes focused on the mound below.

“Shut up, all of you.”

Yoichi raised an eyebrow. “You brought us here just to spy on your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my—!” Miyuki sputtered. “I just admire his pitching.”

“You kept a magazine of their Nationals feature,” Yoichi pointed out. “And he wasn’t even in the photo!”

Jun added, “Didn’t you cut out the team roster and circle ‘Sawamura’ with hearts?”

“That was one time! It was a star!”

“Rumor has it you wrote ‘future battery partner’ on the back of it.”

“THAT WAS A JOKE!”

Rei, who’d seen it all from the start, simply smiled.

She knew what Miyuki truly admired — not the person, but the puzzle. The pitcher with a wild arm and an untamed heart.

Still,  she let the rumors run wild.

Later, when Miyuki finally snapped, 

“I DON’T LOVE HIM AS A PERSON , I ONLY LOVE HIS PITCHING!”

Everyone just nodded, humming.

“Uh-huh. Totally different.”

“Sure, Kazuya.”

Even Rei didn’t correct them.

Because really the line between admiration and obsession was thin.

And Miyuki had already crossed it.

Back on the field, Eijun stood tall.

Crowd cheering. Eyes watching. Pressure mounting.

He popped the lollipop from his mouth, tossed it, and grinned.

“Let’s make some noise.”

To be continued...

Chapter Text

In the quiet days before Nationals ...

The stadium lights hadn’t turned on yet.

Before the crowd.
Before the mound.
Before the eyes of rivals and scouts.

There was everything that came before —
grit, training, pain, and the quiet moments no one clapped for.

They had been a step before glory once.
Now, they were clawing their way back—
sharper, louder, stronger than before.

Because even after victory, there’s always more ground to break.
More scars to earn.
More fire to feed.

And Akagi—
Akagi was hungry.

Akagi’s national run hadn’t been luck. Not this time.

After their surprise championship the year prior, expectations were high — but so were tensions.

Tryouts that year were the most crowded the field had ever seen. Over thirty kids showed up. Not just from Akagi, but nearby districts, some even transferring in.

Eijun showed up with a toothpick in his mouth and declared, “Let’s find out who’s got guts.”

The newly hired head coach, a former university trainer with arms like logs and patience like a monk — gave him a long look.

“You’re not in charge, Sawamura.”

“I know,” Eijun grinned. “But they’ll listen if I yell loud enough.”

Surprisingly, they did.

Among the new faces were first-years who’d only ever heard stories. To them, Eijun wasn’t just Akagi’s ace — he was a legend wrapped in chaos and candy. They watched him sprint drills, shout commands, and pitch like his life depended on it.

One whispered to another, “Is it true they won nationals twice?”

“No. Just once,” the other replied. “This year’s gonna be the second.”

Regulars were announced a week later. Most of the old regular members returned — Nobu, Wakana, a few second-years who’d grown under pressure.

But a handful of new first-years made the cut too. One was a catcher. Another was a stocky outfielder with a powerful swing and zero sense of direction.

“Follow the lines,” Eijun groaned as the boy wandered into the soccer field during practice.

“He said he was going where the ball told him,” Wakana said without emotion.

“He’s perfect,” Eijun said, genuinely impressed.

The kid grinned and gave a thumbs-up — though in the wrong direction.

Eijun shouted after him, “You’re facing the tennis courts!”

“He’s got potential,” Nobu muttered, half amused, half horrified.

“I call dibs on not mentoring him,” Wakana added.

Off the field, school life was no less dramatic.

Mock exams came around mid-term.

Wakana handed Eijun a practice workbook a week before the test. “You fail, you run extra laps.”

“That’s blackmail,” Eijun complained.

“It’s academic motivation,” she replied coolly.

So he studied.

At night. On the road. During lunch. Even while chewing gum like it somehow helped him think faster.

When the results came in, the teachers were stunned.

“Top 10 in literature and science ?” one muttered. “Wait, Sawamura did this?”

Another teacher flipped to the math section — and promptly sighed.

“Ah. Barely passed. One point above the failing mark.”

In the faculty room, whispers spread like wildfire.

“Did you hear? Sawamura passed the mock exams.”

“He what?”

“Top 10 in most subjects.”

“That loud lefty with the candy addiction?”

“He almost aced science.”

“And math?”

“He circled every answer and added ‘I believe in miracles’ in the corner.”

Back on the field, Wakana looked smug. “I sharpened four pencils for him.”

Nobu blinked. “I didn’t even know he could write kanji correctly”

“I thought he spelled mitochondria as ‘microchondria’ last semester,” someone added.

Eijun stood proudly, lollipop tucked between his teeth.

“My brain’s full of curves and logic. Like my pitches.”

Wakana narrowed her eyes. “You drew a pitch chart in the margin of your math test.”

“Exactly!” Eijun beamed. “Visual reinforcement!”

“You spelled ‘equation’ with a ‘k.’”

“I believed in my answers,” he declared. “Like throwing a fastball into destiny.”

One of the first-years muttered nearby, “He’s the only guy who can almost fail and still sound like a motivational poster.”

Another whispered, “I heard he passed by imagining formulas as pitch grips.”

Eijun puffed out his chest. “Brainspin. Like curveballs ... but with numbers.”

The whole dugout groaned.

A few days before the roster was finalized, Eijun took a solo walk into town to clear his head. His pockets were stuffed with spare yen, and his destination was noble:

Ice cream.

He stood in front of a convenience store freezer, hand hovering between two options — lemon soda swirl or choco-strawberry triple.

A voice beside him muttered, “You’ve got trash taste.”

Eijun turned.

A boy around his age — shorter, broader, intense eyes — was cradling a tub of melon sherbet like it was championship gold.

“That one?” Eijun scoffed. “Tastes like frozen mouthwash.”

“Better than toothpaste with trauma,” the boy snapped, eyeing Eijun’s pick.

“You take that back!”

“Make me!”

They stood there, glaring in the middle of the frozen goods aisle like it was a final showdown.

Eventually, they both gave up and headed to the register.

Outside, they sat on the curb in stubborn silence, shoveling spoonfuls into their mouths.

“...You play baseball?” Eijun asked, finally.

The boy snorted. “Play? I eat baseball for breakfast.”

"Eijun stared, eyebrows twitching, cone held mid-air like he’d forgotten what he was doing."

“What does that even mean?” he muttered, blinking. “Who says stuff like that?”

The boy just smirked, proud of himself like he’d just dropped the coolest line in history.

Eijun raised an eyebrow. “Okay, weird way to say yes,” he said, scooping another bite of ice cream.

“Why not just say ‘yes’? Or ‘yeah, I play’ like a normal human being?” he added under his breath.

The boy ignored him. “You?”

“I pitch.”

“Figures.”

Eijun blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got that cocky face. Classic pitcher vibes.”

Eijun looked offended. “Cocky?? This is just my normal face, you rude weirdo!”

The boy just shrugged, unbothered. “Still figures.”

Eijun tilted his head, squinting a little. “Got a name?”

The boy opened his mouth — but a loud honk cut through the moment.

A van screeched up, and a booming voice yelled out, “RAICHI! Let’s go!”

“Oh crap, that’s my old man,” the boy said, jumping to his feet.

Eijun blinked. “Wait, we didn’t even exchange—”

“Don’t have a phone!”

And just like that, the boy was gone, waving his half-melted tub from the van window.

Eijun stared after him, baffled.

“What kind of guy brags about eating baseball and doesn’t own a phone?”

“What a weirdo,” he muttered.

“Raichi, huh… Man, that guy’s crazy.”

A pause.

“But kinda reminds me of me.”

Then he finished the last bite of his cone, leaned back with a grin, and chuckled to himself.

Weird. But kinda fun.

Chapter Text

The stadium was packed.

Chatter, camera clicks, the rustle of program sheets, the distant ring of vendors — all of it faded under the spotlight that hung over the mound.

And at its center....

Sawamura Eijun stood tall, grinning through a stick of strawberry lollipop like it was a good luck charm.

His cap tilted just slightly. His fingers curled around the seams of the ball. His gaze locked not on the batter, but through him — like he could already see the swing, the failure, the next pitch.

This was Nationals.

Again.

On the third base side, the opposing team glared across the field. They were strong — a powerhouse team from Kansai that had swept their block without giving up a single run.

They were cocky, tall, clean-cut. Their captain had a buzzcut and a tight jaw.

“Don’t underestimate the country school,” their coach reminded.

“It’s not the school we’re worried about,” the catcher muttered. “It’s that guy.”

—the one from Akagi. The one who shut out Aoba East like it was nothing. The one with that smirk and the cutter that danced.

The manager leaned forward on the railing, eyes locked on the mound.
“That’s not just control,” he said, voice low but certain. “That’s instinct.”

No need for replays—everything they needed to know was happening right in front of them.

“He reads batters,” the scout had said. “Mid-pitch.”

Now, standing on the mound, that same lefty looked even sharper than the footage. His eyes scanned the batter, subtle but focused. Like he already knew the swing before it happened.

Another player near the dugout exhaled.
“Creepy.”

The manager didn’t disagree. But beneath the unease, there was something else.
Respect.

Too calm. Too still. Too ready.

Dangerous...

From the stands, familiar faces were already leaning forward.

Kanemaru adjusted his cap, squinting through binoculars.

“They weren’t bluffing,” he muttered. “That lefty’s really something.”

Toujou, his pitcher and best friend, sat beside him with arms crossed. “We face them in the third round if they win this one.”

Wait—Why does Shinji have binoculars? Toujou didn’t ask, but he had a feeling he knew the answer.

"He’s been watching that pitcher from Nagano since that final game. Since then."

The footage they were handed — clearly shot from the stands, shaky and too zoomed-in — had been enough to light a spark.

The way he picked apart Aoba East’s cleanup like he already knew the script.

He doesn’t pitch. He performs.

Kanemaru exhaled. “You sure we can beat him?”

“I didn’t say that,” Toujou said. “I just said I want to pitch against him.”

They both watched in silence as Eijun wound up.

A few rows higher, seated casually with his legs crossed and one arm draped over the chair beside him, Narumiya Mei smirked.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

His eyes were sharp.

Focused.

Following the tempo.

Following the twitch of fingers.

Following something he refused to call curiosity.

Carlos didn’t bother him.

Katsuyuki already knew what this was.

A fluke doesn’t get sharper.

Mei leaned forward slightly.

Just enough to see the next pitch.

Further down, Rei Takashima sat with her clipboard balanced on her knees, neat hair and sharp eyes focused entirely on the mound.

She didn’t blink. Not once.

Sawamura’s tempo hadn’t changed from last year — aggressive, fast between pitches — but something was different.

She watched his fingers. The way he adjusted the ball. The angle of his release. The subtle shift in wrist tension before the ball came flying out.

It wasn’t just a fastball and a cutter anymore.

“Is that a delayed release?” “No, that spin… did it drop slightly?” “Changeup… or is he disguising something new?”

She scribbled on the side of her paper: "Multiple pitch variants — unconfirmed arsenal. Reads batters. High adaptability. Improvised control."

But that’s what unsettled her most.

She didn’t know how much he had.

No one did.

He hadn’t revealed everything last year — and even now, he was still holding back.

And in a world where overexposure kills prospects — Sawamura Eijun was a ghost wrapped in potential.

Unscouted. Unscalable. Unsolved.
And that was the most dangerous kind of pitcher.

“I don’t like not knowing,” Rei muttered to herself.

But a part of her — the same part that found Miyuki once upon a time — grinned in anticipation.

The first pitch cracked into the catcher’s mitt.

Yuuki’s eyes narrowed. That usual, calm fire lit behind them.

“I want to try bat against him,” he murmured.

Beside him, Jun leaned forward, face lighting up. “He’s like those sports manga protagonists. Loud. But kinda cool.”

The kind that has a power-up waiting just offscreen, he thought.

Ryosuke scoffed, but his gaze stayed locked.

That stare... That kid's eyes narrowed from the mound like a challenge.

That’s not just confidence. That’s hunger.

If this kid ends up in another school in the same bracket... we’re in trouble. Who knows what kind of monster he’ll become.

Yoichi grinned, gummy and wide, watching Miyuki’s gleaming eyes.

This guy’s glowing. Seriously glowing.

If that kid ever ends up in Seidou, I’m teaching him karate before he makes Miyuki combust.

Miyuki, chin still propped in his palm, said nothing.

But his knuckles were white.

His grin wouldn’t leave.

His mind raced with possible pitch types. Catches. Counter signs. Everything.

I want to catch his pitches. Not just see them—feel them.

I want to see what he’s hiding.

What he’s becoming.

Back on the mound, Eijun kicked up dirt with his cleats.

Top of the second inning.

One on base. Two outs.

Akagi led by a single run, but the Kansai team wasn’t folding — not with their cleanup hitter now stepping up to the plate. He was a stocky third-year with a powerful stance and a wild glint in his eyes. The kind of batter who either crushed home runs or struck out swinging for the fences.

Eijun narrowed his gaze.

He glanced at Nobu behind the plate. The two exchanged a silent nod — a rhythm built from years playing together. Fingers flicked — the sign for a changeup.

Eijun smirked.

The batter crouched lower, bracing.

He threw.

The pitch looked like a fat meatball heading for the middle....... until it dipped and tailed sharply to the right.

The batter’s eyes widened — too late.

Whiff.
Strike three.

The stadium roared.

But Eijun didn’t celebrate. He exhaled slowly, spun the ball once in his glove, and stalked toward the dugout like it was just another day.

In the stands, Rei scribbled something quickly, jaw tight. She didn’t even realize the tip of her pen had snapped.

Bottom of the second.

Akagi’s leadoff hitter for the inning was Wakana — fast on the bases but not a power threat. The Kansai pitcher towered on the mound, all long limbs and fast mechanics, with a motion that snapped like a whip.

Wakana dug in.

First pitch — a heater up high. Called a strike.

Second — a fastball inside. Foul ball.

Wakana stepped out of the box and shot a glance at Nobu in the dugout.

Third pitch — breaking ball. Wakana stayed back and slapped it to shallow right.

“Run!!” Eijun barked from the bench.

Wakana took off. The right fielder bobbled the ball for half a second — just enough time.

Safe at first.

“Nice one, Wakana!” Nobu grinned, already stepping into the batter’s box next.

Akagi played aggressively. Nobu faked a bunt, pulled back, then hit a liner past third base. Runners on first and second, no outs.

The Kansai dugout buzzed with nervous chatter. Their coach stood and signaled for a mound visit.

Fast-forward to top of the fifth.

Score: Akagi 3, Kansai Team 2.
It had become a pitchers’ duel — and the Kansai ace had found his rhythm. But so had Eijun.

His pitch count was efficient. His variety? Mind-breaking.

The batter now — Kansai’s #5 — had fouled off two curveballs, then stood frozen at a high fastball that just nicked the zone.

0-2.

Nobu signaled low and inside.

Eijun nodded once.

He threw a two-seam fastball, but gripped slightly off-center. The pitch looked straight — then sank violently at the last second.

The batter swung.

Another strikeout.

From the stands, Miyuki’s eyes gleamed behind his frames.

“He used the two-seamer like a slider…”

Yuuki folded his arms. “And made it look easy.”

Jun leaned forward, watching intently. “If he’s this dominant now, imagine when he has our fielders backing him up.”

“Assuming he actually chooses Seidou,” Ryosuke muttered, arms crossed.

Yoichi, however, was busy imagining that kid  in a kung fu showdown against a giant monster.
“I swear he looks like a main character.”

Bottom of the sixth.

The Kansai team had tied the score 3–3 after a deep hit that just escaped the outfield. Akagi, unshaken, came back with sharp bunts and a timely double from Kouji.

Kouji wasn’t flashy. He’d spent most of his first year on the bench, quietly studying pitchers and taking notes from behind the fence. Some thought he lacked presence—but Eijun had seen the way he broke down pitchers like puzzles.

So when his chance came, he didn’t waste it.
A clean swing. Solid contact. Right between center and right.

From the dugout, Eijun let out a loud, sharp whistle that echoed across the field.
“Koujiii!! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

Kouji didn’t even turn around. But the tips of his ears were red as he stood on second base, fighting a smile.

Now the crowd buzzed again. 4–3. Akagi’s lead.

Eijun stood once more on the mound, breathing calmly through his nose.

He stared down the batter. No theatrics. No bravado.

Just calculation.

He wound up and delivered a high fastball that curved just enough at the end to clip the inside corner.

Strike.

The next pitch, he stepped off rhythm — adding an extra half-second pause — then fired a cutter.

Strike two.

The batter glared.

Eijun grinned, lollipop tucked behind his molars.

Nobu signaled.

And this time it was a forkball.

The pitch dropped like it fell off a cliff.

Strike three.

From the sidelines, Toujou stiffened. He hadn’t even realized he’d leaned forward in his seat.

“That wasn’t on the footage we saw,” he murmured.

Kanemaru crossed his arms. “Nope. Neither was that cutter— or the way he’s reading batters.”

“He’s a monster,” someone whispered.

But in the dugout, Eijun didn’t puff up with pride. He sipped water, leaned back, and listened to his teammates with a lazy grin.

Akagi might’ve been small, but with Eijun at its core,their baseball echoed far beyond their town.

Chapter Text

The crowd was still buzzing from the last inning.

Akagi had taken their opening game of Nationals with Sawamura Eijun shutting down the final batter in a flourish of movement and noise. The opposing Kansai team left stunned — their elite batting lineup dismantled pitch by pitch by a grinning lefty who didn’t know how to throw quietly.

The media caught on quick.

“Rural Lefty Silences Powerhouse.”
“Akagi’s Ace Returns to Nationals.”
“From Underdogs to Contenders — The Rise of Nagano’s Small School.”

But Eijun, as usual, didn’t read the articles.

He was too busy munching on grape-flavored lollipops, fiddling with rosin bags, and grinning as Nobu tossed potato chips into his mouth while Wakana yelled at them for leaving muddy cleats on the locker room floor.

Their next match was highly anticipated.

Koma Kita Middle School.

The team of Kanemaru, the ever-shouting third baseman, and Toujou, his best friend and ace pitcher with a glare cold enough to freeze mid-July.

During warm-ups, both teams shot each other glances. No love lost, no nerves — just pure tension.

Near the warm-up area by third base, Eijun was stretching his arm, casually tossing the ball into his glove between reps. The breeze ruffled his uniform, but his eyes were sharp, tracking the field like a predator watching prey.

Footsteps crunched behind him.

“Hope your mouth’s as sharp as your pitches, Akagi Ace.”

Kanemaru walked past, bat resting on his shoulder, lips curled into a smirk as he shot Eijun a sideways glance.

Eijun caught the ball one last time, giving it a slow spin in his hand. “Guess we’ll see how loud your bat really is— if you last long enough to swing it.”

The batter stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “Keep talking. That cocky attitude won’t save you when I’m rounding the bases.”

Eijun scoffed. “Rounding the bases? You mean jogging back to the bench after striking out?”

A few players nearby paused their stretches, watching the exchange.

The other boy chuckled coldly. “We’ll see who’s smiling when the scoreboard lights up.”

“Yeah,” Eijun said, slipping the lollipop back in his mouth. “Just make sure it’s not from strikeouts.”

Beside him, Tougou nodded once toward Eijun — the only quiet gesture of mutual respect before the storm.

And it was a storm.

Toujou’s pitching was surgical. Every corner, every edge of the zone — he painted it like an artist. Efficient, mechanical, brilliant. Through five innings, he had six strikeouts, two groundouts, and only one walk. Akagi’s lineup struggled to keep up with his pace.

Eijun, on the other hand, was—Eijun.
Loud, wild, unpredictable, and grinning like a menace. His glove-popping pitches came with unpredictable breaks. He was all rhythm and chaos. He gave up hits — sure — but none clean, and every out he earned made the stadium hold its breath.

By the third inning, he had five strikeouts, but Akagi’s defense started to bend.

Top of the Third — First Signs of Trouble

A ground ball to short looked routine, but the shortstop bobbled it, rushing the throw to first.
Safe. Error 1.

Next batter — a bunt. Nobu hesitated on the pickup, unsure whether to throw to second or first. He chose late.
Safe. No out.

Eijun exhaled and called out, “Don’t think — just move! I’ll handle the rest!”

The next two batters went down swinging. The last popped out to center. Damage: avoided, but barely.

Bottom of the Fourth — Akagi Strikes Back

After surviving a messy inning, Akagi countered. Kousuke, Akagi talented pinch hitter , doubled off a fastball Toujou left too high, then advanced on a sac bunt. On the next pitch, a wild pitch slipped past the catcher, and Kousuke sprinted home, sliding just under the tag.
2–1, Akagi.

But the lead wasn’t safe.

Top of the Fifth — More Cracks

First pitch — a shallow pop-up into right. The outfielder misjudged it in the wind, stepping too far back.
It dropped. Error 2.

On a bunt attempt, the third baseman charged in too early, leaving third base exposed. The runner took the chance and advanced.

Eijun struck the next batter out, but the runner on third threatened to tag every pitch.

Then came a hard grounder that deflected off the first baseman’s glove — playable, but he’d fumbled.
Error 3. Run scored. Tie game.

The outfield regrouped. Eijun called time and smacked his glove once.

“Hey,” he shouted toward the dugout. “We done giving out freebies?”

Wakana flicked the ball toward Eijun, a sharp grin on his face.
“We’re not that generous.”

"The next batter grounded into a double play — sharp and seamless. Eijun walked off the mound smirking, despite the errors."

Bottom of the Sixth — Final Clash

Kanemaru stepped into the box. He hadn’t gotten a clean hit all game. Fouls. Misses. Broken timing.

He pointed his bat toward Eijun. “Let’s end this properly.”

Eijun’s grin widened. “Hope you brought a better swing than last time.”

Fastball, 137 km/h — fouled back.

Changeup — miss, swinging early.

Cutter — too high. Ball.

Then came the inside slider, tight and dirty. Still not perfect — but mean.

Kanemaru swung.

Strike three.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t look back. Just muttered as he passed the dugout, “One day… I’m getting him.”

---
Final Score: Akagi 2 – Koma Kita 1

Eijun’s line: 7 IP, 9 Ks, 3 hits, 1 ER, 1 BB

Toujou’s line: 6 IP, 7 Ks, 4 hits, 2 ER, 0 BB

Akagi errors: 3 total (shortstop, right fielder, first baseman)

Koma Kita errors: 1 (wild pitch that gave up the lead)

MVP: Eijun — for surviving chaos with sheer control and confidence

Underrated hero: Kousuke — his double and aggressive base-running made the difference

Akagi advanced.
Not because they were flawless — but because they refused to break. They bent, adjusted, and let their ace carry the weight.

And Eijun? He loved every second of the storm.

Then came the final.

Their second shot at the national crown — a year after their miracle win. But this time, Eijun was in his final year.

But something wasn’t right.

A few hours before the game, during warmups, Eijun felt it — a sharp pull in his pitching arm. Not catastrophic. No loud pop. No collapse. Just a sudden, biting sting when he let one fastball fly a little too hard in bullpen practice.

He paused, rotated his shoulder. Winced. Then smoothed his expression and kept moving.

Wakana noticed. Nobu did too. But neither spoke up.

The coach caught the hesitation. He didn’t say anything at first — just narrowed his eyes and waited.

Minutes later, he called Eijun into the dugout. “What’s going on?”

Eijun blinked. “Nothing. Just a little tightness.”

The coach didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to Eijun’s arm, then back to his face. “You sure?”

“It’s nothing bad,” Eijun said, quieter than usual. “Probably just overuse.”

The coach let out a slow breath. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Don’t be a hero.”

He pointed two fingers between them. “If you feel anything mid-game, you tell me. But listen — if I see something’s off, I’m pulling you. "Don’t argue back. Don’t try to protest or convince me to let you stay in the game. Once I decide you’re out, that’s final."

Eijun hesitated. Then gave a single nod. “Understood.”

But the tension in his shoulders never really left.

The stadium was louder than ever.

Reporters, scouts, even pro-level coaches — the stands were packed. Akagi, once just a nameless team from the countryside, had forced the nation to pay attention.

This was the final.

Their second chance at the national crown.

Eijun stood tall on the mound, lips curled around a lollipop, eyes narrowed behind his cap’s brim.

The noise didn’t bother him. Neither did the pressure. He’d pitched in front of thousands before. He’d pitched against the best — and won.

But the tightness in his arm? That bothered him.

It had started earlier, during warmups. A single awkward step on his plant foot, a twinge that shot through his shoulder. He tried to shake it off. Rotate it out. Stretch. Breathe.

Not now, he’d told himself. Not today.

He’d hidden it well — or tried to. Even smiled when the cameras zoomed in. But every pitch since had come at a price.

Eijun started strong.

Three clean innings.

No runs. A pair of strikeouts. One near double-play.

The form was still there — smooth delivery, whip-fast release, sharp breaking balls. But Nobu noticed it first. The delay in Eijun’s follow-through. How he dropped his arm an inch too low. How his exhales grew longer after every throw, like he was buying time with oxygen.

Wakana spotted it next. She tapped the dugout wall once. Eyes never left the mound.

By the fourth inning, Eijun was pushing.

He didn’t show pain. Never did. But he felt it. In the way his fastball refused to explode out of his fingers. In the way his shoulder socket begged for relief. He flexed it between pitches when no one was watching. Tried to force blood through tight muscle.

His thoughts flickered in fragments:

It’s fine. I can do this. Just a few more. They’re counting on me.

But the sting was no longer ignorable. Each pitch felt like it stripped a layer off his arm. And the cold sweat dripping beneath his uniform wasn’t from nerves.

By the fifth inning, the call came from the dugout.
“Pull him.”
The coach was making the call — a substitution. A new pitcher was heading to the mound.

No hesitation. No argument.

Just a slow nod.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t wince. He just turned, walked off the mound with his usual gait, and handed the ball to Akagi’s next pitcher — the lollipop remained in his mouth, as if everything was fine."

Confusion rippled through the stadium.

Murmurs spread. Fans craned their necks. Cameras zoomed in.

Why now?

Even Miyuki leaned forward from the bleachers. “That’s weird. He was in control.”

Beside him, Rei Takashima paused her writing. Pen still pressed to paper.

“Something happened,” she whispered. “Before the game, maybe?”

She replayed everything she saw in her mind — his warmup throws, his mechanics, his lack of reaction when the coach signaled.

Her gut told her this wasn’t strategy. This was necessity.

Meanwhile, miles away in Tokyo, the broadcast played in a break room at Inashiro Industrial.

Mei leaned toward the screen, towel around his neck, a sports drink half-open in hand. It was his rest break between practices. But his eyes were glued to the game.

Carlos lounged on the couch beside him. “They pulled him out ?” he asked, brows raised.

“He didn’t look injured earlier,” Mei muttered, eyes narrowing.

Katsuyuki walked in just in time to catch the handoff on screen.

Carlos shrugged. “Maybe he’s just out of gas.”

Mei didn’t answer at first. His stare darkened.

“No,” he said at last. “That guy doesn’t run out. Something else might’ve happened.”

The lollipop in Eijun’s mouth looked almost mocking now.

As if daring anyone to guess what was really going on.

Akagi’s relief pitcher took the mound with a brave face — but the air had changed.

The rhythm, once dictated by Eijun’s precise and chaotic pitches, felt looser now. The batter’s eyes steadied. The swings got bolder.

Top of the sixth — a walk.

Then a clean single.

The crowd stirred uneasily. Coach called time, but it didn’t slow the momentum.

A crack of the bat sent the ball flying past third. The outfield scrambled. One run scored. Then another.

3–2.

Akagi was behind for the first time in an all tournament.

In the dugout, Eijun sat with his elbow wrapped in ice, lips tight around his now half-melted lollipop.

He stared ahead, not seeing the field — only the moment his arm tugged sharply during that fourth inning.

I knew it, he thought bitterly. I knew something was off. I just didn’t want to admit it.

The sting wasn’t unbearable, but the loss of control? That was.

He clenched the towel around his shoulders tighter.

They trusted me. Nobu, Wakana… everyone. And I left them out there.

Behind him, the metal bench creaked as Wakana sat down briefly to swap gloves. She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

He didn’t look back.

You’re not supposed to break, he thought. Not when it matters. Not in the final.

But his arm throbbed under the bandage. And the silence in his chest was louder than any pain.

Bottom of the seventh came fast.

One out.

Then another.

But Akagi wasn’t done.

A walk. Then a single. Then a hit-by-pitch.

Bases loaded.

Two outs.

Wakana stepped into the batter’s box.

The stadium was on fire again. Flags waved. Chants rose. Every reporter had their camera trained on her — a pillar of Akagi’s lineup.

Eijun leaned forward, hand twitching in his lap.

Come on, Wakana. You always come through.

First pitch — a grounder down the third baseline. Foul.

Second pitch — inside fastball.

She swung. Connected.

The sharp crack echoed. The ball screamed through the infield…

But the shortstop leapt, snatching it out of the air.

Out.

Game over.

The stadium roared — but not for Akagi.

Their miracle run had ended.

Wakana froze in the batter’s box, staring at the glove that ended it all. Slowly, she walked back.

In the dugout, no one spoke.

Eijun dropped his lollipop into a paper cup and stared at the ground.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t flinch.

Just sat there, shoulders low, hand gripping the bandage over his pitching arm.

It’s over.

And I couldn’t finish it with them.

The media swarmed. Questions flew like fastballs.

“Why was your ace pulled mid-game?”

“Did Sawamura signal an injury? Was it the shoulder?”

“Why not bring him back after the fifth?”

“Did the backup pitcher prepare for this?”

“Was the lineup change in the seventh pre-planned?”

No answers came.

The team gave no comment.
The coach only said, “Baseball is a team sport. Today, we did everything we could.”

Even in the locker room, Eijun sat still.

No gum. No lollipop. Nothing to chew.
His fingers curled loosely around the towel in his lap.
He was staring at the floor, unmoving. Eyes hidden by his bangs.
His uniform still dusty. Socks slouched. Back hunched slightly.

He hadn’t spoken since coming off the mound.

Silence settled over the room, thick and heavy.

They were runner-up.

So close.
So damn close.

And for the first time in a long while —
Eijun wished he had said “I can’t.”

Wakana’s POV:

She sat a few lockers away, unwrapping the tape from her wrists.

Her hands still stung from that last swing.
Her heart ached worse.

Eijun hadn’t looked up since they entered.
Not once.

And all she wanted to do was yell —
“It’s not your fault.”

But she didn’t.
Because she knew if the roles were reversed, he would’ve never said it either.

He would’ve taken it all. Just like now.

Nobu’s POV:

Nobu leaned against the locker, staring at the ceiling.

He had never seen Eijun like this.

Not even during their first loss two years ago.
Back then, Eijun ranted. Shouted about practice. Swore he’d come back stronger.

Now?

Now he was quiet. Still.

That scared him more than anything.

Akagi Underclassmen’s POV:

A few first-years sat quietly near the back of the room, jerseys loose on their small frames, eyes red-rimmed but dry.

They didn’t cry in front of the third-years.
They didn’t dare.

Their captain — their ace — sat just a few steps away, unmoving.
If he wasn’t crying, neither would they.

But inside, they were spiraling.

“He looked fine,” one whispered, voice barely audible. “He didn’t look hurt…”

“Why didn’t he fight to stay in?” another asked, confused and frustrated.

“He probably did,” the quietest one mumbled. “Coach wouldn’t pull him without a reason.”

They all fell silent.

Because the truth was, they didn’t know.
None of them did.

All they knew was that Eijun Sawamura wasn’t just the reason Akagi reached the finals.
He was the reason they believed a no-name school could stand on that field in the first place.

And now, seeing him so quiet...
So unlike the captain who used to laugh while running laps or crack jokes during drills—

It scared them.

“He’s still the strongest,” one of them said finally, hugging his knees.

The others nodded, wordless but firm.

Even if he never said another word, even if they never got answers—

To them, he’d always be the ace.

That night, under the countryside sky, Eijun sat outside his house with an ice pack resting against his shoulder. The stars above were scattered like flecks of chalk on black paper, blinking gently over the rice fields and quiet homes of Nagano.

The cicadas had calmed. The air was still.

His uniform top was gone, replaced by a loose shirt, but the red dirt still clung to his cleats. The sweat had dried, but the weight of the game hadn’t.

His grandfather stood beside him, hands tucked behind his back, pipe unlit between his fingers. He didn’t speak at first — just stood there, looking up.

“You pitched like hell, boy.”

Eijun didn’t answer immediately. He shifted the ice pack slightly, then bit down on his lollipop — the second one that day. The sweetness didn’t really register. Nothing did.

“I wanted to finish it.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“You’ll get another shot.”

“Hmm....Maybe. But not like this,” Eijun muttered, eyes focused on the empty fields in front of their house.

His grandfather turned his head slightly, studying him. “Then find a new way.”

That hung in the air like smoke.

Eijun breathed in slowly. The air was cold now — not quite summer anymore.

“Everyone tried their best,” he murmured.

“They did.”

“They kept fighting. Even when I—” He stopped himself, teeth pressing against the stick of his candy. “It still wasn’t enough.”

His grandfather said nothing, letting the silence do the work.

Eijun stared down at his shoulder, fingers brushing lightly over the bandaged skin under the ice pack.

It wasn’t just pain. It was a reminder.
Of how close they got.
Of how little the world knew.

The team hadn’t blamed him. Not once.
But the look on their faces that quiet, stunned heartbreak.....

“I hate this feeling,” Eijun muttered, voice barely whispering.

His grandfather sighed — not in disappointment, but in the way someone does when they’ve seen a thousand suns rise and fall.

“Then use it,” he said.

Eijun looked up.

“Next time, don’t leave anything to regret. Don’t leave your story unfinished.”

Eijun didn’t answer. But his eyes narrowed slightly, jaw set.

There was a calm in his chest — a quiet ache, not just from the shoulder, but something deeper.

It wasn’t defeat.

It wasn’t a failure.

It was a possibility.
A door left half-open.
A future that hasn’t yet been written.

From behind them, the house door slid open. His mother called softly that it was time to eat.

Eijun didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, with the stars above and the dust of the final still clinging to him, thinking about where he might go next — and who he might face when he got there.

To be Continued! 

Chapter Text

The stadium lights were gone.
The noise faded.
The crowd was already talking about the next big name, the next rising star.

But Akagi walked off the field together — bruised, tired, and heads held high.
Runner-up.

No one had expected them to return to Nationals. No one thought they’d make it this far a second time. Some had dismissed their previous win as nothing more than luck — a fluke, a one-time miracle that couldn’t possibly be repeated. Others, however, had started to expect more, holding them to impossibly high standards after that first dazzling run. And still, against all odds, Akagi carved their way to the finals again.

As they left the stadium, there were no tears. Just silence.

Eijun was still quiet — his steps slightly limping, his jaw clenched tightly, but his eyes remained steady.

No one spoke about the injury. Not to reporters. Not to other schools. Not even to friends outside the team. What mattered was that they fought.

And they’d do it again if given the chance.

Somewhere behind them, the announcer was already listing standout players from the tournament — notable names, familiar schools.
But the name that should’ve drawn whispers never came up.
Still, Akagi didn’t care. The fight was never for recognition. It was for each other.

And Eijun? He didn’t look back once.

Two months passed.

Cherry blossoms began to bloom early in Nagano. Spring crept over the muddy outfield and brought with it the season of endings.

The third years stood lined up in their uniforms one last time — but this time, on the school gym stage, not the dugout.

Wakana was the first to speak.

She smiled brightly, nervously fidgeting with her speech paper.

“To the juniors — don’t be afraid to fail. Just be afraid of not trying hard enough. Akagi is small, but it has a heart. Keep it alive.”

Next was Nobu, holding his catcher’s glove in one hand like it was part of him.

“I joined the team because of that idiot over there,” he said, nodding to Eijun. “At first I thought he’d get bored and quit but now, I’m thankful I got to catch for the craziest lefty in the country.”

Then came others — some teary, some laughing. Akagi’s third years weren’t many, but each had something to say. Stories of running laps barefoot, eating frozen onigiri during winter drills, making up signals on the fly — each memory wove the tapestry of a team that had no business winning, yet did.

Laughter echoed off the gym walls. Some parents dabbed at their eyes, even the principal clapped a little too long. In the back, first-years huddled together, wide-eyed — a little scared, a little inspired.

It didn’t feel like goodbye yet. Not until the last name was called.

Then the coach called Eijun forward.

Sawamura stood in front of the crowd — oddly composed. Lollipop gone. Gum tucked away.

And for the first time… he was serious.

“To those staying— don’t copy me,” he said plainly. “Don’t throw like me. Don’t pitch like me. Don’t try to be me. Be someone better.”

The underclassmen blinked.

Eijun continued. “I wasn’t born with a goal. I still don’t know where I’m going. But I fought for this team because I couldn’t let it die. So fight harder. For yourself. For each other. For the field.”

Silence hung for a second.

Then applause broke out.

Nobu muttered, “Damn, he really went full motivational speech”

Even Wakana had to hide a sniffle.

  Eijun walked back to his seat in silence, eyes focused ahead. If someone asked, he’d say he didn’t plan the speech. But maybe maybe those words had been waiting for a while.

The underclassmen didn’t know it yet — but this was their baton. And Eijun had passed it clean.

From the back of the group, a first-year slowly stood up, clutching the brim of his cap. His voice was small at first, but it carried.

“I— I’m really honored I got to play under someone like you, Sawamura-senpai. You were more than a captain or an ace. You showed us what it means to believe even when nobody else does. Because of you—we achieved something no one thought possible.”

A quiet murmur of agreement followed. Then another second-year raised his hand, face flushed but eyes shining.

“He’s right. You didn’t just lead us — you pulled us forward. Even when you were hurting. Even when we didn’t believe in ourselves, you did. I want to keep playing like that. I want to fight for this team the way you did.”

One by one, more voices joined in — nods, claps, quiet thanks. A chorus of genuine respect.

Then, from the side, a familiar voice chimed in — casual, but warm. It was Wakana, one of Eijun’s childhood friends and a fellow third-year who had been with him from the very beginning.

“You’ve always been like this, Eijun ,” she said with a grin. “Charging ahead, dragging all of us with you whether we were ready or not.”

A few of the older teammates laughed softly.

“I don’t think we ever expected baseball to take us this far,” Wakana continued, her voice quieter now. “But I’m glad it did. And I’m glad we were with you through it all.”

Nobu added from beside her, “We wouldn’t have made it here without you, Ei-chan. No one else could’ve carried Akagi like you did. Thanks for everything.”

Eijun looked at them — his first teammates, his oldest friends — and for once, he didn’t try to hide the way his eyes shimmered.

In that moment, it wasn’t just a farewell.

It was a promise.

Akagi’s tradition was simple: a graduation match between third years and the underclassmen.

The gym cleared, the uniforms came back on, and the dirt field waited.

It wasn’t Nationals. But it meant everything.

Eijun stepped on the mound again.

Nobu behind the plate. Wakana at shortstop. Other third-years scattered around the diamond — some ready, some rusty.

The opposing team — the 1st and 2nd years — looked more fired up than usual.

New blood. New names.

The game wasn’t a blowout. In fact, it was neck-and-neck. Eijun held back, only showing fastballs and changeups — grinning with each wild pitch that still managed to hit the glove.

The crowd wasn’t big, but the parents, siblings, and even a few students from nearby schools watched from the sidelines.

When it ended, the third years won by a single run.

The coach stepped forward as everyone lined up.

“To the third years,” he said, “thank you for rebuilding what was nearly lost.”

Then he turned to Eijun.

“And to you — Sawamura — I’ve coached for years. I’ve never seen someone more reckless and talented in the same breath. Wherever you go remember that the game doesn’t belong to heroes. It belongs to the ones who keep showing up.”

Eijun nodded, more humbled than usual.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he didn’t.

He just looked at the field again, like it might disappear.

His fingers curled slightly, like holding the seams of an invisible baseball. His leg twitched — not quite pain, not quite habit.

Even now, the mound called to him.
But Eijun wasn’t sure if he could answer.

Scouts were waiting.

Again.

Some local coaches approached, curious but cautious.

“Still undecided on high school?”

“Have you considered our program in Tokyo? We’ve got a steady coaching staff.”

A few hesitated before asking, “If you're recovering from… uh, anything, we can help. Medical support, rehab—”

They didn’t ask directly. None of them really knew about the injury — only his coach, the staff, and a few close teammates had been told.

Eijun smiled politely again, offering vague answers and head tilts. Never a yes. Never a no.

Same unreadable grin, gum in his mouth like nothing was a big deal.

Behind the grin, his mind drifted.
They all talked like the path was set, like baseball was a given.

But what if it wasn’t?
What if the fire wasn’t enough?
What if this was where the road ended, quietly, without fanfare — just a bruise that never healed and a dream that never got bigger than this town?

After the ceremony, Eijun and his friends gathered outside the school gates.

Wakana slung her glove over her shoulder. “So? What now?”

“I think I’ll enroll in that school near the station,” said one teammate. “They don’t have a strong baseball program, but they let us play.”

“Same,” Nobu added. “Just want to keep playing, even if I’m not built for the big leagues.”

“You could be,” someone said.

Nobu shrugged. “Not like Ei-chan. He’s got a future. We’re just here 'cause we love the game now.”

Wakana turned to Eijun. “And you?”

Eijun looked away.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not staying local, are you?” Nobu asked.

Eijun didn’t respond.

They all fell quiet. Wakana and Nobu shared a look — not surprised.

They knew. Eijun wasn’t undecided because of pride or confusion. He was caught between talent… and purpose.

He could pitch, sure. He could win. He could dominate.
But did he want to?
Did it still mean something if it wasn’t for Akagi?
If the fight wasn’t for survival, just… numbers on a scoreboard?

And if he walked away — was that giving up, or finally choosing for himself?

The next afternoon, a sleek black car pulled into the countryside street where the Sawamuras lived.

Inside the house, Eijun’s mother wiped her hands on her apron.

His grandfather peeked through the curtain. “City woman again?”

The guest introduced herself at the door.

“Hello, I’m Rei Takashima. From Seidou High.”

She offered a polite bow, her voice calm and composed — but there was a sharpness in her gaze that made it clear she wasn’t just some school staff.

Rei Takashima. The sharp-eyed, no-nonsense scout and team manager of Seidou’s powerhouse baseball program. Known for her keen judgment, quiet confidence, and ability to spot raw talent long before anyone else.

In the baseball world, her name carried weight — not just because of Seidou’s reputation, but because she rarely made mistakes. If Rei Takashima showed up at your door, it meant someone had caught her attention.

Eijun’s father offered a seat, though his tone held a slight unease. “You’re here for Eijun?”

“Yes. If he’s available, I’d like to speak with him.”

The parents exchanged glances.

“He’s out back,” his mother said after a pause. “He hasn’t really decided anything yet.”

Rei gave a soft smile. “That’s alright.”

As she stepped through the garden and spotted Eijun sitting by the porch, lollipop in his mouth and eyes staring at the ground, she took a moment to study him.

He looked healthy.

But something told her otherwise.

She couldn’t explain it — a slight limp in his step the last time she saw him, the way he’d disappeared during the final. No official announcement. No news. Just.... gone.

She crouched beside him.

“You’re a hard guy to find,” she said.

Eijun looked up, the lollipop still in his mouth as he spoke around it.

“Are you that lady from Tokyo or what?”

Rei blinked, then let out a quiet sigh. “That’s one way to put it.”

She grinned. “Still not replying to scouts?”

“Didn’t know what to say.”

“Well,” she said, offering a letter. “I came to invite you to visit Seidou. You’d be eligible for a scholarship. Room and board. Uniform. You’d play with some of the best.”

Eijun looked at it, then back at her.

“You sure you want me? I’m not exactly stable.”

Rei tilted her head.

“You were injured, weren’t you?”

Eijun blinked.

“You don’t have to answer,” she added. “Just a hunch.”

He said nothing. Just stared at the letter.

“I don’t know if I want to play,” he muttered.

She didn’t flinch.

“You don’t have to decide today,” she said. “But come see it. That’s all I ask.”

She stood up, brushed her skirt down.

“Seidou doesn’t wait forever. But I’ll wait a little.”

As she walked off, she added softly, “You’re still burning, Sawamura. Whether you admit it or not.”

Eijun didn’t move.

He just let the breeze pass.

The envelope remained unopened in his hand.

He didn’t know what scared him more — opening the letter and walking toward something new or staying exactly where he was.

The world kept spinning. And Eijun sat still, wondering if it would leave him behind.
Wondering if maybe it already had.

To be Continued.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the woman from Tokyo visited.

A full week of silence.

No decision. No calls returned. No letters replied to.

Eijun lay flat on the rooftop of his house, arms stretched wide, chewing lazily on a lollipop while the stars blinked above. The night air of Nagano was cold, but familiar. Soothing.

He wasn’t one to overthink things. But now? His head felt like a shaken-up soda can.

Seidou High. Inashiro. Osaka Kiryu. Ichidaisan High. Teitou High. A handful of other powerhouse Tokyo schools. Even the national summer youth program. All had extended offers. Some came in envelopes sealed with gold trim. Some arrived with visiting scouts. One came with a box of fancy snacks.

Each time, Eijun had scratched his head, grinned, and said something like:

“I need to reorganize my closet.”

Or,
“My goldfish is emotionally unwell.”

Or simply,
“I’ll think about it.”

No one really understood what he was thinking — sometimes, neither did he.

He didn’t dream of standing on the Koshien mound, not like those kids on TV.
He just liked throwing. Pitching. Playing. The rest? It felt like too much. Too fast.

That night, needing to clear his head, Eijun left the house.

He wandered through the sleepy roads of Nagano with his hood pulled over his head and hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His feet, without thinking, carried him to the nearby river.

It was quiet there. Cold and calm. The moonlight touched the water like silver paint, and the breeze was crisp enough to sting his cheeks.

He stared at the water, kicking at a piece of driftwood near his foot.

The river shimmered under the moonlight, quiet and cold. The current whispered softly as it flowed, brushing against the rocks like a lullaby.

“Alright,” he muttered to no one in particular. “If you’ve got a sign for me, now’s your chance.”

The sky said nothing.

Then — a gust of wind blew the lollipop from his mouth, and it tumbled across the grass, disappearing somewhere in the dark.

“Was that the sign?” he muttered, squinting.

He sighed and pulled another lollipop from his pocket, still wrapped. “Good thing I brought a backup.”

He unwrapped the new one, popped it in his mouth, and looked back out at the river.

And then — a rustle from the tree behind him.

Something small leapt out of the shadows, gliding like a fuzzy pancake through the air only to miss a branch and smack directly into the lid of a trash can with a clatter.

Eijun jumped slightly, blinking as the small creature — a round-eyed flying squirrel — scrambled out, looked around like it was embarrassed, then bolted into the night.

A long pause.

“Was that a flying squirrel?” Eijun muttered.
“We have those here?”

He looked around as if someone might answer.

No one did.

He glanced at the sky, then at his lollipop.

“That’s gotta be it. Definitely a sign.”

Weird. Unexpected. Loud.

Just like him.

Back in Tokyo, Miyuki Kazuya leaned against the fence just outside Seidou’s dorms.

The night felt sharper here than in his hometown. The air stung a bit more. Or maybe it was just in his chest.

He stared down at his phone — still no new updates.
No messages. No notifications. Not even a blip in the baseball news feeds.

He told himself he wasn’t checking for that reason.

Just habit. Just curiosity.

But his thumb hovered over Rei-chan’s last message longer than necessary.

Rei had just returned from Nagano a few days ago.

Miyuki caught sight of her near the coaches’ office, setting down her bag and slipping into indoor shoes.

“Yo, Rei-chan,” he called, voice easy. “You back from your grand tour of the countryside?”

She gave him a look. “It was work, not a vacation.”

“Sure it was,” he said with a smirk. “So? You saw him?”

“I did.” Rei’s tone was neutral. “He hasn’t decided yet. Said he’d think about it.”

Miyuki’s smile didn’t fade, but something in his eyes sharpened. “Still playing hard to get, huh”

“He’s not rejecting the offer,” Rei added. “He’s just—taking his time.”

A beat passed.

“So there’s still a chance,” Miyuki muttered.

Rei glanced at him. “You really want him here that badly?”

Miyuki leaned back slightly against the wall, arms crossed. “I just don’t want to face him as an opponent, that’s all.”

But even as he said it, he could feel the truth pressing against the back of his throat.

That wasn’t all — not even close.

He wanted to catch that ball . Feel that wild, unpredictable rhythm from the mound syncing with his mitt. Not across the field but beside him. A true battery.

Rei, ever perceptive, didn’t call him out on it. She simply smiled faintly and walked past.

“You’re really bad at hiding it, you know,” she said.

And that was all.

Miyuki scoffed, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Did Eijun even want to come to Tokyo?

Was he planning to stay in Nagano? Play at some local school no one’s ever heard of?

Miyuki didn’t care what the rankings said — he wanted that pitcher on the same field.

He remembered the throwback of their match too well: middle school Nationals, that cutter inside, and how it felt to be outplayed by someone so unpredictable.

And now? The thought of Eijun slipping away — to Inashiro, or worse, nowhere — made his stomach twist.

Throwback — a few weeks ago

Seidou vs Inashiro

Miyuki’s first full match as starting catcher

Chris-senpai was still recovering from a shoulder injury. That day, Coach had thrown Miyuki in as Seidou’s starting catcher — a big responsibility for a first year.

Tanba was on the mound. Yuki at first. Ryosuke and Jun patrolling the infield. Azuma stood tall and grim like a final boss behind every team meeting.

Miyuki felt small at first. But when the game started, his nerves turned into steel.
It wasn’t enough.

Inashiro crushed them that day. Clean hits, stolen bases, dominating pitching.

Afterward, Azuma’s voice echoed in the dugout:

“We don’t fold at Seidou. Learn fast, or get left behind.”

Miyuki did learn. And more than anything, he swore to be ready the next time.

But part of him still thought — if that pitcher had been on their side, maybe the outcome would've changed.

Present Day

The new Seidou school year was still months away.

Official tryouts wouldn’t begin until spring — and yet, preparation had already started.

Rei sat at her desk in the Seidou admin office, flipping through scout reports, application files, and player logs. She paused at one blank file with the name “Sawamura Eijun” printed across the top.

No updates.

No returned forms.

No confirmation of enrollment.

They were already halfway to the tryout season. The coaches were starting to wonder if the Nagano pitcher had chosen elsewhere or backed out entirely.

Rei closed the folder slowly.

She didn’t want to admit it, but doubt was creeping in.

“He’s probably not coming,” she whispered to herself.

Still she left his file on top of the stack.

Just in case.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

It all started the night after he walked by the nearby river.

After that weird flying squirrel, the lost lollipop, and the shimmering moon over the water — Eijun had made up his mind.

He was going to Tokyo.

The very next day, right after getting home from a solo walk, he barged into the kitchen where his parents were having tea.

“I’m going to Tokyo,” he announced, lips still sticky from a watermelon lollipop.

His parents blinked.
Then stared.

“...Did something happen?” his father asked, already suspicious. “You didn’t join a cult, right?”

Eijun pouted. “Of course not. I saw a sign.”

His mother tilted her head. “What kind of sign, sweetheart?”

Eijun waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. The point is—I’ve made my decision.”

There was a pause. Then his father sighed, muttering something about “that boy and his weird timing,” while his mother’s face lit up with quiet pride.

She came over, adjusted his scarf, and smiled like he had just announced he was going to the moon.

“Well, if you’re going to explore something new, then I’m happy,” she said, patting his cheek. “You’re growing up.”

His father grumbled a bit more, but deep down he was supportive too. He’d seen that spark in Eijun’s eyes — the same spark from when he first picked up a ball.

But of course, no decision was complete without running it past the true boss of the house.

His grandfather sat on the porch, wrapped in two jackets and holding a hot can of coffee.

Eijun approached, a little nervous.

“I’m heading to Tokyo,” he said simply.

His grandfather didn’t even blink. “Are there aliens in Tokyo?”

Eijun blinked. “I—I don’t think so?”

“Then what’s the rush?”

“I wanna scout the schools myself,” Eijun explained. “Can’t just believe everything those scouts say. They all talk big.”

A beat passed.

Then his grandfather nodded solemnly. “Good. Always trust your own eyes before the pitch.”

Eijun grinned.

Then, shyly, he pulled something out from behind him — a small bag of roasted sweet potatoes wrapped in newspaper.
Still warm.

“I passed by the corner stall... I thought maybe you'd want some,” he mumbled, ears turning a little red.

His grandfather raised a brow. “You didn’t eat them all on the way here?”

“I almost did,” Eijun admitted. “But I saved the last two.”

His grandfather took one and nodded in approval. “Hmph. You’re not completely hopeless.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the wind stir the laundry line.

“And get your elbow checked while you’re there,” the old man added, eyes narrowing. “That thing still clicks when you stir rice.”

Eijun made a face. “How do you even hear that?”

“I hear everything. I'm old, not deaf.”

Then he gave Eijun a sideways glance. “Just remember — the train’s not gonna wait for daydreamers.”

“Don’t worry,” Eijun said proudly. “I’m gonna be serious.”

The old man snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

Still, when Eijun stood to leave, his grandfather reached into his coat and handed him a small, folded paper charm.

“Your grandma made this for your dad when he first went to Tokyo. Now it’s your turn.”

Eijun stared, then gently tucked the charm into his bag.

“Thanks, Ojii-san!.”

His grandfather just waved a hand. “Make sure to eat. And no running around like a wild monkey.”

“No promises!”

Later that night, while Eijun was packing snacks and manga, his grandfather picked up the house phone and called someone he hadn’t spoken to in a while.

The next morning, the decision was final.

Eijun would go to Tokyo.

But not alone.

“There’s no way we’re letting you go alone,” his mom said while handing him a bento wrapped in a frog-patterned cloth. “You got lost inside the grocery store last week.”

“That was once!” Eijun protested.

His grandfather grunted. “I sprained my ankle, so I’m out. Don’t trust stairs anymore.”

He’d twisted it while tipsy, attempting a heroic pose on top of a bucket. No one spoke of it again.

His father couldn’t leave their family shop, and his mother had to help with inventory.

Wakana was stuck at a family reunion in Niigata.

Nobu had gone fishing with his dad — deep in the mountains, with no signal.

That left one option: someone trusted. Someone reliable. Someone who knew how to handle Eijun.

Or so they thought.

The plan was simple.

Eijun would take the early train from Nagano Station to Tokyo Station. From there, someone would pick him up and take him to both a specialist clinic for his arm and later tour a few schools.

Simple.

Except Eijun had... other plans.

“Oh! And I found this place that sells caramel-filled melon pan! I need to try that!”

He had already bookmarked six manga shops, three bookstores, one baseball museum, and a place rumored to serve ‘cream soda kakigori’ that looked like a parfait.
“If it has ice, sugar, and chaos — it’s mine,” he whispered.

His mom just smiled as she stuffed extra cash into his jacket.

“Spend it wisely.”

Eijun nodded, smiling back innocently.

Which, of course, meant: “Spend it on food and manga.”

The day of his trip finally came.

Eijun stood at Kokunbunji ,Tokyo Station , backpack snug on his shoulders, a watermelon slice in hand (wrapped lovingly by his mother), and a piece of buttered bread in the other.

“What a powerful combo,” he said to himself proudly as he sat near a convenience store to wait.

His grandpa had told him to sit on the bench under the sign with a frog sticker on it.
So he did. Chewing happily.

Then—

“SAWAMURA EI-JUN!!”

A voice boomed from across the platform.

A man in a wrinkled suit approached, waving like they were long-lost brothers.

Bald. Wide grin. Slightly crooked tie. Shoes too shiny. He looked like someone pretending to be a lawyer in a stage play.

Eijun stared, mid-bite.

“—Are you my ride or a scammer?”

The man laughed so hard he had to bend over. “Still the same! Your grandpa sent me a photo of you eating watermelon when you were five, and now—here you are. Bigger, but still watermelon-powered.”

Eijun squinted. “Excuse me, Mister Bald Man, but who are you?”

The man dramatically clutched his chest. “You wound me.”

“I’ve seen con-men in manga better dressed than you.”

The man gave him a pointed look. “I’m your grandfather’s best friend. And your ojisan, remember?”

“…Wait.”
Eijun paused. A blurry memory floated up — being five years old, clinging to someone’s leg and shouting, “Catch with me!”

“But that guy had hair,” Eijun added.

The man sighed deeply. “Time is cruel, boy.”

“What happened to your head, Uncle?”

The man put on a long, theatrical face.

“Well, I may have used the wrong shampoo... or dyed it too much in college... or maybe forgot to use conditioner for ten years”

Eijun looked horrified. “That’s how you lost the war on hair?”

“I blame genetics,” he said, solemnly.

Eijun tilted his head, suspicious. “But— ojii-san has hair though? I mean, it's not much, but it exists. Unlike you.”
He leaned closer, eyes narrowing like he was inspecting a rare creature.
“Wait. Don’t tell me— is this because you never rinse properly? Or you skip conditioner out of sheer laziness?! Is that it?!” Is that why it all abandoned ship?!”

His Uncle blinked. “Excuse me—”

But Eijun was already spiraling.
“I mean, if you’re stressed all the time and sweating a lot but don’t wash it out, maybe the hair gets mad and gives up! Like a pitcher’s shoulder locking up if you ignore the signs!”

He gestured wildly now, like presenting a sports documentary. He started mimicking warm-up stretches, mid-rant.
“Hair might have stamina too, like—like pitch count! You used it up recklessly, didn’t you?! No proper maintenance routine, no self-care drills, no break between innings—boom! Follicle fatigue!”
He paused, then scratched his cheek thoughtfully.

“Actually, that’s kinda like my arm, huh?” he mumbled, quieter this time. “Didn’t rest enough, pushed it when I shouldn’t have. No wonder it gave out a little”

A beat of silence followed before he quickly added, louder now, “See?! It’s a universal rule! Even hair needs a rotation system!”

The man stared at him like he’d just been diagnosed by a hyperactive squirrel.

But before Eijun could unleash more theories, his godfather cut him off.**

“Come on. First stop is the hospital for that arm.”

“Can’t we eat first?” Eijun asked.

“You just ate watermelon and bread.”

“That was my train snack. Not real food.”

The man chuckled. “You are your grandfather’s grandson.”

“Of course!” Eijun grinned. “I’m his only grandson and he’s my only grandfather alive — who else would I be? Ha!”

Then, as if a new circuit suddenly lit up in his brain, Eijun snapped his fingers. “Wait, think about it! It’s literally in my DNA! Stubbornness? Ojii-san. Loud voice? Ojii-san. Irrational confidence? Triple Ojii-san. It’s like—bam! Generation-to-generation transmission. Genetic programming, like a special limited-edition Sawamura software!”

He pointed to his own chest, looking dead serious. “I’m the modern prototype, running on classic Ojii-san data. Version 2.0! Enhanced for baseball and chaos.”

His Uncle stared at him, halfway between horrified and entertained.

“Your brain’s running wild again,” he chuckled.

“Greatness runs on chaos!” Eijun shot back proudly, puffing out his chest like he just quoted a holy scripture.

Uncle looked like he was about to respond, but stopped — then just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “The bloodline really is strong.”

But Eijun had already tuned out, eyes locking on a dessert shop across the street.

“Whoa,” he whispered. “Is that—matcha parfait with red bean?”

And just like that, genetics took a backseat to sugar.

To Be Continued. 

Chapter Text

On the way to the hospital, my Uncle, also my Godfather—told me he was referring me to a doctor he'd known since high school. Back then, Ojisan was a Vice-president... though what kind, exactly, he didn’t say. And since Uncle hadn’t brought it up either, I was left hanging. I wanted to ask, but seeing how happy Uncle looked talking about this man, I decided to hold back. He seemed genuinely excited to take me to get my elbow checked. He even had this light in his eyes, like a proud parent finally introducing their kid to an old friend they respected. It made me wonder just how important this guy must be to him—and now, to me.

I thought this doctor might be someone around Uncle’s age—a middle-aged man maybe, or even someone older, like Ojii-san. I was curious and kind of excited to find out. I mentally geared up like I was heading into a championship match, bracing myself for a stern, wise, slow-talking elder who might poke at my arm and spout philosophical advice between diagnoses. I was ready to bow, say "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu" with extra respect, and maybe even get scolded about youth and recklessness.

When we arrived, Uncle parked his car in the front left of a sleek, pale building in Machida. I stepped out and stared up at it—tall, clean, almost too white.

“Why is it so white?” I asked.

Uncle grinned. “White reflects light, keeps the inside cooler. And it helps give a sense of cleanliness—important for a hospital.”

“Ahh—” I nodded, but then muttered my own theory loud enough for him to hear, “Or maybe it’s a symbol, y’know? Like how baseball teaches you to keep things clean and clear. No dirt on the heart, no stains on your spirit. Or maybe... maybe it’s like the path to a PhD. You start off not knowing anything, then you're slowly scrubbed clean of ignorance, layer by layer, until your mind's as pure as these walls. That, or hospitals are just afraid of colorful wallpaper.”

He glanced at me sideways. “You’re being dramatic again.”

We headed inside. At the front desk, Uncle politely asked whether the doctor was in. It was around 9 AM—we had driven straight from Kokubunji, and thanks to his car, the trip wasn’t as long as it could’ve been.

The receptionist smiled, checked the schedule, and said, “Yes, Dr. Nakamura is in. Do you have a reservation?”

“We do,” Uncle replied.

She typed something quickly on the desk phone, made a call, then said, “Dr. Nakamura will be with you shortly. Feel free to wait on the bench.”

A few minutes later, a man in his early 30's stepped into view. He looked like he belonged on a drama set rather than a hospital—tall, sharp suit, a warm yet confident smile. His features were striking, his eyes focused, magnetic.

I blinked. Handsome. Really handsome. Not that I was insecure—no way. I appreciated good looks. Like admiring a rival’s form on the mound. Just facts. Cheekbones like those don’t lie. It was like looking at a real-life anime character who decided to cosplay as a surgeon.

“Ahh, Sensei,” the man greeted with a respectful tone and a firm handshake. “Still bald as always.”

Uncle smacked him lightly on the head. “Brat.”

They spoke for a moment, catching up, before his attention turned to me.

“Oh, it must be him?” the doctor asked.

Uncle nodded.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Nakamura,” he said with a smile that almost felt suspicious.

I stepped forward, about to introduce myself—“I’m Ei—”

But he cut in smoothly, “Sawamura Eijun, the Akagi ace. National junior baseball champion in your second year, runner-up last year. A lefty pitcher from Nagano, known for his spirit, crazy delivery, and loyalty to his teammates. Parents run a small farm. Fiercely loud, surprisingly disciplined. You’ve got a childhood friend named Kana who always draws on your notebooks. You broke your toe once tripping over a stray baseball and didn’t tell anyone until the end of the season. Your team calls you the loudest battery in the prefecture.”

I froze.

Was this guy a doctor or a secret agent?!

My brain whirred. Normal people don’t rattle off my life story like that unless they’re stalking me—or watching every single game like a hawk.

“I watched your last match,” Dr. Nakamura added, his tone softening. “Tough break. But that’s life for a player—sometimes you win, sometimes you learn.”

That line hit me. I stayed quiet, wondering... what if I hadn’t been injured? Would we have won?

Before I could spiral too far, Uncle smacked the doctor lightly on the back.

“Stop digging into the trauma, you idiot,” he muttered, half-joking.

Dr. Nakamura chuckled and bowed his head a little. “Sorry, the force of habit.”

At his desk, the exam began. He ran me through physical tests—flexibility, range of motion, resistance training, grip strength. He pressed along my elbow joint and triceps, checked for swelling or inflammation, then had me perform a few arm raises and mock throwing motions.

“It’s a mild overuse injury,” he said after. “Not dangerous yet, but if you keep pushing, it could worsen.”

I let out a breath.

“So I can still play?”

“After rehab. It’s fully curable if you take care of it before the school year starts. But we need to start now.”

Before we could go deeper into the plan, Uncle got an unexpected call. He stepped outside, excusing himself with an apologetic look.

Dr. Nakamura laughed. “Still the same workaholic.”

A few minutes later, Uncle returned with a frown. “I’ve got to go. An urgent meeting. I said no at first, but they need me.”

Dr. Nakamura offered, “I can stay with Eijun. He’s my last patient today. I cleared my schedule for reservation-only cases—especially his.”

Uncle hesitated. “I don’t know if I trust you with him. You’re both trouble in different fonts.”

“I can handle him,” the doctor replied smoothly. “I’ll even drop him off wherever he needs to go.”

I saluted. “I’ll be a good boy. Besides, if I stayed with Uncle, I’d be hearing stories about Ojii-san all day.”

Uncle flicked my forehead. “You’re a brat too.”

Uncle gave me a long look, then sighed. “Text me when you’re done. And you,” he pointed at Nakamura, “watch him. He’s more chaotic than he looks.”

Dr. Nakamura gave a two-finger salute. “Always.”

After Uncle left, the room suddenly felt like a one-on-one showdown.

“Well, shall we continue?” the doctor asked.

He laid out rehab options—local rehab here in Machida, or a referral to a specialist hospital near Nagano that focused on elbow recovery.

I considered. If I stayed here, I’d have to see this guy often. And Uncle. Dangerous combo.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Never trust a man that handsome,” I muttered.

“What was that?” he grinned.

“Nothing.” I scratched my head. “I’ll ask my parents first before I decide... but if I could choose, maybe Nagano would be better. Less... distractions.” I mumbled that last part.

He pointed at my drink. “Less sugar. That sweet Pocari and the lollipop? Not ideal.”

“Wha—what does candy have to do with elbows?!” I protested.

“I mean, it’s not like the sugar goes straight to the joint,” I reasoned quickly. “It’s not like the lollipop is drilling cavities in my bones or messing with my elbow mechanics! Maybe sweetness helps with mental stamina. Mood boost! Emotional stability! Brain sugar!”

“Nothing. I’m just teasing. But hey, if you want a long baseball career, protect those teeth. Bright smiles pull attention. Especially from the ladies.”

I gaped. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

I’m not sure if he’s a doctor, a model, or an undercover agent—but either way, I’ve got my work cut out for me.

After Uncle left me with this so-called doctor—who was starting to feel more like a secret agent in disguise—I followed him down the hall. In my head, I’d already renamed him Mr. Secret Agent. He walked like he had something classified in his coat pocket, and I half-expected him to flash a badge and start speaking in code. And when I called him that aloud, he actually beamed like I’d handed him an award.

“From now on, I’m calling you Mr. Secret Agent,” I said, grinning as I chewed on a piece of fruit-flavored gum.

“I’ll allow it,” he replied, smirking like it was the coolest thing he’d heard all week.

Since it was close to noon, Mr. Secret Agent suggested grabbing food. “I’m hungry,” he said in the most dramatic way, and the next thing I knew, we were cruising through a drive-thru, ordering rice meals, fried chicken, burgers, fries, and ice cream. The full package. Just my kind of lunchtime.

We were on the road, windows cracked, music playing low, and me happily stuffing my face when I saw it—a building that looked so familiar, I almost choked.

“Stop! Stop the car! Holy—turn around! Go back! Back up! Please!”

Mr. Secret Agent slammed the brakes and shot me a look. “Relax. What now, Eijun-chan?”

Since I gave him a nickname, he decided he had the right to give me one too. Totally unfair, but I let it slide.

But I ignored that. “I know this place! I’ve seen it in pictures—I want to go inside!” I was practically vibrating with excitement.

He followed my gaze, squinting at the building. Then his eyes widened. “This is a school... and not just any school.” His voice dropped. “This is Ichidai High.”

I nodded so fast I could’ve dislocated my neck. “YES.”

“How do you know this place? Wait... did you plan to enroll here?” he asked.

I scratched the back of my head, sheepish. “Well... yeah. If I could, I would. I'd be really happy.”

His brows lifted. “But why?”

“I know someone there. Not really know-know, more like... I’m a fan?” I said, voice rising in pitch. “Back in our first year of junior high, when we were starting to build our team, one of my friends got tickets. His dad’s friend gave them unlimited passes. So we went to watch a game, and it just so happened to be Ichidai High playing. Oh my GOD, they were so good.”

My arms flailed as I spoke. “They had strong fundamentals, aggressive offense, and this crazy solid team-first mentality. Watching them was like watching a symphony, but with baseball bats. It blew my mind!”

Mr. Secret Agent scoffed with pride. “Yeah, they’re decent. But nothing beats my alma mater.”

We both laughed as we stopped in front of the school’s baseball field. A few players were practicing—no first-stringers, just second-string or underclassmen. When we asked around, a guy nearby told us the top team was off at a practice game elsewhere. The people gathered were just passersby or curious fans wanting a glimpse of Ichidai’s style.

I slumped. “Aww, man. I really wanted to see him.”

Mr. Secret Agent patted my shoulder. “Next time. Besides, the mystery makes it better, doesn’t it?”

I smiled a bit. “Yeah... I guess.”

“Why are you so set on seeing this school?” he asked, tilting his head.

So I told him. “It’s kind of funny, actually. During that game I mentioned earlier, Ichidai was strong, but the opponent gave them a hard time. It was a close match. “After the first inning of the second game, I asked Wakana where the CR was—he pointed left and even asked if I needed company. But I said nah, I could go alone. Big mistake.”

I rolled my eyes. “And somehow, I got lost.”

“Of course you did.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I wandered off, ended up near a vending machine. I didn’t have my phone, so I couldn’t call anyone. I pressed for a Pocari Sweat, sat down... and there was this guy sitting with a towel over his head. I thought he was a spy, hiding in plain sight. Like, seriously. Probably scouting enemy talent, or disguising as a regular guy with intel.”

Mr. Secret Agent snorted.

“I sat next to him, sipping my drink. He sensed me and pulled the towel off. And boom—it was the ace of Ichidai! Manaka-senpai.”

Mr. Secret Agent blinked. “You just... casually sat next to the ace of Ichidai?”

“Yup!” I grinned. “I freaked out. Told him he got left by the bus or something. Like, ‘Did they abandon you?! Are you lost?!’ Total panic mode.”

“And?”

“He laughed! Turns out, he was just taking a break while his team watched the next game.”

Mr. Secret Agent was already laughing. “You accused him of being abandoned by his team?”

“Hey, I was concerned!”

Manaka-senpai asked me what I was doing there. I couldn’t even look at him—I was too embarrassed to admit I got lost. I couldn’t lie either, not to someone like that.

“Don’t tell me,” Manaka had said, “you’re lost?”

I stood and shouted, “YES, OKAY! I’M LOST!” Like in a telenovela. I even gave a whole monologue about the pain of being separated from your team and the dangers of rogue vending machines.”

Mr. Secret Agent was wheezing now.

“Anyway,” I said, waving a hand, “he helped me find my friends. Showed me some landmarks. And just before I could leave, he called out, "‘Hey, you know me, but I don’t know you.’ So I gave him a dramatic self-introduction."

Eijun straightened up, thumb pointed at his chest. “Name’s Sawamura Eijun! The one and only southpaw ace of Nagano’s pride, Akagi Junior High! Breaker of bats, master of chaos on the mound—and loyal protector of the sacred lollipop and fruity gum!”

He paused, then added with a wink, “Autographs later.”

Manaka stared at me for a second—then burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.
“You serious?” he wheezed. “Sacred lollipop and fruity gum? What kind of title is that?”

I grinned wider, popping the gum in my mouth with a smug snap. “A title earned through battle, obviously.”

Mr. Secret Agent just sighed through his nose, deadpan. “Of course you did.”

“He met me with the smile of an angel,” I said, placing a hand on my chest. “And that was it. A fateful meeting.”

Mr. Secret Agent leaned back against the car hood. “You really are a magnet for unbelievable encounters, aren’t you?”

“I don’t try, it just happens.”

He looked at me for a long second, then chuckled. “You’re more interesting than your medical chart, Sawamura Eijun.”

“I like you,” he added with a grin.

“You’re not serious, right?” I said, wide-eyed. “Don’t go falling in love with me now, Doc.”

Mr. Secret Agent just laughed, opened the car door, and said with a smirk, “Come on. I want to show you something even more interesting than Ichidai High.”

“Where? Is there even such a thing?”

“Yup. You’re gonna like it. Swear.”

We were headed somewhere — somewhere I didn’t recognize.

The scenery kept changing, fast and strange, like flipping through a picture book I’d never read. So many buildings passed by the window — shiny glass ones, tall ones, crooked ones. Too many to count. Some parks too, filled with children playing and couples laughing. Then, a glimpse of the ocean — wide, deep blue with sparkling light on its surface. A beach?

Tokyo sure is something else, I thought.

Back home in Nagano, we had buildings too— but not this big. Not this flashy. Our parks were beautiful, yes — but these looked like paintings. Even the beaches here had that Tokyo sparkle. I mean, we had rivers — and divine love from above, of course — but this city? It was like someone cranked the saturation filter on life.

“There are people here too,” I muttered to myself, trying to sound smart.

Well, of course there are people, stupid. It’s a city.

Still, I kept the debate going in my head like a mini-TV show. I argued with myself for a while until I slumped back into the seat and—
Zzz…

I must’ve dozed off.

Then a gentle tap on my shoulder.

“We’re here.”

I blinked groggily. Outside the window was a wide, quiet path lined with brick walls and old trees standing tall like bodyguards. The air felt calm but filled with expectation. There were buildings just ahead — clean, classic, proud. The kind that felt like they had history. Students walked past us in uniforms, some chatting, some running late, others clutching gloves or bats.

But I didn’t know where we were yet. All I knew was that this place felt different — like it held something important, something waiting.

Mr. Secret Agent — I still called him that in my head — walked beside me with his usual lazy confidence, munching on a mint like he didn’t have a past. But then, his voice shifted.

“This place... brings back a lot of memories,” he said suddenly, quietly. “Some good. Some— naughty.” He laughed to himself, and I raised an eyebrow.

“Did you get caught sneaking food into the dorms or something?”

“I was the one sneaking it,” he smirked. “Cookies in my socks. Instant noodles behind books. My senpai never figured it out.”

I choked on my own laugh. “You're a walking health violation.”

We reached a large field, and that’s when I realized — it was a baseball field. A real one. The kind you see in championship dreams. Big. Clean. Sacred.

There were lots of people watching already — apparently, there was a match between upperclassmen and the younger students. We found seats near the fence — not too close, not too far. The sun was warm, the breeze smelled like clay and cut grass, and I was munching on fries and a burger like a tourist.

Then I noticed him.

Mr. Secret Agent was quiet, staring at the field.

He wasn’t watching the game. He was feeling it — like he’d been away from home for too long and finally came back, only to realize the door had changed.

There was something in his eyes — not exactly sadness, but close. Like an echo of something that used to matter more than anything.

He didn’t look at me, but he started speaking. Softly. Like a memory that took effort to say out loud.

“Before I came here, I had one dream. Just one. I wanted to be someone the team could trust. Someone they could count on. I worked for it, trained for it — and somehow, I made it. I became the person who stood on that mound with pride. I led. I won. I believed I could go all the way.”

He smiled a little.

“Then my third year came and everything stopped.”

I paused chewing.

“Summer hadn’t even started. At first, it was just a sharp pain in my ankle—I thought it was overwork or maybe a sprain. But no meds worked. No ice, no tape, nothing. It got worse. I couldn’t run right. I couldn’t sleep. Coach noticed, sent me for scans. They found microfractures, deep ones. A degenerative stress injury. Turns out, I’d pushed it too far for too long.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “ Doctors said I could walk, sure. Maybe jog. But competitive sports? Baseball? Not a chance. My ankle wouldn’t survive another season. They told me I was done.”

His voice was steady, but tight.

“As they told me I couldn’t play anymore. At first, I didn’t believe it. I said, ‘Run it again.’ We did. Three times. All said the same. My dream—just broke. Like a branch that snapped without warning.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I tried to act like it was fine. I stayed on the team. The staff told me I’d always be part of it, even if I couldn’t pitch anymore. Some people comforted me. Some pitied me. Some just moved on.”

He finally looked at me.

“And the worst part was —I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to lead them. But someone else stepped in.”

I stayed quiet.

“It was my graduation when a first-year walked up to me. Same position. Stoic face, sharp eyes, serious mouth. Said something like, ‘Thanks for letting me take your place.’ Cold, right?” He chuckled.

I tried to smile, but something in my chest tugged.

“But I watched him. I really did. And I realized the team didn’t fall apart. In fact they found their new rhythm. He wasn’t me — but he didn’t have to be. He became something even better.”

He turned his gaze toward the field again.

“It took me a long time to accept that. That life didn’t pause just because I had to. That I wasn’t the heart of it all.”

There was silence for a moment. Then he said something softer, something that felt heavy and hopeful all at once:

“That’s why I changed paths. Became a doctor — not just any, but one who could stand beside athletes. The kind that knows the pain of being told ‘You can’t.’ I help them recover. I make sure they don’t make the mistakes I made. That they don’t push so hard they lose everything.”

His hand rested lightly on his leg, as if remembering.

“I lost the mound. But I found something else.”

And just like that, he went back to sipping his drink, as if he hadn’t just handed me a piece of his soul.

I watched the game for a while, heart full, fries forgotten.

This man — weird, watchful, endlessly scribbling in his notebook, and slightly annoying in a know-it-all kind of way — had lived through something I couldn’t imagine. And yet, here he was. Laughing. Watching. Waiting for someone else to chase the dream he never got to finish.

I didn’t say anything.

But maybe I didn’t have to.

To Be Continued.

Chapter Text

The night after the Tokyo trip was a quiet one.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles in after a storm.

Something about that silence between me and Dr. Nakamura—Mr. Secret Agent, as I dubbed him—stuck with me. Even though he cracked jokes and rambled about nonsense all the way to the station, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he told me. He lost something irreplaceable. Baseball was his everything, and yet, fate took it away without warning. And he... laughed.

But how could he laughed?

I kept asking myself, “If that were me, could I laugh too?” Could I move forward like nothing happened? Maybe I could. Maybe I’d even smile for everyone else’s sake. But I think... my tears would fall in silence, in a place no one could see.

When we reached the station, he gave me a lazy wave.
“Well then, Mr. Lollipop Pitcher, go cause some chaos back in Nagano.”

I chuckled, already turning my back to leave. “Yeah, yeah.”

But just before I stepped through the gate, I stopped.

“Hey, Dr. Nakamura.”

He tilted his head. “Hm?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “You said fate took everything, right? But you’re still here.”

He blinked, surprised.

“I think... maybe when life steals something big from you, it’s because it wants you to teach someone else how not to lose it.”

There was a beat of silence. A small breeze blew by. He didn’t answer right away—but he smiled.

I didn’t say it just for him. Maybe... I needed to hear it too.

Now, I was here—back where everything started.

The Akagi field lay quiet under the gentle morning sun, surrounded by the endless stretch of rice paddies that fed our town. A breeze passed through, carrying the scent of earth and memories. I sat alone in the dugout, staring out at the field. It hadn’t changed. And neither had the echoes in my head.

I remembered everything.

The first time I told them we’d make Akagi famous.

How I dragged my friends—my teammates—into that reckless dream. How we stood with barely any equipment, no fancy jerseys, just borrowed gear and a lot of stubborn hearts. The teachers, the principal, even some of the grumpy neighbors pitched in when no one else would. A dad welded us a rusty batting cage. A local store gave us discounted water bottles. We trained under the sun, rain, and cold wind because we had no indoor space.

We ran from the school to the convenience store almost every afternoon, laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe. We'd collapse in the aisles, slurping instant ramen like we hadn’t eaten in days, joking about becoming legends with soy sauce stains on our uniforms.

Our first practice game? A mess. We lost. Badly.

But we didn’t quit.

We learned. We grew. We believed.

And through it all, we had each other.

I didn’t hear the footsteps until I heard the voice.

“I knew you’d be here.”

I turned. There he was.

Nobu.

My catcher.

He stepped into the dugout, holding a small plastic bag. “I went to your house. Your dad said you might be here. I brought some fish. Fresh from this morning’s catch with Pops. Remember how you used to eat it raw?”

I laughed. “Yeah. I said eating it raw preserved more nutrients. You argued with me for like thirty minutes about bacteria and stomach aches.”

He grinned. “Even Wakana looked horrified. You took a bite and said, ‘this is the taste of a future ace!’ Like that made it okay.”

We both laughed, letting the memory warm the air between us.

Then came a quiet.

The kind of quiet between old friends when something more needs to be said.

“You went to Tokyo, right?” he asked. “How was it?”

“It was... good, actually. Very different from Nagano. Bigger. Louder. “Everything moves so fast. But Nagano still feels like home,” I said, then hesitated. “Ojii-san set me up to meet someone. We went to a hospital.”

Nobu raised a brow. “A hospital?”

“Yeah. He insisted I get my elbow checked.”

Nobu straightened up a little. “Your elbow? Is it bad?”

I shrugged. “No, just a follow-up. Ojii-san was being extra careful.”
I paused, lips quirking. “Also… I met a strange guy there. Dr. Nakamura. But I call him Mr. Secret Agent.”

“Why?”

“Because the first thing he did was list all the embarrassing things I’ve ever done,” I muttered, half-laughing. “Like he knew my whole medical history and my middle school game records before I even said hello.”

Nobu whistled. “Creepy.”

“Yeah, I hated him at first. But” My voice softened. “Then I heard his story.”

I stared at the field, but I wasn’t seeing it.

“He was like me. A pitcher. The kind that wanted to lead, to be with his team until the end. But one day, it all stopped. Just like that. An injury, a decision, and suddenly, he couldn’t pitch again. He never got to say goodbye the way he wanted.”

I clenched my fists on my knees.

“That hit me hard, Nobu. Because during our final game... I was supposed to be there. On the mound. Leading you guys. And instead... I was on the bench. I left you behind.”

Nobu looked at me—no anger, just truth in his eyes.

“You didn’t abandon us, Ei-chan.”

His voice was steady, but his hands were tight.

“We all regretted that day. I blamed myself too. As your catcher, I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve seen it earlier. If I had— maybe things would've turned out differently. Maybe you could’ve pitched with us. Maybe you could’ve gone down swinging, win or lose, the way you always wanted.”

He exhaled. “But the truth is that loss hurt more than any other.”

I turned to him, my chest tight.

“You know why it hurts?” he said softly. “Because you weren’t there.”

He looked away, blinking fast.

“Every time we lost, you were the one laughing, cracking jokes, dragging us back up. That time you weren’t there. And we felt it. It wasn’t just about the score. It was about missing the heart of our team.”

I swallowed the ache rising in my throat.

Nobu placed a hand on my shoulder.

“You didn’t just pitch, Ei-chan. You were the reason we believed. You made it fun. You made it matter. You were our ace, our captain, our ridiculous, stubborn heart. Without you... it just wasn’t the same.”

He smiled, eyes misty but firm.

“And you? You don’t belong in a cage. Not in a small field, not hiding your fire. You belong where you can go all out—where no one tells you to hold back. That’s your place.”

I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear those words until now.

Nobu continued, quieter this time. “Your mom said you came back differently. I could see it too. That trip—it lit something in you, didn’t it?”

I nodded.

“I came here because I wanted to see it myself,” he said. “And to tell you this, not as your catcher—but as your friend.”

He looked me straight in the eye.

“Chase it, Ei-chan. Don’t hesitate because of us. We’ll be okay. We love you. But you—you’ve got something rare. It’s not that you don’t have a future in baseball. It’s that you didn’t believe you did. You doubted yourself. But I can see it now.”

He touched my chest with two fingers.

“You’ve found it, right? The reason to keep playing. That fire. It’s here now.”

And just like that, I couldn’t hold back the tears.

“Thanks, Nobu,” I whispered. “Really. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you guys.”

He grinned. “You just did. Idiot’s luck.”

Later, I walked home, my thoughts still full but... lighter.

At the gate, I saw Mom tending to her plants, gently brushing soil off the leaves like they were something precious. That’s just how she was—with her plants, with me.

Up on the balcony, Dad and Ojii-san were drinking coffee, muttering about who had the better fishing technique. They both turned as I stepped through the gate.

“I’m back,” I said.

They didn’t say anything right away, just watched.

I walked over to Mom. The one who carried me for nine months. The one who held me when I fell. The one who never once asked me to give up, even when it hurt.

She looked at me, hands still in the dirt.

“I’ve made my decision,” I said, voice louder now. “And this time... it’s real. I’ve cleared my mind. Narrowed my heart. And I’ve felt it deep inside. This choice... is mine.”

She stared at me for a moment, then gave me the gentlest smile.

“Need help?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

From above, Ojii-san grumbled, “Finally, the brat decided.” His words sounded rough, but the relief in his tone was clear as day.

Dad gave me a thumbs up, mouthing something I couldn’t quite catch—but I understood anyway.

Proud of you.

And just like that, I knew.

I was ready.

Somewhere in Tokyo.

The sky had already turned indigo, city lights blinking to life one by one across the skyline. Inside a quiet office on the third floor of a brick building tucked behind a university street, only one light remained on.

She was still there, long past six.

Her jacket lay draped over the back of her chair, sleeves rolled up, a pen tucked behind her ear. The air buzzed faintly with the sound of an old desk fan, stirring the weight of a humid summer evening. Most of the faculty had packed up hours ago, but she remained—focused, or trying to be—as she moved through a stack of papers and half-completed forms.

Some were typed reports. Others handwritten notes, scouting records, or internal referrals. She was reviewing a partial list of students expected to join the school’s athletic program in the coming year—those already expressing strong intent, most already confirmed.

It was a promising batch. Talented, polished, ambitious.

But none of them—not one—held her focus the way a certain missing name did.

The department had been busier than usual ever since the final match of the graduating third-years. Their exit had been bittersweet: the close of a chapter, and the start of another. She was proud of them, proud of how far they had come, and quietly excited to see them continue their paths into college leagues or even the pros.

Yet her focus kept drifting.

Her phone sat beside the folders, screen dimmed. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked toward it. Still no alerts. No messages. No new calls.

She tried not to overreact. Told herself to be patient. But patience thinned quickly under silence.

She refreshed her inbox. Checked her call log. Scrolled back through the same message thread she’d been staring at for days.

Still nothing.

She leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling, jaw clenched. She’d made the trip. Spoken her piece. Offered space, thinking silence might be a form of consideration. But every hour and day that passed felt heavier. Like distance instead of decision.

Desperation? Maybe. But only because what was at stake wasn’t ordinary. The potential she’d seen—it didn’t fit into neat categories. It didn’t follow conventional molds. It was wild, unruly, brilliant. The kind of talent that never came with guarantees, but once in a while became everything.

Losing it to someone who wouldn’t understand it? That thought alone made her stomach knot.

Later that night, back in her apartment, she changed into soft cotton pants and an old T-shirt, hair tied into a loose bun. Dinner was simple—rice, reheated soup—and eaten without much thought, eyes half-focused on the flickering news playing low on the TV.

Once her plate was cleared, she moved to the desk by the window. Her computer was open, tabs scattered across two monitors—scouting footage, academic reports, projected rankings, conversation logs. She worked with practiced calm, but her mind ran elsewhere, looping a thousand what-ifs.

And then—a sound.

Soft. Barely audible.

Her phone lit up with a single alert.

She froze.

The screen showed only a name and timestamp.

She stared at it for three full seconds, then slowly picked it up. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled to a saved contact—one she’d added a week ago, tucked quietly between more official names—and pressed “call.”

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then connected.

A familiar voice came through—casual, steady.

They spoke briefly. Professionally. There were things to prepare: papers to file, dates to arrange, procedures to follow. She responded calmly, noting what she needed, tone measured even as her pulse surged beneath her skin.

No big declarations were made.

But she knew.

When the call ended, she lowered the phone onto the desk. Sat still for a moment.

Then, she stood.

And laughed—sudden, sharp, almost disbelieving.

Her hands flew to her face, then to the ceiling, then out in a wide, ridiculous arc as she turned once in place. The laugh burst into a small shout, half-choked, like something too big to be contained.

She didn’t care if the neighbors heard.

Because this time—after all the waiting, the silence, the second-guessing—

The answer had come.

Because he said yes.

He was coming.

And everything she had bet on—

Had finally paid off.

The real game was just about to begin.

Chapter Text

The dorm lights were dim, the night just beginning to settle over Seidou.

Miyuki lay on his back, tossing a baseball in the air and catching it in one hand over and over again. His face was calm, unreadable. But his thoughts were anything but.

For the past few months, he’d been thinking about that one game — that one pitcher.

Ever since the Junior Baseball National Tournament ended, his mind kept circling back to the chaos that was Sawamura Eijun on the mound. That kid had turned heads, disrupted tempo, and made even seasoned powerhouses look like amateurs. He pitched with creativity, stubbornness, and this maddening unpredictability that was as frustrating as it was addicting.

He should be excited for tomorrow.

Instead, he was restless.

“Thinking about tomorrow?”

Miyuki turned his head to see Yoichi standing at the doorway, arms crossed and grinning. “Or are you more excited about seeing who ends up rooming with you? Or... is it someone specific you’re hoping for?”

Miyuki didn’t respond. He just rolled his eyes and tossed the ball a bit higher, letting it fall into his palm with a soft thud.

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been weird lately,” Yoichi added, stepping inside. “You even forgot to swap your cleats before batting practice last week. Are you in love or something?”

Miyuki gave him a deadpan glare. “Tch. Not in love. Just... lost something maybe.”

Before he could say more, the door slid open and in came the rest — a parade of tired faces and mischief. Ryosuke and Jun strolled in, followed silently by a large frame that was unmistakably Masuko. He held up his dry-erase board:

Still on speaking ban. Personal punishment.

Ryosuke leaned against the wall, arms crossed like always. “That Nagano kid better be real. I still remember that cutter he threw in the third round. Filthy.”
Then, with a sharp edge in his voice, he added, “If that kid shows up wearing a different uniform someday, he better be ready. I’m stepping on his cleats the moment I see him.”

Jun chuckled. “That lollipop-eating maniac had more confidence than half the third-years.”

Surprisingly, Ono’s voice piped up from behind. “I didn’t even get a good look at him during the broadcast. You guys got any photos?”

“None,” Yoichi grinned. “Guy always ditched interviews. Slipped past cameras, too. Total mystery. You search in the baseball news, though—he’s there grinning like an idiot every time.”

“But Miyuki won’t shut up about him,” Ono said, clearly amused.

Masuko scribbled something and flipped his board again:

Is it destiny?

Miyuki groaned, stood up, and shoved past them with a half-hearted glare. “You’re all insufferable.”

He stepped outside. The cool night air greeted him like a quiet companion. Leaning against the dorm’s outer wall, he tilted his head back to look at the stars.

He remembered watching that game live. The moment Sawamura took the mound — chaotic and cocky — everything changed. He was loud, wild, and yet so precise in his madness. That final inning during the semifinals... that pitch... it still echoed in his mind.

And last week, when the list of possible new recruits came out, he scanned the names three times.

Eijun’s wasn’t on it.

Maybe he picked Inashiro. Or Osaka Kiryu. Or somewhere else entirely. Someplace bigger. Someplace better. Somewhere he could keep evolving without Seidou.

His fists tightened inside his pockets.

I should’ve gone up to him after that game. Should’ve introduced myself. Should’ve said — I’ll catch for you. I should’ve made it clear. Instead... I stood there and watched like some stranger.

He looked down, eyes shadowed beneath his glasses. The regret dug deeper than he wanted to admit.

Throwback

Way back before , he wasn’t the type to get hung up on things. But ever since he was a kid, baseball was always the one thing that made sense.

He started young.  Being a catcher came naturally. He liked control. Liked strategy. Liked watching from behind the plate, reading people, figuring them out like puzzles.

He didn’t have the cleanest start — always clashed with teammates, got labeled a smart-ass, a troublemaker. But baseball kept him grounded. Gave him something solid to hold onto.

The first time he realized catching wasn’t just a position but a responsibility was during a throwdown with a senior pitcher in middle school. The guy kept missing the zone, blaming everyone but himself.

Miyuki remembered walking up to him, mask off, eyes steady.

“If you’re not gonna listen, then don’t pitch. Because I’m not catching for someone who ignores the call I made.”

From then on, he learned how to read people. How to pull out the best in them — even when they didn’t see it themselves.

That’s why Sawamura stuck in his head.

That insane energy. That raw instinct. That stupid, ridiculous smile that made hitters flinch more than any pitch did.

He wasn’t polished — yet. But he was real.

The next morning — first day of the new school year.

Buzz surrounded the Seidou baseball grounds like static. First-years lined up near the field, trying not to tremble under the coaches’ stares. Upperclassmen stood clustered off to the side, whispering bets and teasing predictions.

Miyuki snuck in late, slipping behind a stack of equipment by the shed. His eyes scanned the lineup.

There — brown hair?

Too short.

Another one?

Nope. Too stiff.

He scanned until the very end, where the last student bowed politely.

No Eijun.

Miyuki’s shoulders slumped just slightly.

He’s really not here.

His gaze lowered to the dirt.

Maybe I messed up. Should’ve gone after him. Should’ve said something real. Not just stood there acting like a spectator.

Coach Kataoka’s voice shattered the silence.

“Miyuki! Think sneaking in makes you invisible?”

He flinched. “No, sir.”

“Ten laps. With the first-years. You better set the pace.”

Snickers broke out behind him. Yoichi offered a smug thumbs-up as Miyuki sighed and jogged off.

With each step pounding the dirt, his mind returned to that cutter. To the fire in Eijun Sawamura’s eyes. To what could’ve been.

Guess I’ll never get to catch that guy after all.

After his laps, sweat clinging to his back, Miyuki wandered through the bullpen area where the new pitchers and catchers were being evaluated.

He paused at the fence, observing quietly.

A curveball — too wild. A fastball — decent speed, no movement. Another pitch — predictable as clockwork.

Then someone caught his eye.

Furuya Satoru.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A silent aura that dared anyone to speak first. He stepped up to the mound with little expression.

The ball rocketed into the catcher’s mitt — loud. Brutal.

145 km/h, maybe more, Miyuki estimated. But no control. No sense of pitch sequence. He's all forceful and doesn’t feel.

He moved on, unimpressed.

Something was still missing.

Meanwhile, near the administrative tent, Rei Takashima stood with a clipboard, scanning each name.

Her brow furrowed slightly.

No Sawamura-kun.

She tapped her pen against the board, silently processing.

He was supposed to be here.

Just yesterday, she received a call from Seidou’s principal informing her of a delay.

Apparently, Sawamura had come down with the flu. His mother had called ahead to explain, forwarding a formal request along with a doctor’s certificate. A valid reason — but unexpected.

What startled her most wasn’t the absence — but the connection.

The principal had accepted the delay immediately. Almost fondly.

She could still remember the man’s voice during the call:
“Ah, Eijun. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Let him rest — he’ll come when he’s ready.”

She paused. That warmth — that tone. Not something she heard every day from the school head.

How did someone like Eijun Sawamura — the most unpredictable force in the Nationals — get this kind of reaction?

He accepted our offer, she’d told the principal, surprised.
And he agreed to join?

The principal had chuckled.
“I would’ve been disappointed if he hadn’t.”

It was the strangest part of her whole week.

Now, standing near the bullpen, she observed the trials.

A few promising arms. Some interesting mechanics. One pitcher stood out — she recognized him from the Akagi third-round game. Good, but not unforgettable.

Then came Furuya.

That pitch — sheer velocity. Raw talent.

But nothing sparked.

Just power. No artistry. No rhythm.

Rei lowered her clipboard.

Across the field, she spotted Miyuki leaning against the bullpen. His eyes were distant. Blank.

The usual smirk that danced on his lips was nowhere to be found.

She closed her notes slowly, fingers tightening just a little.

There were pitchers here. Trainable ones. Strong ones.

But not him.

She looked up at the sky for a moment and silently thought:

Recover soon, Sawamura-kun. Seidou still needs your chaos.

To Be Continued. 

Chapter Text

The cafeteria at Seidou was loud that night.

Clatter of trays. Chatter over rice bowls. The usual.

At one corner table, Seidou’s upperclassmen — the core of the first-string lineup — had claimed their usual seats, half-exhausted after a full day of school and baseball. Tanba looked like he could fall asleep face-first in his curry. Jun was chewing rhythmically while reading a comic propped against his cup. Ryosuke kept poking at a slice of fish he clearly had no plans to eat.

And yet, somehow, the table's attention drifted toward one person.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Ryosuke said, not even looking up as he stabbed at his grilled fish.

Miyuki blinked mid-bite. “Huh?”

“Ohhh~” Ryosuke finally smirked. “I get it now. Poor Miyuki’s still in mourning.”

Jun looked up from his manga, already grinning. “Mourning?”

Without warning, he turned toward the others at the table and called out dramatically, “Hey! Miyuki’s grieving!”

Heads turned. A few nearby teammates paused mid-meal to glance curiously in their direction.

“Didn’t find your golden boy among the first-years, huh?” Ryosuke added, tone light but cutting. “What was it you said again? ‘If he ever joins Seidou, I’ll never ask for another pitcher.’ Pretty bold declaration, if you ask me.”

“Shut up,” Miyuki muttered, stabbing at his rice like it owed him money.

“You saw them, right?” Jun went on, leaning back in his chair. “Bunch of nervous energy, but no one really stood out on the mound.”

“Mm,” Ryosuke hummed. “Couple good arms, maybe one with control, but nothing close to what Miyuki was hyping up.”

“And now you’re stuck with our current first years,” Jun sighed dramatically. “Tragic.”

Miyuki didn’t take the bait this time. He just leaned back, arms crossed, eyes vaguely focused on his tray. “It’s not like I said he’d definitely show up.”

“No,” Ryosuke replied smoothly. “But you sure acted like it.”

Yoichi, who had been chewing loudly across the table, perked up with a teasing grin. “Nothing new with that, huh? You’ve been acting weird all day—even in class earlier.”

Famiya, who’d just sat down with his tray, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, who are you guys even talking about?”

Ryosuke didn’t even bother looking up. “That middle school pitcher. The one from Akagi.”

Jun chimed in with a knowing snort. “You know, that game. The semi-finals. The one we all went to watch. Guy with the ridiculous wind-up, chewing on a lollipop like he owned the place. Threw like he had something to prove.”

Famiya blinked. “Ohhh. That guy. The one who beat Edogawa? Wait—Miyuki’s middle school team?

Yoichi let out a low whistle. “Yup. Middle School Nationals. That game was insane. Who would've thought a kid like that had that kind of stuff?”And our dear Miyuki’s been hung up ever since.”

“You wish it was a rumor,” Jun added. “We’ve been hearing about him non-stop. You should’ve seen Miyuki during the finals—guy was laser-focused, like he was taking mental notes for the coaching staff.”

Miyuki didn’t respond.

He didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t crack a joke. Just stirred his miso soup slowly, lips drawn in that thoughtful, half-tight line that meant something was bothering him more than he’d admit.

That quieted them, just for a moment.

Ryosuke’s gaze flicked toward him, more curious than teasing now.

Jun lowered his manga, head tilted.

Ryosuke leaned forward a little, frowning. “Wait. You really thought he’d show up today, didn’t you?”

“…I don’t know,” Miyuki muttered. “After everything he did, I figured—hell, I hoped”

“Didn’t Rei-san try to scout him?” Ryosuke asked, brows lifting.

“She did,” Miyuki replied, sharper than before. “But he never gave a clear answer. None of the other schools claimed him either.”

Jun leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Maybe he quit. I mean, he looked a little banged up after the final. Could’ve been an injury.”

Miyuki’s grip on his chopsticks tightened just slightly. “He wouldn’t quit. Not him.”

Yoichi leaned in with a grin, sing-songing, “Getting kinda defensive there, Miyuki~. Should we be worried?”

“Shut up,” Miyuki muttered, but there was no bite behind it this time.

But even as they started joking again, none of them missed the way he kept glancing at the cafeteria doors—just once, then again—like he still hadn’t quite given up.

Truthfully, Miyuki was still distracted. Still stuck on the image of a small, scrappy pitcher standing tall on the mound during Akagi’s first game at last year’s Nationals. He remembered the angle of the boy’s shoulders, the smug twist of his lips as he hurled pitches that shouldn’t have worked — and yet did.
That brutal, mind-bending fastball.
That cutter that broke late, nasty, as if the laws of physics bent around the ball just for him.

He remembered the way his heart had beat faster, not from nerves, but from something deeper. Something primal.

It wasn’t admiration.
It was instinct.
A kind of hunger.

Like a predator recognizing a rival. Or a partner.

That pitcher had something.

Something wild and electric and unrefined — and he wanted to catch it more than he could explain.

But now...

Now, that opportunity might’ve slipped through his fingers before he could even touch it.

He gripped the spoon tighter, the edge pressing against his palm. Then, with a soft clink of metal on ceramic, he set it down.

“Need some air,” he muttered.

Nobody stopped him.

But Ryosuke’s eyes followed him until he disappeared down the hallway.

Yoichi leaned closer to Jun, voice low. “Think he’ll pout all spring?”

Jun chuckled, flipping a page. “Nah. He’ll get over it  eventually.”

Across the table, Yuki was calmly finishing the last bite of rice from a lacquered lunchbox. Then, with no hesitation, he moved on to the cafeteria plate in front of him — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ryosuke narrowed his eyes. “You’re eating both?”

Yuki nodded. “Mom packed it. I should eat it.” His voice was quiet but sincere, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he picked up a rolled omelette.

Ryosuke gave a half-sigh, half-laugh. “Good for you, I guess.”

Tanba, on the other hand, hadn’t registered a single word of the conversation. He was too busy trying to keep his eyes open — his head swaying subtly over his curry, clearly fighting sleep more than hunger.

The table fell into a strange, short-lived silence.

Somewhere between teasing and realization.

Something was bothering Miyuki, sure.
But maybe it wasn’t just about missing someone.
Maybe it was about what could’ve been.

The cafeteria noise dulled the further Miyuki walked. Footsteps soft against the hallway floor, fluorescent lights flickering faintly above.
He didn’t head straight for the bathroom — not really. Just away. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere the air didn’t feel so heavy in his chest.

They all think I’m sulking.

He rubbed the back of his neck, lips quirking in something like a smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Maybe I am.

He leaned against the vending machine near the back hallway, where no one really bothered to come unless they wanted the good melon soda. One hand braced against the cold metal, the other shoved deep in his pocket.

It’s not like I expected him to show up. Not really. Not with how quiet he’s been. Not with how many schools were probably after him.

He exhaled slowly.

Still. I thought maybe... just maybe...

His mind wandered, unbidden, to the memory: the way that ball snapped into the glove during Akagi’s game, the sound of the wind whistling behind a pitch that shouldn’t have existed at that level. That stupid grin the pitcher wore after striking out someone twice his size.

It wasn’t just skill. It wasn’t just talent.

It was baseball. In its most chaotic, unpredictable form.

His fingers clenched in his pocket.

It made me want to catch it. Made me want to see what else he could throw. What else I could call.

He closed his eyes.

And now he might be gone. Might’ve chosen somewhere else. Someone else.

The thought hit deeper than expected. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. There were good pitchers here. Great ones.

But that guy— he was different. Raw, yeah, but real. The kind of pitcher you don’t get twice.

A breath slipped out, tight and sharp.

“I wasn’t imagining him,” Miyuki muttered to no one, staring at the vending machine like it might answer him. “I know what I saw.”

He straightened up slowly, stuffing both hands into his pockets as he turned back toward the cafeteria.

If he really didn’t come to Seidou, then that’s that.

But his jaw locked, and his eyes narrowed.

Still. I’m not letting go of that pitch. That pitcher.
Not yet.

By the time Miyuki returned, the cafeteria had shifted into its usual rhythm—the first-string team gathered for dinner, the post-practice buzz humming through the room. Plates clinked, laughter rose in pockets, and trays shuffled down the line.

He slid back into his seat like nothing had happened.

A moment later, a freshman with sharp eyes and quiet confidence strode over and sat beside him without hesitation.

“Miyuki-senpai,” Furuya said plainly, “can you be my catcher? I think  they can’t hit it. My fastball.”

Miyuki blinked, momentarily thrown.

Then he laughed. Not mocking—genuine.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

Tanba, seated across the table, raised an eyebrow at the exchange but said nothing. Jun leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk playing at his lips. “This’ll be fun.”

Miyuki glanced at Furuya again.

He wasn’t sulking anymore.

No—he was curious.

This is exciting, he thought. Maybe I do need a new challenge.

Game Day.

The Seidou baseball team stood assembled in the early morning light—first-string, second-string, and even some non-regulars lined up in uniform rows on the field. Behind Coach Kataoka stood the usual staff: assistant coaches, club president Ota, and today, a scout representing Seidou High’s administration.

Coach Kataoka stood tall as ever, arms folded behind his back, his expression unreadable as always. “As scheduled, we’ll be holding an intra-squad practice match later today. I want everyone to treat it like a real game. That includes the first-years.”

A ripple of tension passed through the line, especially among the new recruits.

“There’s one new first-year,” he continued, “who arrived yesterday morning. He had permission to delay his enrollment due to a death in the family. But now that he’s here, he’ll be participating in the game.”

A few of the second-years glanced toward the small group of first-years. One of them—a quiet, slightly hunched boy with glasses—bowed his head awkwardly, clearly nervous, but the fact that he’d shown up despite personal tragedy earned him quiet nods of respect.

Then Yuki raised his hand.

“What about the other first-year? The one who was also excused? Is he coming today?”

This time, it wasn’t Coach Kataoka who answered—it was Rei Takashima. She adjusted her glasses, her tone calm and crisp, like she was reading from a report.

“Regarding the other student—his guardian informed me that he’s already been cleared and is preparing to come to campus. He won’t be participating in today’s match, but that doesn’t mean he’s excluded from evaluation.”

She looked across the gathered team. “As with all new players, he’ll be assessed during his first practice. There are no special treatments. I expect everyone to welcome him as we would any other teammate.”

Intra-Squad Practice Match

Freshmen vs. Upperclassmen (2nd–3rd Years)

The game opened with a heavy imbalance.

Toujou started on the mound for the freshmen, his jaw tight with determination. But within minutes, the seniors tore through the lineup. Hit after hit. Mistake after mistake.

By the end of the first inning, the scoreboard read:

0–12.

Frustration was all over Toujou’s face. His fingers clenched tightly around the seams of the ball as he tried to block out the jeers and silence from the dugout.

I can’t breathe...

Then—flashback.

Nationals. Third round.

He stood on the mound in the blazing sun, opposite Akagi Middle School. And at the center of it all—

That guy.

Sawamura Eijun.

That pitcher with the wild mechanics, the unpredictable rhythm, the weird pauses between pitches—like his body didn’t follow normal rules.

That voice.

Loud. Unpredictable. Impossible to ignore.

“ Yoshaaa!”

It echoed in his head like it happened yesterday—sharp and clear, cutting through the stadium air.

Tch... Why does that moment still stick with me?

Toujou clenched his jaw, gripping the ball tighter.

Everything about that pitcher was strange. His rhythm, his body, even the way he talked. And yet... he won...they won. He shut us down like it was nothing.

Now, standing on Seidou’s mound, that pressure—that exact same pressure—was starting to creep back in.

Back to the present—Coach Kataoka stepped out of the dugout.

“Toujou. That’s enough.”

Toujou grit his teeth, then nodded stiffly and stepped off the mound.

Coach turned to another first-year.

“Furuya.”

The tall, quiet boy stepped onto the field with deliberate movements, exuding a strange intensity.

He took the mound like he belonged there.

Then—he threw.

Whack!

145 km/h.

But the pitch missed.

It rocketed straight into Coach Kataoka’s protective face mask with a loud thud.

Gasps shot through the field.

Kataoka didn’t flinch. Calmly, he adjusted his cap, the mask holding firm.

Then he said, simply:

“First-string.”

Confused murmurs buzzed from the dugout.

“He just hit the coach—”

“Isn’t it too soon—?”

But Kataoka silenced them with a look

Kataoka didn’t flinch. Calmly, he adjusted his cap, the mask holding firm.

Then he said, simply:

“None of the second- or third-years can handle that fastball. I’ve seen enough.

He was about to call the game early—until a voice rose from the field.

“Coach!”

It was Kanemaru.

He stepped forward, eyes burning with something new.

“Please let us continue! Not all of us got to play!”

Toujou turned, startled. That didn’t sound like him.

Kataoka paused for a beat, then gave a single nod.

“One more inning.”

Kaneda, a shaky but tall first-year, took the mound. He didn’t have the power Furuya did, but he held his nerves together well enough to prevent another slaughter.

Then came the offense.

Takatsu singled to center.

Haruchi followed with a perfect bunt down the third-base line and reached base.

Then—Haruchi stole third, completely clean.

The dugout came alive.

Kanemaru stepped into the batter’s box.

His hands gripped the bat tightly.

His heart was pounding—but not just from the pressure of the moment.

Flashback

Nationals. After their loss to Akagi.

They’d lined up, bowed, ready to exit the field.

That’s when he heard it—clear as day.

From the winning team’s side, a voice rang out like it had been waiting for the perfect dramatic cue.

“Let’s see you around the field, Kaneeeee~! You’re interesting, Kaneeeee~ yahh! Oish!!!”

Kanemaru froze. The nickname echoed in his head long after the bus ride home.

He’d been thinking about that voice ever since. That lollipop-chewing, sharp-eyed, chaos-pitching lunatic from Nagano.

That damn nickname.

He snapped back to the present.

Pitch came.

Crack!

The ball soared.

Takatsu and Haruchi tore off the bases, sliding home as the upperclassmen scrambled.

Two runs.

Kanemaru stood on second base, breathless.

Then—he heard it again.

Outside the fence. From someone. From somewhere.

“OHHHHH GO KANEEEEEEEE~!”

His whole body jolted.

Eyes wide.

Because that voice wasn’t imaginary.

Someone had appeared. Quietly. Casually.

A young man strolled through the outer walkway of Seidou’s baseball grounds, dressed in loose casual clothes and clean, well-worn sneakers. A pair of round glasses perched on his nose gave him a soft, almost nerdy look—though there was something oddly charming about it. Like he didn’t quite belong, but didn’t care either.

Slung across one shoulder was a large gym bag, clearly too full—textbooks on soil science, geology, and even a dense biology volume poked out the top. He wasn’t sure why he brought that one, but he didn’t mind.

Chewing gum and listening to music through a headset, he turned the corner and paused just beyond the fence. With a small flick, he slid the headphones down to rest around his neck, eyes locking onto the field with unexpected sharpness.

The score blinked on the board: 0–12.

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Damn. These guys are kinda terrifying.”

He scanned the field, eyes flicking from mound to dugout to bleachers. A couple students nearby were murmuring about the team. Others were watching intently — notebooks out, snacks in hand, pointing out good plays and bad ones.

His gaze stopped on the pitcher for the first-years.

That pressure it’s eating him alive. Mound’s swallowing him whole.

He chewed thoughtfully. I’ve been there.

Then, a shift.

A tall figure stepped onto the mound — calm, silent, and so focused he barely seemed to notice the world around him. The first-years murmured from the bench, but no one said his name out loud.

He squinted slightly, watching as the new pitcher adjusted his cap.

Huh... that’s a first-year?

The stance was solid. Posture clean. No wasted movement.

He didn’t look at the batter. Didn’t glance at his teammates. Just stood there, collected and unreadable — like the mound belonged only to him.
Calm, silent, and distant, like the pressure just slid off him.

Cold, he thought, gum shifting between his teeth. Cold as hell....

And then he threw.

Whack.

The ball shot forward like a bullet — fast, wild, and completely uncatchable.

Straight into the coach’s mask.

A sharp laugh almost escaped his throat.

Guess Seidou’s not lacking firepower.
But he tilted his head slightly, gum shifting between his teeth.
Power’s nothing without control, though. Can’t hit what you can’t aim..

“First-string.”

He blinked.

Just once.

The gum in his mouth stopped moving as the word settled.

Seriously?

His eyes flicked back to the mound.

The pitcher hadn’t flinched. No reaction. Like he expected it — like being fast-tracked to the top was routine.

Wild pitch, no control, but straight to first-string?

He shifted his weight, adjusting the strap of his bag, eyes narrowing behind round glasses.

That’s the bar, huh...

Not annoyance. Not admiration either. Something in between — like filing it away for later.

He chewed again, slower this time.

Guess this school really doesn’t waste time.

He stood there for a while longer, thoughts still turning.

For a moment, he didn’t even notice the game had resumed.

Wait—

Another pitch flew by.

Cheers erupted.

He blinked again, snapped back into the moment.

Right. The match hadn’t ended.

His eyes drifted across the field, scanning quietly.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly.

That pink-haired guy though— he’s tiny, but good instincts. Confident swing. Pretty sharp.

And then—

There.

His eyes caught on a familiar face in the batter’s box. The one with the sharp tongue, solid stance, and that ever-present glare that screamed “don’t call me that.”

Kanemaru.

His gum snapped between his teeth.

That swing
It had changed. Clean. Balanced. Hah. Not bad.

The crack of the bat rang through the air.

The red-haired guy tore past third, followed closely by the tiny pink one. Two runs in. Not bad.

Kanemaru stood on second base, stunned and breathless.

And just beyond the fence line, he stood—rising slowly from where he’d crouched behind a group of students.

Grinning.

One hand casually cupped around his mouth.

And then—

“OHHHHH GO KANEEEEEEEE~!”

The words rang out louder than he meant. Heads turned. Conversations stalled. Even a few birds scattered.

He blinked.

...Oops.

Realizing just how loud he'd been, he cleared his throat awkwardly and pretending to check something in his bag. Like he hadn’t just disrupted the entire field.

Gum still in his mouth, he mumbled, “Right. Not making noise. Got it.”

Acting as if nothing happened, he adjusted his glasses and took a few casual steps back behind the cluster of students—like some completely innocent bystander who absolutely hadn’t yelled anything.

Later that evening, just outside Seidou’s front gates—

Rei Takashima stood waiting, arms crossed, heels tapping softly against the pavement.

The sun had dipped behind the school buildings, casting long shadows over the quiet lot. She glanced at her watch for the third time, then looked up just as a cab rolled to a stop near the curb.

The back door opened.

Out stepped a boy in a casual navy hoodie, faded jeans, and a bucket hat tugged low over his face. His shoes were clean, well-worn sneakers with mismatched laces. Slung over both shoulders and arms were what could only be described as a ridiculous amount of luggage: a giant duffel bag stuffed to bursting, two suitcase-sized cases stacked awkwardly on top of each other, and in one hand, he held a plastic bag of fruit, hanging loose, like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Rei blinked.

A pineapple nearly rolled out of the plastic bag.

He looked freshly showered and completely comfortable, as if this were just a stroll through a park.

“Good to see you here, Sawamura-kun.”

He looked up with a sheepish grin, tipping his bucket hat slightly. “You too, Takashima-san.”

Then, rubbing the back of his neck, he added lightly,
“I wasn’t lost or anything. But my uncle scolded me for hanging around near the parking lot too long. Said I looked suspicious.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That all you’ve got?”

He motioned to his cargo like it explained everything.
“This is everything. I pack emotionally, not logically.”

Rei’s gaze swept over the mountain of baggage—one bag half-unzipped, revealing notebooks, a wrapped bat, and a pack of gum next to a textbook labeled “Advanced Biology for Pre-University Students.” A baseball glove dangled from a strap, and sticking out of one pocket was a copy of Soil Science for Sustainable Agriculture.

It looked more like he was moving in to start a research lab than a baseball dorm.

“Did your family kick you out or something?” she asked dryly.

“Nah,” he said with a shrug. “I just— couldn’t leave stuff behind. Every little thing’s got a memory attached. So I brought ‘em.”

She exhaled, pushing her hair behind one ear. There really was no one else like him.

Then her gaze narrowed, sharp again.

“You were at the intra-squad game today, weren’t you?”

He froze for half a second too long. “Me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said flatly. “Behind the fence. Gum in your mouth. Yelled across the whole field.”

He looked away, eyes flicking toward the school buildings.

“That might’ve been someone else?” he offered, not very convincingly.

Rei stared him down.

He sighed. Then grinned, defeated.

“Okay, maybe I wandered by.” He paused. “Got curious. I didn’t plan to stay. Just wanted to you know. Look around.”

“If you wanted to pitch, you could’ve asked,” she muttered. “ Coach Kataoka would’ve let you join. You know that.”

“Didn’t feel right,” he said softly. “Not in uniform. Not officially part of the team. I didn’t want to walk in like I owned the place.”

She sighed again, then gestured toward the path beside her.

They started walking toward the dorms.

“You’ll be staying in Spirit Dorm, Room 205. You’ve got two senpai in there—good guys. Be respectful. Be friendly. Don’t weird them out.”

“Define weird,” he said innocently.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now—don’t do it.”

He gave a quick salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

As they passed the gate, Rei looked at his ridiculous stack of luggage again. One of the bags let out a clunk, probably a jar of pickled plums or an old notebook falling sideways.

“You’ve really got a gift for chaos, you know that?” she said.

“It’s part of my charm,” he replied, grinning.

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

Then, after a beat—

“Welcome to Seidou, Sawamura Eijun.”

To Be Continued.

Chapter Text

He was bored. Staring-at-the-ceiling, counting-cracks-on-the-wall, even-with-a-lollipop-in-his-mouth bored. The minor injury he’d gotten had healed up faster than expected — probably thanks to that happy go lucky  sports doctor with the sunglasses and pointed eyebrows, whom Eijun had dubbed Mr. Secret Agent.

The guy even showed up at the rehabilitation athletic center just for his monthly check-ups. What a guy.

At one visit, he muttered, “If you recover fast, I’ll give you the most expensive lollipop I know.”

Eijun never figured out whether the guy was joking — but the next check-up came with a fancy imported candy and a very smug look.

Well, it worked. Eijun had cleared his check-up. He was technically good to go. But still—he had been sick. For real.

And now he was just... stuck. Discharged from the hospital just yesterday after a whole week inside. A whole WEEK.

A week of laying down, eating bland food, reading old manga, watching daytime TV, and playing shogi with an elder man from the room next door who kept beating him. No baseball. No running. No anything.

Worst of all? He missed the first day of school. The first school of his life! In TOKYO!

To top it all off, he'd just learned that the same man who picked him up from the station — who he'd thought was some weird salesman or maybe a retiree trying too hard to look young — was actually the school head of the said school  I enrolled.

"MYYY GHAAD," Eijun had whispered dramatically to himself. "I was SCAMMED."

But he couldn't be mad. Not really. He was grateful. Just... slightly betrayed.

His friends had visited him yesterday in their new uniforms, teasing him for getting sick after claiming to have never missed a day since he was eleven.

"I’m the unluckiest guy in the world," he groaned.

So, this morning, when the sun came up and the boredom hit again like a fly ball to the head, he made a decision.

He was going to Seidou.

He left a note for his dad and ojii-san on the fridge, and a very special note for his mom (complete with three hearts and underlined words).

He brought a bag filled with totally unnecessary things: a Tokyo historical guidebook, some old class notes, snacks, a bit of pocket money, a fully charged phone, and a crisp map folded with such care it could've been a treasure scroll.

"Heading there will be a piece of cake," he smirked to himself.

The train arrived, and that familiar scent of Tokyo air hit him again. It reminded him of the very first day he arrived. Nervous, loud, thrilled. This time, he was on a mission.

He took a cab straight from the station, having bought a piece of melon bread from the same convenience store where he once waited to be picked up.

Now, here he was.

Standing at the gates of Seidou.

Casual clothes, backpack slung over one shoulder, and a chunk of bread still in his cheek.

He spotted someone standing near the entrance and jogged over.

“Uh, excuse me! Where’s the school head’s office? I have a personal appointment. Look!”
He fished into his bag and proudly flashed the entry pass card like it was a rare treasure.

“Mr. Secret Agent gave me this just in case,” he murmured under his breath, almost like a secret password only he was allowed to know.

The man squinted, then pointed vaguely. "Down that path. Right at the first turn. Then left. Or maybe another right? You'll see a sign."

Eijun blinked. That meant absolutely nothing.

He headed off anyway.

His internal monologue kicked in.

A lone boy... wanders an unfamiliar land... brave, despite the odds... seeking answers in the halls of giants.

Yes. He was like that. He could feel the theme song rising.

He stopped in front of a tall building.

"Tch... Why are all Tokyo schools so damn big?"

He stepped inside.

Quiet. Too quiet.

A few students passed by, but none paid him any mind. Eijun wandered slowly. He never rushed when something mattered. But he already knew he’d taken a wrong turn.

"Why do all the halls look the same?!" he growled, now passing a large gym and somehow ending up near the track field.

Ah, whatever.

With a lollipop in his mouth and one earbud in, he slumped onto a bench at the edge of the track. Watched the clouds. Felt the breeze.

His phone buzzed.

It's was his mom.

Just as he was about to reply to his mom’s text — Where are you? — his phone started buzzing.

An unknown number flashed on the screen.

He blinked, then picked up. “Who’s this?”

“Brat, it’s me! Your uncle!” came the familiar voice on the other end.

Eijun picked up the call, already grinning. “Oh, hi Uncle! What made you call me?”

The voice on the other end wasn’t nearly as cheerful. “Call you?! Everyone at home lost their minds when they saw your note! Your grandfather almost shed the last of his hair!”

Eijun laughed. “Come on, it was already on its way out.”

“Brat—where the hell are you?!”

He scratched his cheek sheepishly, trying not to laugh. “Uhh... Seidou?”

A long pause followed. Then came the shout:
“Seidou?! What the hell are you doing there? Why are you even at Seidou?!”
Another beat passed, then—
“Where the hell in Seidou are you?!”

Eijun blinked, looked around at the unfamiliar scenery—trees, a dirt path, and a few students jogging past in matching gym clothes. “Umm... somewhere near the place where people are running?”

“Don’t move,” his uncle snapped. “I’m coming to get you.”

Minutes later, Uncle appeared, clearly relieved and clearly mad.

“So, how come you didn’t tell me you were going to Tokyo today?! Your parents are worried sick!”

"I did!" Eijun held up a finger. "I left a note!"

His uncle’s voice tightened with disbelief. “You wrote it on a gum wrapper.”

Eijun winced, gripping his bag a little tighter. “I was in a rush!”

“The last line says: ‘P.S. Don’t forget to water the cactus.’” His uncle inhaled sharply, then ground his teeth.

Eijun laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Okay, okay, I messed up. I was bored. But you’re not mad, right?”

There was a pause. Then, flat and deadly calm, his uncle said, “Oh, I’m not mad.”

Eijun’s eyes widened. “You’re MAD.”

“You had a fever last week! You just got discharged! And you WANDERED OFF!”

Eijun flinched, taking a small step back. “O-Okay, okay! That does sound kinda bad when you say it like that.”

“Eijun.” His uncle’s tone dropped an octave dangerously low.

He straightened up, swallowing hard. “Y-Yes, Uncle?”

“Don’t make me put a GPS tracker in your shoe.”

Eijun squinted suspiciously, narrowing his eyes like he was staring down a catcher’s sign. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Eijun’s lips twitched. “What if I start wearing slippers all day?”

His uncle gave him a flat glare.

“Okay okay! No more running off. Sawamura promise!” He held up three fingers.

His uncle sighed, rubbing at his temple. “You’re lucky nothing happened or I would've been DEAD.”

They started walking. His uncle led the way

“We’re heading to the office. And don’t look suspicious,” his uncle muttered, walking briskly beside him. “If a student sees you, they might think you got called in for disciplinary action.”

Eijun perked up, eyes glinting with mischief. “Heh. That’d be kinda cool.”

His uncle shot him a side-eye, jaw twitching. “You’re impossible.”

Eijun just grinned, hands in his pockets, strolling like he owned the campus. “Maybe I’ll start a rumor.”

Uncle rolled his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re just like him.”

Eijun tilted his head, blinking. “Who?”

“You know him.”

“Wait, really?!” Eijun’s eyes widened, mouth slightly agape.

“Yeah. Just as stubborn as you. Kei. You know—he kept feeding you fries all day like it was a mission.”

Eijun gasped, eyebrows shooting up. “The super-serious guy who looked like he walked out of a fashion magazine?!”

Uncle nodded with a shrug, like it should’ve been obvious. “He was the school doctor here. Before he transferred to Machida.”

Eijun stopped walking. “YOU NEVER TOLD ME THAT!” he shouted, spinning to face his uncle in disbelief. “I thought he was just some cool alumni!”

Uncle smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “You never asked.”

Eijun groaned and tugged at his hair. “Ughhh, I let him steal my melon bread!”

He gasped dramatically. "This is betrayal. The system! The lies! The hidden identities!"

"I’m about to smack this folder against your head," his uncle growled. "Stay put here while I drop something off. Try not to break the office while I’m gone."

Eijun just grinned wide, flashing a peace sign.

"Yessir! Scout’s honor!"

Interlude – Back in Akagi

Back in Nagano, the Akagi baseball club was buzzing.

The third-years had left, but their presence lingered like shadows on the field.

Coach Murata stood before the new lineup of regulars, clipboard in hand.

The new captain tried to maintain a serious face.

“Let’s honor our senpai by doing our best.”

Someone shouted, “Sawamura-senpai wouldn’t say something that boring!”

Laughter erupted.

Indeed, Eijun’s influence remained. The new pitchers mimicked his warm-up routines. The younger infielders tried to copy his yelling habits — often unsuccessfully.

A third-year assistant coach grinned. “They’ve inherited his chaos.”

But above all, they’d inherited his pride.

Akagi wasn’t just a small-town team anymore.

They were champions — even without their ace.

And somewhere in Tokyo, their former captain and Ace was beginning a new story.

Interlude – From the Window

Third-floor classroom, Room 1-2.

Kanemaru was zoning out. The lecture was boring. He was supposed to be taking notes on... something to do with literature.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw someone walking on the track below.

Brown hair. Tall. Lollipop in mouth. Hoodie and headphones.

Kanemaru squinted.

No way...

He leaned closer to the window.

That gait. That messy mop of hair. The casual slump of his shoulders like he owned the place.

Then the teacher’s voice barked across the room. “Kanemaru. Something out there more interesting than our lesson?”

He jolted. “N-No, sensei! Sorry!”

He sat stiffly in his chair the rest of the period, but his mind wasn’t on the lesson anymore.

Was that him...?

Interlude: Between Seasons

The air inside the rehab facility always felt a little too clean—sterile and quiet, like the whole place was holding its breath. Eijun sat cross-legged on the floor, a resistance band looped around his pitching arm, slowly rotating his forearm under the therapist’s instruction. His jaw clenched slightly with each pull. Not from pain—he could handle that—but from the frustration of how slow everything felt.

He hated stillness. Stillness meant no pitching. No running. No yelling from the mound.

Just... waiting.

The door creaked open.

“Yo,” came a familiar voice—smooth, casual, and annoyingly smug.

Eijun’s head whipped around, eyes immediately lighting up. “Mr. Secret Agent!”

The man stepped in, unbothered by the sharp fluorescent lighting, dressed in his usual unassuming way: hoodie, sneakers, and a dark sling bag over his shoulder. His hair was slicked back today, a little too clean-cut for someone who still looked like he belonged on a spy mission in a drama series.

“You like calling me that, huh?” he said, lips quirking in amusement. “I’m flattered, Eijun-chan. You make me feel special.”

Eijun’s reaction was priceless—he nearly choked on air, his ears turning pink. “Wha—! Don’t call me that with that face!”

Mr. Secret Agent just grinned and casually tossed a paper bag at him. “Relax. I brought the melon bread.”

Eijun caught it on instinct, hugging it like a treasure. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I’m not a doctor, but sure, I’ll take it,” he said, glancing at the rehab notes posted on the clipboard by the wall. “Let’s see how our favorite troublemaker is doing this month.”

Eijun leaned back, already tearing into the bread. “I’m not a kid, you know.”

“Right. You’re a teenager who fell off a hill, didn’t tell anyone his arm was messed up, and decided to casually power through the national tournament.”

Eijun scowled. “I was trying to protect my head when I fell!”

“And in doing so, scraped your pitching arm and strained half your upper body like a hero in a low-budget action movie,” the man deadpanned. “Congratulations.”

Eijun mumbled around his bite of bread, “It’s not that bad”

“You’re lucky you didn’t dislocate anything. Or worse.” His tone softened just slightly. “You’re tougher than you look, but even tough guys have bones.”

Despite himself, Eijun chuckled.

They went through the usual drills—grip tests, range-of-motion checks, some light tossing with foam balls. Eijun’s movements were sharper now, more precise. Still a little tight. Still not enough to clear him.

Not yet.

“You’re healing well,” Mr. Secret Agent finally said, watching the motions carefully. “But I’m not clearing you until the muscle tightness around your elbow calms down. You’ve still got a few weeks.”

Eijun nodded, lips pressed together. “I get it.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

A pause. Then, reluctantly: “No. But I’m trying to.”

That earned a quiet laugh. He reached over, gave Eijun’s hair a brief ruffle. “That’s progress.”

Later, they sat on the bench just outside the rehab center. The cicadas buzzed lazily around them. A gentle breeze passed, stirring the leaves. It should’ve felt peaceful—but for Eijun, it just made the ache of waiting worse.

“Do you miss it?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Baseball?”

Mr. Secret Agent didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted toward the sky. “Every day.”

Eijun gave a slow nod. “Me too.”

Another pause stretched between them.

Then the man stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hoodie. “Good. Missing it means it still matters. But don’t rush back just because you feel useless.”

Eijun didn’t respond right away. He just leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, melon bread long gone. The fire in his chest still burned—but it burned differently now. More controlled. Steadier.

“Next time,” he said, “bring two melon breads. I’m bulking.”

Mr. Secret Agent snorted. “Next time, try not to sulk.”

Eijun smirked. “No promises.”

They both knew the warning was half-hearted. The promise to return—real.

To Be Continued.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen across the countryside.

“The window was cracked open, letting in the crisp air.” Winter hadn’t fully loosened its grip yet, and the breeze carried the scent of damp soil and the faint echo of frogs from the rice paddies. Inside, the warmth of the home stood in contrast — dim lamps casting golden light across shelves of old books, framed photos, and souvenirs gathered over the years.

From down the hallway, my mom called out:

“Did you pack the extra towel? And a change of clothes? Just in case?”

“Yeah, it’s in my bag!” I shouted back.

There was some rustling as I zipped up one pocket, opened another. One drawer creaked open, then slammed shut with the side of my arm.

I stood by my bed, scanning the contents of my duffel like I was preparing for war or something. Everything was where it should be: uniform folded neatly, socks rolled tight, shirts stacked the way she taught me. I even remembered the indoor shoes.

My glove sat right on top — oiled and polished the night before, still smelling faintly of leather. And sticking out of the side pocket were two unopened lollipops, the bright wrappers crinkling when I adjusted the strap.

Weird how something so small made the bag feel heavier.

“You’re not taking too much junk, are you?” my mom asked as she peeked her head into the room. “You’re staying in a dorm, not setting up camp on a mountain.”

I shot her a look over my shoulder, but the grin came quickly. “Relax, Mom. I’m not bringing the whole house.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, stepping inside. Her eyes drifted over the pile of packed clothes and the slightly chaotic way some items stuck out. She didn’t fix it. She just looked at me for a long moment.

I tried not to squirm under her gaze, but something about the way she looked at me — like she was memorizing everything — made me shift on my feet.

She didn’t say anything right away. Then, softly:

“You’re really going, huh?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

It felt weird saying it out loud. Not scary, exactly. Just... heavy. Like I was putting my hand on the doorknob of something big and real.

Mom crossed the room and smoothed a wrinkle on my bag that didn’t need fixing.

“You’ve grown up so much, sweetheart,” she said, her voice gentler than usual. “I can still see the little boy who used to cry when he struck out in tee-ball and now look at you.”

That caught me off guard.

“If I could, I’d keep you here forever,” she added, glancing up. “But this dream— it’s yours. Just promise me ,  if something doesn’t feel right, if anything happens — don’t keep it to yourself. You call, alright?”

I didn’t say anything at first. My throat was kind of caught, so I just nodded and hugged her. Tight. No words. Just a hug.

“You’ll always have a place here,” she whispered against my shoulder. “No matter where you go.”

I held on a moment longer before letting go, just enough to meet her eyes.

“I know, Mom.”

Mom didn’t say anything. She just held me a little longer before stepping back with that soft smile — the kind that actually reached her eyes.

Outside, the wind brushed gently against the walls.

The next train wouldn’t leave until morning.

But everything was ready.

And tomorrow

I was going to Tokyo.

This time, For real. For good.

The entire Akagi Middle School had gathered at the station — coaches, classmates, teammates, even neighbors — all coming together to send off Eijun as he boarded the train bound for Tokyo.

He stood before them with suitcases in hand, heart thudding loud beneath his uniform. Excitement and dread tangled in his chest, but he masked it well — grinning wide, waving like it was a local festival.

He gave a short speech. Funny, awkward, heartfelt. Thanked everyone. Joked about coming back even louder than before. They laughed. A few cried.

Wakana stepped forward, eyes glassy but determined not to break. In her hands, a white baseball cap — now covered in signatures, scrawls, and doodles from every member of the Akagi team.

“This is all of us,” she said, placing the cap in his hands. “Take it with you — so you’ll remember we’re always behind you.”

He took it like it was gold and carefully stuffed it into his bag, like something that might shatter if held wrong.

The train let out its final call.

His mother rushed forward, squeezing his cheeks with both hands and blurting out all her last-minute reminders at once: “Eat properly! Don’t be too loud! Change your socks every day! Write us, okay?!”

His father nodded firmly and clapped his shoulder. His ojii-san gave a proud thumbs-up and pretended he wasn’t wiping at his eyes.

The doors slid shut.

And for the first time in a long time maybe since he was a little boy who couldn’t even throw straight . Eijun felt something sharp press behind his eyes.

His fists clenched at his sides, jaw trembling just slightly.

He was really leaving.

And as the train pulled away, the tears finally spilled.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But real.

For the first time, he felt what it meant to say goodbye.

To be alone. To grow—

The Arrival – Welcome to Tokyo

The train doors slid open to the hum of Kokubunji Station.

Beneath the afternoon sun and the gentle clatter of passing trains, I spotted him right away.

My uncle — sharp as always, standing near the edge of the platform like he belonged in a magazine ad for fancy watches or luxury cars. His shoes gleamed. His suit looked like it cost more than my entire baseball bag. Bald head shining, back straight  like a man who refused to age without style.

When he saw me, though  messy hair, oversized duffel bag and all something in his expression shifted.

His stern face softened.

“Welcome back,” he said, stepping forward.

“How was the trip?”

I blinked, a little surprised. Then, of course, I smiled. Full-force. The real one.

“Uncle! It was fine,” I said, shifting my bag’s weight as I reached him. “Kind of loud. And really long. And a little bit sad, to be honest.”

I scratched at my cheek. “It’s weird, y’know? Saying goodbye. Everyone was crying, and they gave me this cap, and—”

I couldn’t even finish the sentence. My throat just—clenched.

But Uncle didn’t press. He just nodded, quiet, and reached for one of my suitcase handles like it was nothing.

We didn’t need to say more.

We just walked together toward the car, the wind tugging at my hoodie, the noise of the station fading behind us.

Later That Evening

At my uncle’s place my temporary home before I officially moved into the Seidou dorms.

I didn’t bother unpacking.

Dropped my bags exactly where Uncle told me to, then wandered into the spare room and flopped face-first onto the futon like some kid on summer break. In my hands? A book titled:
“The Theory of Quantum Bunts: How Molecules Predict Your Swing.”

I didn’t even buy it. I stole it straight off Nobu’s bookshelf.

He’s definitely gonna murder me once he notices it’s gone. Worth it.

I started reading. And like two pages in, I was already laughing. Loudly. Like a serial killer on vacation.

Uncle poked his head into the room, looking like he expected to see something on fire. “Are you okay?”

“Totally,” I said, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “Life’s just — AMAZING.”

He stared. Blinked once. Then slowly backed out of the room like I was about to explode.

But not before his eyes landed on the lollipop in my pocket and the one I’d hidden under the pillow.

“We’re going to have a talk about your sugar intake,” he muttered as he disappeared.

I snorted and rolled over, still holding the book like it was a treasure map.

Tokyo.

I was here. Officially enrolled. Bags full of baseball dreams. Brain full of chaos. Pockets full of sugar.

Yeah.

I was ready.

The street was cooling off, the sun dipping past the rooftops, casting mellow gold across the quiet houses. I stood at the curb, duffle bag over one shoulder, arms full of mismatched luggage, and a plastic bag of fruit swinging at my side.

The cab had just arrived.

Uncle couldn’t come with me tonight—he had a formal dinner to attend, something about finalizing a partnership deal. A few well-dressed clients, a steakhouse, and the kind of talk that made my brain melt. Definitely not the kind of thing to bring a teenage nephew to.

Good thing he’d booked a cab ahead of time.

I adjusted the strap of my duffel and let out a breath, remembering—

The scent of grilled fish and tamagoyaki filled the kitchen that morning, but I mostly pushed rice around my bowl.

Uncle sat across from me, sipping black coffee and flipping through the newspaper. The radio played quietly in the background, sports chatter fading in and out.

“Eijun,” he finally said, glancing up. “Got dinner tonight. Business thing. I won’t be able to accompany you. But I already booked a cab. The driver knows where to drop you.”

I nodded, chewing without much enthusiasm. “Thanks, Ojisan.”

“Try not to get lost before then.”

I blinked, then looked up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Just saying.”

“No faith in me, huh?”

“I have some faith,” he said, lifting his cup, “just not when it comes to navigation.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I found my way back that one time, didn’t I?”

“After calling me five times.”

I huffed. “That’s called using resources. Smart people do that.”

He snorted into his coffee. “Figures. You’ve got the sense of the direction of a sleep-deprived squirrel.”

“Wow,” I muttered. “Love the support.”

Back in the present, the cab slowed to a stop near the school entrance.

Waiting by the curb was a woman in a blazer, arms crossed, heel tapping against the pavement. Takashima-san glanced at her watch, then looked up just as the door opened.

I stepped out in my navy hoodie, worn jeans, and bucket hat pulled low. A mountain of luggage came with me: one oversized duffel, two stacked gear cases, and my swinging bag of fruit.

Takashima-san blinked.

A pineapple nearly tumbled out of the plastic bag.

Freshly showered and feeling at ease, I treated this like a Sunday stroll, not a formal school entrance.

“Good to see you here, Sawamura-kun.”

I tipped my hat slightly with a sheepish grin. “You too, Takashima-san.”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I added, “Wasn’t lost or anything. But my uncle yelled at me for standing in the parking lot too long. Said I looked suspicious.”

She gave me a long look, then sighed. “That's all you’ve got?”

I motioned toward my bags. “I pack emotionally, not logically.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

We began walking through the gate, the low buzz of distant voices and baseball gear still echoing faintly in the background.

As we neared the dorm steps, she gave me a sideways glance.

“You really do bring chaos everywhere.”

“It’s part of the charm,” I said with a grin.

She shook her head. But after a beat—

“Welcome to Seidou, Sawamura Eijun.”

The hallway smelled faintly of fresh tatami and cleaning spray. Soft voices carried from deeper inside the dorm, but this stretch was quiet.

I stood outside the sliding door labeled 205, balancing my mountain of bags and the fruit bag that was now beginning to leak a little condensation.

I stared at the door.

Then looked down at myself.

Then at the door again.

I inhaled once, adjusted the strap on my shoulder, and raised a hand to knock.

Paused.

“Okay. Don’t weird them out. Smile. Say hi. Don’t be weird.”

I knocked, soft but steady.

And waited.

The door slid open with a faint shhhhck.

Standing in the doorway was a boy—just about my height—wearing a torn cloak, shirt stained with streaks of fake blood, and holding what could only be described as a very questionable plastic face knife.

We locked eyes.

The senpai’s face contorted the moment he saw me.

“WHAT THE—?!”

The guy yelped, stumbling back like he’d just seen something crawl out of a cursed VHS tape. There was a loud clatter as the fake knife slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a hollow thunk.

Behind him, another senpai popped into view, shirtless with half a werewolf mask still stuck to his head. He wasn’t as dramatic as the first guy, but he, too, froze when he saw me standing at the door.

Unfazed, I bowed politely despite the chaos of what looked like the aftermath of a horror film photoshoot.

“Good evening! I’m Sawamura Eijun. Takashima-san said I’d be staying here—room 205. It’s nice to meet you, senpai!”

I flashed a bright, innocent smile, like I hadn’t just walked in on the set of Resident Evil: Dorm Life Edition.

The guy in front—still staring, eyes wide—gurgled something unintelligible, mouth slightly open like his brain had short-circuited.

“Am I hallucinating?” he muttered to his roommate, still not blinking. “There’s no way that’s a real person.”

I blinked back at him.
Was that... directed at me?
I glanced down at my hoodie, then at the half-squished bag of fruit still swinging from my wrist.
Pretty sure I’m solid. Breathing. Not floating. Definitely alive.

The other senpai—still half in costume—finally peeled off the rest of the werewolf mask, revealing a tired face underneath. “I told you not to wear that crap inside”

I watched the two of them silently as they tried to make sense of my existence. It was almost like I’d stepped into someone’s dream sequence by mistake. Or maybe a cursed play rehearsal.

Okay... they’re not dangerous, I told myself. Just confused. Maybe theatrical. That’s fine.

Still, no one moved.

A pineapple finally gave up its grip on the plastic bag and dropped with a soft plop onto the wooden floor. I glanced down at it, then back up with a polite smile.

“I can clean that up.”

The bigger senpai—broad-shouldered and still tugging off what was left of the werewolf mask—just gave a short exhale. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet acceptance.

“So you’re the new kid, huh,” he said, stepping aside. “Alright. Come in before the fruit leaks everywhere.”

I hesitated in the doorway. “So—should I come in, or...?”

The boy in front finally blinked. Once. Slowly. His eyes tracked me like he expected me to dissolve into mist.

“He bowed,” he said under his breath, horror still etched into every line of his face.

I tried not to laugh. “Do first-years usually not do that?”

Still nothing.

So I smiled wider, stepped inside, and gently closed the door behind me.

Yup, I thought as I glanced around the room. This is going to be interesting.

To Be Continued.

Chapter Text

The Seidou grounds were alive with chaos.

Field B rang with the sharp echoes of first-years pounding through their morning run their desperate energy vibrating in every step, every wheezing breath. Shoes slapped against the dirt, voices barked commands, and lungs burned in sync. Everyone was trying to stand out. Everyone wanted a shot at the first string.

But Field A?

Field A was different.

It thrummed with precision. Weight. Purpose.
It started as a quiet itch at the back of his mind.

Nothing too suspicious—yet.

But Ryosuke Kominato didn’t like inconsistencies. In baseball or in people. Especially not on his team.

From where he stood by the fence near the dugout, he scanned the field, arms crossed. Field A was humming with the usual weight: Captain Yuki leading with authority, Tanba pouring sweat and pride into every pitch, Jun swinging like the bat owed him money. Shirasu, quiet as always, delivered clean, boring, dependable hits. Kawakami moved through his warmups like a metronome.

Miyuki was, well.... Miyuki. That grin hasn’t changed in years.

Ryosuke’s gaze swept past them all. Then paused.

Someone new.

One of the promoted first-years. The one quietly approached Miyuki with that relaxed stance, like he already had the right to be there. Ryosuke tilted his head slightly. Interesting. The kid didn’t look nervous. Didn’t look lost.

He looked like someone who already had a seat at the table.

Ryosuke didn’t speak. Just observed. That’s all it took.

And while he was watching Field A—his eyes drifted toward Masuko and Kuramochi.

Masuko, who usually kept it cool unless he was laughing. And Kuramochi, who was about as subtle as a firecracker in a closet.

Today?

They were whispering.

A lot.

Too much.

Masuko glanced around like a paranoid deer, sweat just starting to bead on his temple even though it wasn’t that hot yet.

Kuramochi was trying not to glance back at him.

He was failing.

Ryosuke narrowed his eyes.

Suspicious.

Earlier that morning, he’d seen Masuko fumbling around the equipment shed, whispering again. Kuramochi laughed nervously, kept glancing over his shoulder. When Ryosuke raised an eyebrow in their direction, both of them jumped. Kuramochi flinched. Masuko tripped over his own bat.

Like they were struck by divine judgment.

Gotcha.

Ryosuke didn’t say a word. He just stored it.

His gaze didn’t waver, and that was enough.

Kuramochi felt it his flinch confirmed it. Masuko’s stumble only sealed the deal.

Ryosuke smirked.

He didn’t need to raise his voice or confront anyone.

No, no.

He’d just keep watching. Let the noose tighten on its own.

But then—

Tanba’s voice rang out:
“Hey, anyone seen Miyauchi?”

Ryosuke’s ears perked up.

Someone responded vaguely. “Might’ve seen him going toward the office? Looked kinda weird, so we didn’t ask.”

Weird?

Ryosuke’s eyes flicked sideways again.

Kuramochi had gone pale. Masuko suddenly stopped moving mid-practice swing.

There was a beat of silence between them. A whispered something. A shared glance.

Sweating again.

He didn’t know what they were hiding—yet.

But he would.

Because Ryosuke Kominato wasn’t just good at hitting line drives.

He was also very, very good at digging into the dirt.

Midday Break.

Practice paused. The outfield cleared. Most players gathered under the shaded rest area, chugging water and swinging towels around their necks. Laughter and chatter filled the air.

Kuramochi was mid-chew on an energy bar, clearly restless. He kept glancing around. Then at Masuko. Then back again.

Definitely twitchy.

That’s when Ryosuke decided to wait.

He didn’t call out. He didn’t corner. He just leaned back against the dugout wall, expression blank, towel draped over his shoulder, letting his presence do the work.

Sure enough, within two minutes.

“Uh—I’m gonna hit the washroom,” Kuramochi muttered, not looking at anyone directly. “Back in a sec.”

“washroom,” Ryosuke echoed, raising one brow.

Kuramochi flinched.

“Y-yeah,” he mumbled, already turning.

Ryosuke watched him walk away stiff, too casual, like someone trying not to run from a crime scene.

He waited five seconds.

Then followed.

Silently.

Kuramochi wasn’t heading toward the restrooms.

He took a sharp turn at the vending machines, toward the back of the old dorm wing, the one that conveniently led to the office corridor if you knew which door to squeeze through.

Bingo.

Ryosuke didn’t confront him right away. He stayed a few meters back, just close enough to see. Kuramochi stopped near the side wall, phone out, typing furiously. He looked around, then pocketed it, muttering under his breath.

Kuramochi had claimed he needed to take a break, but the truth was he just needed air.

Instead of heading to the washroom, he took a sharp turn at the vending machines, veering toward the back of the old dorm wing the one that conveniently led to the office corridor

He was trying to clear his head, maybe get some fresh air because for some reason, he could feel it.
That creeping pressure.
Like a dark aura crawling up his back.
A warning, maybe.
Or a promise.
Something was coming.

And as he stood there, back to the wall, the memory hit like a line drive to the ribs—
Yesterday’s chaos.
That morning’s awkward tension.
And now the roommate who hasn’t come back.

Flashback-  Night Before The Chaos

Kuramochi could still feel the cold tile under his feet when it happened.

He’d just stepped out of the shower, towel around his neck, when Takashima-san casually dropped a nuclear bomb on them in the hallway.

“Your new roommate’s arriving tonight.”

“What?!” he and Masuko had blurted in unison.

“You mean that guy?” Kuramochi asked, stunned. “Wasn’t he sick?”

Rumors said the kid was hospitalized. Kuramochi didn’t care who it was what mattered was finally getting to do their Room 205 initiation.

“Make sure the room is tidy. Don’t make a scene, and be respectful to your new roommate.”

Masuko snorted. “Yes, Ma’am.”

They cleaned. Cleared the spare bed. Prepared the welcome.

And then came the prank.

Masuko pulled out the legendary Dorm Prank Box . Inherited from their legendary predecessors.  A werewolf mask. A motion-activated noisemaker. Perfect.

They waited. Midnight passed.

Then—a knock.

Kuramochi crouched, ready to strike.

The door creaked open—

And all he saw was him.

Bright smile. Brown hair. Net bag of fruit. An oversized duffle bag. And a mountain of luggage.

“WHAT THE—?!”

The fake dagger hit the floor.

Before he could say anything, the boy straightened his posture like some soldier in training and gave a crisp 90-degree bow.

“Good evening! I’m Sawamura Eijun. Takashima-san said I’d be staying here room 205. It’s nice to meet you, senpai!”

Kuramochi froze.

That face. That smile.
Right in front of him.

No freaking way.

A pineapple rolled casually to Kuramochi’s foot.

“I can clean that up,” the boy said calmly.

Masuko blinked, pulled off the mask. “So you’re the new kid, huh,” he said, stepping aside. “Alright. Come in before the fruit leaks everywhere.”

He entered like it was nothing, eyes wide, full of energy.

That kid ,

Sawamura Eijun.

Kuramochi nearly shut the door back on him.

By morning, he’d woken up with a pineapple sticker stuck to his arm and Eijun—the brat sleeping soundly across his legs.

His hair was a mess soft brown and fluffy, with a strange bit at the top sticking up like a pineapple crown. Pineapple-head, Kuramochi thought grimly.

And the worst part? The kid was out cold. Drooling.
Right. On. His. Leg.

Kuramochi tried nudging him. “Oi. Get off.”

No response.

He poked harder. “Seriously, move.”

Still nothing except a muffled, half-asleep whine.
“Five more minutes”

Kuramochi gritted his teeth. His legs were already starting to go numb.

That was it.

He grabbed the kid and locked him in a quick wrestling hold.
Eijun flailed, eyes still barely open, yelping in protest.

“Ack—okay okay! I surrender! I surrender!”
Pause.
“I said surrender!!”

Eventually, the brat woke up, blinking like he had no idea where he was. Then
“OH CRAP.”

Kuramochi stared. “What now?”

“I—I forgot! I’m supposed to report to  this morning!” Eijun panicked, stumbling to his feet. He grabbed his duffle bag which, for some reason, was full of stiff baseballs and slung it over his shoulder in a rush.

Before he bolted out the door, he turned back briefly, pointing at his half-awake roommate.

“I’ll be back after! I’ll bring mint candy! Promise!”

And then he was gone.
Like a gremlin on fire.

Kuramochi didn’t even get to yell at him properly.

He sat there for a moment, blinking.

“Where the fuck did that brat go? Why’d he run like a mad ghost?”

Masuko, now also sitting up, rubbed his eyes and muttered, “Maybe the office? Or to Coach? Or somewhere we don't know. Who knows. ”

Kuramochi sighed. This was way too early for weirdness.

“Should we tell the others?” he asked Masuko, uncertain.

Masuko hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know maybe not yet.”

So they didn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

And for now, no one else knew yet.

“We just keep it normal,” Kuramochi added, quieter this time. “Let Coach Kataoka or Rei-san be the ones to announce it.”

Back To Present

Now Sawamura was nowhere to be found.

Kuramochi had started to panic when he spotted Coach Kataoka earlier on the sidelines thankfully, the coach turned away, like he had somewhere else to be. Wherever that was.

Worst of all?

Ryo-san was watching him like a hawk.

Kuramochi squeezed his eyes shut and muttered to himself,
“I’m so dead. I’m gonna get vaporized. My body won’t even be found.”

A voice cut through his spiral.

“Well, that’s not a washroom.”

Kuramochi jumped like he’d been struck by lightning.

“R-Ryo-san?!”

“Mm.” Ryosuke nodded, slow and thoughtful. “You’re sweating again, Youichi.”

“I—I just did sprint drills!”

“So did I.” Ryosuke smiled, eyes sharp. “I’m fine.”

Kuramochi stiffened the moment Ryosuke stepped closer.

“Something wrong?” Ryosuke asked, voice gentle but Kuramochi knew better. That tone never meant anything good. “You’ve been jumpy all morning. You and Masuko. Whispering. Flinching. Fruit stickers on your elbow.”

Kuramochi swallowed. Crap.

Ryosuke tilted his head, studying him like he already knew the answer.

Ryosuke gave him a long look, like he was trying to piece something together.

He said they’d been acting strange nervous, whispering, flinching at nothing. Then he casually mentioned that when Kuramochi and Masuko showed up to morning practice, they smelled like fruit.

And on top of that, Kuramochi still had a fruit sticker stuck to his elbow.

Ryosuke frowned slightly. He said it didn’t really add up. Kuramochi wasn’t the kind of guy to walk around with a fruit sticker for no reason.

Then came the question, quiet but sharp:
“So,  what’s going on?”

Before Kuramochi could even think of an excuse, Ryosuke continued like he was already halfway to solving the mystery himself.

“Did you two sneak out last night?” he asked, not accusing, just calm. “Some kind of late-night snack mission? Or did someone throw fruit at you?”

Then he paused, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Wait— did you two sneak someone in? Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here?”

Kuramochi’s eyes widened a little too much.

Ryosuke noticed.

Damn it, Kuramochi thought. He’s getting close.

Kuramochi’s brain stalled.

Yup. He was so, so dead.

He scrambled for a lie. Any lie. Something quick, stupid, harmless—
“Ah—it’s, uh....you see, Masuko had this fruit basket thing, and there was a sticker war, and—okay, okay, look, it’s not—”
His words tripped over each other, crumbling into useless panic.

“I—I can explain that”

“Oh, I know you can. And you will.”

Kuramochi groaned into his hands. “It’s not what you think.”

“I haven’t told you what I think yet.”

“I—ghhh—Ryo-san, please don’t kill me.”

Ryosuke tilted his head.

“Depends on the answer.”

There was a long pause. Kuramochi visibly debated whether to keep lying or just give up.

Still, he tried again. “We were... cleaning. The fruit thing was part of this... dorm cleaning game. Team-building! You know how Coach said we should work on team morale”

Ryosuke blinked once. Slowly.

Kuramochi continued, desperate now. “Masuko got too into it! He threw a banana! I dodged, it exploded! That’s why I smelled like fruit! Honest!”

Nothing.

Ryosuke just looked at him, all calm patience and deathly silence.

“Yoichi.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not mad,” Ryosuke said. “I’m just very interested.”

“Please don’t be interested,” Kuramochi muttered under his breath.

Ryosuke exhaled through his nose. “So it wasn’t food. Wasn’t a prank. Not a team-building fruit war. You’re a decent liar, but this one’s lazy.”

Kuramochi flinched. “Hey, I’m trying my best here!”

Ryosuke held up a finger. “New theory.”

Kuramochi froze.

“You didn’t sneak someone in last night,” Ryosuke said. “They were already there.”

A chill went down Kuramochi’s spine.

“You’ve been hiding someone for longer than just one night, haven’t you?”

Kuramochi opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Abort. Abort. We're past the fruit story. This is a national emergency.

“I—I didn’t mean to! It just happened! There was no plan!” he blurted out finally.

Ryosuke raised a brow. “So there is someone?”

Kuramochi slapped both hands over his mouth. “I—I didn’t say that.”

Ryosuke folded his arms again, gaze narrowing slightly. He didn’t look angry just focused. Dangerous.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “let’s narrow it down.”

Kuramochi stopped breathing.

Ryosuke tapped one finger against his elbow in thought.

“ So... it's someone. Let me guess”

Kuramochi could feel the weight of it coming.

“Is it a relative?” Ryosuke asked, too casually. “No. You wouldn’t panic like this over your own cousin. An old friend? Masuko’s childhood buddy?”

Kuramochi flinched.

“Someone from another school?” Ryosuke continued, like he was enjoying the puzzle. “A coaches daughter? A lost delivery guy? Someone you met online?”

Kuramochi looked ready to pass out.

Ryosuke’s eyes narrowed just a little more. “Or maybe... someone we’ve all heard about but haven’t seen yet?”

Kuramochi cracked. He couldn’t bear it anymore.

His shoulders dropped. He paused, exhaled slowly, and gave up.

“Okay. Okay. Our new roommate came last night.”

“New roommate.”

“Yeah. Rei-san told us in the hallway while we were—yeah, fresh from the shower.”

Ryosuke raised both brows. “The mysterious ‘sick’ first-year?”

Kuramochi nodded, utterly defeated. “He showed up with fruit and the creepiest smile I’ve ever seen.”

There was a beat.

“T—That person’s name is Sawamura.”

Silence.

Ryosuke blinked. “Sawamura?”

Something clicked behind his eyes.

“Sawamura Eijun?”

Kuramochi nodded again, slowly.

Ryosuke exhaled through his nose, dragging one hand through his hair.

“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose that explains why Miyuki’s been grinning like an idiot since breakfast.”

Kuramochi nearly collapsed. “You knew?!”

“I suspected. Well on the other day, I saw someone familiar in the hallway with the head of the school,” Ryosuke said calmly. “It didn’t click at first. I thought it was just someone with similar hair and features. Now I know.”

He gave Kuramochi a long look. “You should’ve told me from the beginning.”

“I—I was having second thoughts, okay?! Okay?!”

“Mhm. After the lies ran out, I assume.”

Kuramochi groaned louder. “We were just trying to prank him, I swear. Then he smiled at us and started lecturing us about baseball like some digital strategist, and then he fell asleep on my leg—!”

“I didn’t need that image,” Ryosuke muttered.

“Sorry.”

Ryosuke gave a slow blink, then tilted his head.

“Then what makes you two so nervous? It’s not like this is some national uproar. You’re acting like the secret’s gonna bring down the world.”

Kuramochi ran a hand down his face. “We woke up, right? And I tried to wake him, but that brat just rolled off and mumbled something about coming back later and then left. He said he’d be back. But he’s still not back. I tried calling. It doesn’t go through.”

Ryosuke gave him a flat stare.

Kuramochi continued, panicking now. “If Coach asks where he is—or Rei-san asks—we’re doomed. We thought maybe he went to the office, but we didn’t see anyone there. What if he just wandered off?! I don’t wanna be running laps all day, man!”

Ryosuke’s expression didn’t change. “Well, if he went out, and he had permission, he’s fine.”

Kuramochi perked up slightly.

“But,” Ryosuke added, a faint chill creeping into his voice, “if he didn’t get permission... then he’s doomed. And you’re doomed with him.”

That was not comforting.

Kuramochi looked like he’d aged ten years.

Ryosuke considered everything: the fruit, the twitching, the whispering, the chaos.

Then he smirked.

“Well. Congratulations, Youichi.”

Kuramochi blinked. “Fo—for what?”

“You’ve just moved in with the most talked-about mystery pitcher in the country.”

He turned on his heel, starting casually back toward the field.

“Wait—are you not—?!” Kuramochi couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Oh, I’m absolutely going to hold this over you later,” Ryosuke called over his shoulder. “But for now? Go back to practice.”

Kuramochi let out the loudest sigh of relief he’d managed all morning.

But it wasn’t satisfying.

Not yet.

Not until that damn brat came back.

Chapter Text

Eijun blinked his eyes open.

For a second, he lay there, staring at the ceiling—until something clicked in his brain.

“OH—CRAP!” He sat up straight.

Morning.

“Report to the office first thing tomorrow.”

Takashima-san’s voice echoed in his head.

Without even checking the time, Eijun scrambled for his duffel bag. He paused just long enough to call out to his still asleep roommate, “I’ll be back later! I’ll bring some mint candy too!”

Eijun bolted down the dorm hallway with his duffel bag bouncing off his back and a strawberry candy clenched between his teeth fresh from his pocket. His hair was still sticking up from sleep, his socks didn’t match, and he was pretty sure his T-shirt was on backward but he had no time to fix it.

“I forgot, I forgot, I forgot!” he hissed under his breath, skidding around a corner. “I was supposed to report to Takashima-san this morning!!”

He passed the common lounge, zipped down the stairs, and turned another hallway toward the admin wing. That’s when he felt it.

A sudden wall of muscle.

“Ghf—!”

His shoulder bumped into someone. Hard. The guy was solid like a vending machine in human form and the impact made Eijun stumble slightly. The stranger, who’d been walking from the opposite direction, snorted audibly from his nose like a startled bull.

“Oh crap, sorry—!” Eijun turned to apologize.

The guy blinked at him. Big frame, stocky build, slightly curled lips like he wasn’t used to smiling. His eyes widened slightly not in anger, but like he’d just seen something strange. He took one step back.

Then another.

And walked away. Quickly.

“Okay?” Eijun muttered, watching him go. “What’s with that guy?”

He didn't have time to care. His priority was Takashima-san. He sprinted the last stretch and stopped outside the staff office door, fixing his shirt and wiping his hands on his pants.

Alright. Act normal. Be polite. Smile. No talking about fruit or game stats. You're here to enroll, not lecture anyone. Breathe, Sawamura. You got this.

He knocked once, then slid the door open.

Inside, the air was cooler. Organized. Intimidating.

Takashima-san stood near a whiteboard, her sharp, businesslike expression as unreadable as ever. She was in heels again. Eijun had no idea how she pulled that off on these floors.

But what stole his attention was the man sitting at the long conference table.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just watched.

His arms were folded over a folder. His eyes were like steel quiet, but intense. His jaw was sharp, posture flawless. Black tracksuit, short cropped hair. Serious face. Very serious face.

Eijun almost froze.

Is this guy part of the Yakuza?!

He looked like the kind of person who could throw you across a dojo just by blinking.

“Good. You’re on time,” Takashima-san said without looking up from her tablet. “Come in, Sawamura.”

“Y-yes, ma’am!”

He stepped in, bowing quickly, but he could still feel that man’s stare slicing through him.

“I’d like you to meet our head coach,” Takashima-san continued, stepping aside with a small nod.

Eijun swallowed and turned to him.

“I’m Sawamura Eijun,” he said, voice firm despite the nerves. “From Akagi Middle School. I’ll be joining as a first-year.”

The coach didn’t react much just gave a single, slight nod. But something about that felt heavier than a speech. Like approval wasn’t given easily, and even that nod meant something.

“Thank you for accepting me,” Eijun added, bowing again. “I’ll give my all.”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere in the building—a knock.

Takashima glanced at the door. “Come in.”

The door slid open again.

And in stepped the guy Eijun had bumped into earlier.

Their eyes met immediately.

It was him.

Up close now, Eijun could make out the small details—broad shoulders, steady frame, quiet, unreadable eyes. He didn’t look startled anymore. Just watchful.

Kind of intense for someone just standing around.

“Good, Miyauchi. You’re on time,” Takashima said, then turned slightly toward Eijun. “This is Sawamura-kun. He arrived yesterday, and today’s his first official day. Since he wasn’t present for the initial evaluation, you’ll be assisting him later.”

Miyauchi nodded and stepped in forward quietly.

Eijun blinked. “Ohh, so you’re a player too!”

He raised a hand in greeting.

Miyauchi looked at him for a beat then gave a small, almost reluctant nod. “Yeah...reserve catcher.”

Eijun grinned. “Cool. I thought you were a heavyweight boxer or something!”

Takashima cleared her throat sharply.

Both of them froze.

“Sit down, Sawamura,” she said coolly. “Let’s go over how this evaluation will work.”

Eijun snapped to attention. “Y-yes!”

He sat down quickly across from the coach, trying not to fidget.

The weight of the coach’s eyes never left him.

But somehow despite the intensity,

Eijun felt kind of excited.

The meeting wrapped up with a firm nod from the coach and a final tap of Takashima-san’s stylus against her tablet.

“That’ll be all for now,” she said. “We still need to talk, but your training starts today.”

Eijun stood, bowing again. “Thank you very much, Takashima-san! Thank you, Coach!”

The coach gave another subtle nod like that was all the praise anyone got.

As Eijun turned to leave, the soft clack of Takashima-san’s heels followed him toward the door but then stopped behind him.

“ Miyauchi,” her voice called, low and brisk.

Eijun didn’t turn around, but his ears perked.

“This evaluation will remain confidential for now. No need to stir curiosity among the team until it’s concluded.”

“Understood,” Miyauchi answered. Steady. No hesitation.

“Escort Sawamura to the bullpen and assist as instructed. After that, you’ll return to your usual duties.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eijun blinked and turned as the door slid open behind him again. Miyauchi stepped out calmly, face unreadable as ever.

Eijun grinned, falling into step beside him.

“Sooo,” he said, voice low, “that whole ‘secret evaluation’ thing— I wasn’t supposed to hear that, huh?”

Miyauchi sighed softly. “You heard?”

“Not my fault the door doesn’t seal properly!” Eijun grinned wider. “Wait, was that the bullpen she mentioned? As in pitching? Today?”

Miyauchi nodded. “Coach wants to see your form live. It’s a pretty common thing on the first day for first-years. He also wants me to catch for you while you pitch.”

Eijun’s whole body lit up. “Let’s goooo!”

The catcher gave him a side glance half exhausted already but something in his face softened. Like he didn’t mind the energy too much.

They walked through the hallway side by side, sneakers scuffing softly against the tile. It was quiet back here. Calm. Everyone else was already returning to the field for the morning routines. You could hear distant voices, metal bats clinking against racks, someone yelling about missing socks again.

Miyauchi was technically excused
" Some assistance,” he’d said flatly but Eijun could tell this wasn’t just a favor. The coach trusted him. Which meant he was serious.

And that made Eijun serious, too.

“Well,” Eijun said, stretching his arms, “since we’re walking together, wanna know what pitches I plan to show today?”

“You’re planning ahead?” Miyauchi asked, slightly amused.

“I live ahead.” He winked.

Miyauchi shook his head faintly but kept walking.

Neither of them noticed the figure leaning lazily against the far fence.

Just out of sight.

Glasses catching the sunlight.

A devilish smile tugging at his lips.

Miyuki Kazuya was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

He didn’t move. Didn’t call out.

Just watched the two walk by. Eijun bouncing in place, Miyauchi nodding at whatever nonsense the pitcher was babbling and felt something electric surge under his skin.

He’s here.

He didn’t need confirmation from Rei-san.  Didn’t need to hear Eijun’s name aloud. The moment he saw that walk, that hair, that voice.

He knew.

Miyuki leaned back against the fence, humming to himself.

“Well, well”

Let the games begin.

The bullpen was quieter than Eijun expected.

Tucked just behind Field C, it felt separated from the noise of the rest of Seidou—the shouts, the drills, the slap of cleats on dirt. Here, only the soft breeze and the low scrape of gear being set up by Miyauchi filled the space.

Eijun stood in front of the mound, stretching his shoulders in slow circles. He looked around—no crowd, no teammates, not even Takashima-san here yet . Just the silent weight of being watched.

He didn’t need to turn to know the coach was standing a few meters behind him, arms folded, unreadable as ever. One of the assistant coaches stood beside him with a clipboard.

No words of encouragement. No dramatic speech.

Just: “Begin.”

Miyauchi gave a subtle signal with his mitt, settling into his crouch behind the plate.

Eijun stepped onto the mound.

Took a breath.

Let the tension fall from his shoulders.

And smiled.

Let’s make some noise.

“Okay, let’s see your first one,” Miyauchi said, settling into position. “What’s it called?”

Pitch #1 – The Crossfire Fastball

Eijun tapped the ball into his glove, standing on the bullpen mound with one foot angled toward the edge of the rubber. He stared down at the imaginary batter in his mind’s eye.

"Crossfire, huh..."
It wasn’t something he’d picked up from a coach or textbook. More like  a habit. Something born from throwing side to side at Akagi’s half-dirt field, from trying to hit moving targets with barely enough space to practice.

“If I throw from this angle, the ball cuts across a right-handed batter like it’s chasing his hands. Not straight, not curved just tight and fast enough to make ‘em think twice.”

He called it crossfire because that’s what it felt like: a shot fired at an angle, like a sniper trying to cut off a runner.

Behind the plate, Miyauchi yawned.

“You planning to throw anytime this year, or should I take a nap?” he said flatly, slumping into his squat like this was the most boring thing he’d done all day.

Eijun snorted, stepping back into set position.

He wound up, legs lifting just enough as his arms coiled, more raw force than polish.

CRACK.

The ball screamed into Miyauchi’s mitt with an echo that bounced off the bullpen walls.

The catcher’s glove shifted slightly but he held it.

“Nice pop,” Miyauchi muttered, resetting his position.

Eijun rolled his shoulder once.

That was the opener.

Pitch #2 – Two-Seam Fastball

Miyauchi shifted into position again, this time with less of his usual slouch. He tapped the side of his mitt, signaling readiness.

Eijun didn’t throw right away.

Instead, he cradled the ball loosely, thumb and fingers dancing along the seams, turning it slowly in his hand.

“This one—” he began, more to himself than anyone, “was born during winter, when the only thing I could practice with was a slippery, half-worn ball.”

Miyauchi blinked. “What, in the snow?”

Eijun grinned. “Exactly. I was trying to throw straight, but no matter what I did, it kept tailing inside. At first, I thought it was a flaw. But when I kept missing the same way. I realized it wasn’t.”

He adjusted his grip slightly, two fingers off-center. “This thing moves, but not like a breaking ball. It runs. Just enough to jam the bat if they chase it. Or sneak in if they expect something cleaner.”

Miyauchi exhaled slowly, squatting deeper now.

“You done monologuing?”

“Hey, I’m sharing knowledge,” Eijun shot back, bouncing once on the mound. “You should be grateful.”

The wind-up came quick this time shorter than the last. Eijun’s motion snapped forward with a twist of the wrist at release.

The ball darted low and arm-side, tailing away just enough to pull the bat off the sweet spot if there had been one.

Thump.

It slammed into Miyauchi’s mitt, lower than the first pitch, but no less sharp.

Miyauchi’s eyes narrowed slightly now.

“You’ve got more than just heat.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Eijun said, his grin widening.

Pitch #3 – Changeup

The drop in speed was dramatic. Eijun sold it with the same mechanics as his fastball, but the ball floated in deceptively, catching the lower outside edge of the strike zone.

Miyauchi raised an eyebrow.
“That—that had bite.”

Eijun beamed. “This one’s my favorite.”

He stepped off the mound for a second, rotating his shoulder as if warming up for a story.

“I saw it in an MLB game back in first year, during exam week. Guy on the mound threw what looked like a fastball, but it just vanished. The batter swung clean through air.”

He shook his head slightly, the memory still vivid.

“I tried mimicking it for weeks after, but I couldn’t get the ball to drop right. Thought maybe I just didn’t have the wrist for it.”

Then a grin crept across his face.

“Second year, we had this temporary coach visiting Akagi experience coaching a neighboring town’s elementary baseball teams. He saw me struggling with the grip one afternoon and asked what I was trying to throw.”

Eijun raised the ball in his hand now, holding it with pride.

“He showed me how to shift the pressure on the seams. Just a small adjustment. Everything clicked after that.”

He stepped back onto the rubber, holding the ball delicately.

“Middle schoolers hated this one,” he added proudly. “Made ‘em swing so early it was like they time-traveled.”

Miyauchi adjusted his mask again, lips twitching slightly. “Figures. You like messing with people.”

Eijun gave a small shrug, utterly unapologetic.
“Pitching’s just a polite way of saying surprise attack, right?”

Pitch #4 – Cutter

Miyauchi stood as he shook out his wrist from the last pitch, then tilted his head toward Eijun, brows slightly raised.

“You’ve got more?”

Eijun didn’t answer right away just smiled and bounced the ball lightly in his glove.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “This next one? I didn’t mean to make it.”

He stepped onto the rubber again, tone more thoughtful now.

“Back in middle school, we had this trash ball stitched all weird. I tried throwing it like a fastball, but it kept veering in. I thought my grip was broken or something.”

He shifted his fingers slightly off-center across the seams.

“Turned out it wasn’t broken. It was cutting.”

He grinned.

“I couldn’t throw it straight even when I wanted to, but that mistake? It started getting me outs.”

He wound up, arm fast and loose same fastball form.

But this one turned in at the last second, shaving the edge of the inside corner.

Thwack.

Miyauchi didn’t flinch caught it clean.

“Late movement,” he muttered, eyes tracking the spin. “Good deception.”

Eijun rolled his shoulder, bouncing the ball again.

“That one’s a favorite.”

Then, his eyes flicked toward the plate with mischief.

“Same pitch, other side?”

Miyauchi raised an eyebrow but crouched again without a word.

Eijun grinned and reset his grip only a slight shift in finger pressure.

This time, the pitch cut away, tailing late across the outer edge of the zone. A glancing strike slick and quiet.

He straightened and added offhandedly, “I didn’t know what I was really throwing ‘til second year, though. During one of those weekend clinics, this visiting coach from a university came down.”

He gave a small laugh.
“I asked him about this weird movement I kept getting, and he said, ‘Kid, that’s a cutter your grip’s almost there.’ He showed me how to fine-tune it. After that, I started aiming it.”

Miyauchi caught it easily, but his eyes followed the ball longer this time.

“That was the same pitch?”

Eijun nodded. “Same family. Just depends where I want it to go.”

“I’ve got a couple flavors of the cutter,” he continued. “One rides in sharp tight break, just enough to make righties twitch. The other glides across the plate like it’s minding its own business, but it still bites.”

He gave a quick shrug, eyes gleaming.

“Same pitch, different fangs.”

Pitch #5 – The ‘Invisible’ High Fastball (Tunnel Shot)

One of Eijun’s proudest creations. And easily the most absurd.

“It came to me in a dream,” he declared, chest puffed out like he’d just unlocked the secret of the universe. “I was on the mound, right? The world was ending crumbling stadium, the sky was purple, and I was facing this monster batter with horns and everything. And then—BAM! I threw it. This pitch. Straight fire. It went so fast, it tore through the air like a shooting star.”

Miyauchi stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“I woke up and immediately tried it with a tennis ball!” Eijun grinned, spinning the baseball in his hand. “Took me weeks to get it right, but I swear, it rises. I mean, it doesn't actually rise, but it feels like it. Especially after seeing my cutter. It’s all about tunnel illusion.”

Miyauchi looked skeptical. “That’s not rising fastballs aren’t possible. Physics.”

“Then explain what you're about to see.”

Eijun got into position, his grin stretching from ear to ear now, as if he were about to show off a magic trick. He threw it. 

Same arm slot, same tunnel as the cutter but this time with max effort.

The ball zipped straight, high, brushing the top of the zone with almost no drop. It didn't tail, didn’t fall it held.

It slammed into the glove with a sharp, echoing pop. Louder than any pitch before it.

Even Miyauchi blinked.

“What the hell?”

Eijun straightened, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, panting just slightly but triumphant. “Told you,” he said smugly. “You just got a taste of the Tunnel Shot.”

Behind them, the coach made a quiet note on his clipboard.

Miyauchi turned slowly, his expression somewhere between awe and exasperation. “Okay. That— that was real. I saw that.”

“Not bad for a dream pitch, huh?” Eijun laughed, already reaching for another ball. “Next time I dream, maybe I’ll invent teleportation.”

Pitch #6 – Slinder (Slider + Changeup Hybrid – Invented)

Miyauchi stood slowly after the “Tunnel Shot,” shaking out his wrist and glancing toward the side wall.

The coach was still there arms crossed, clipboard in hand, eyes quietly following Eijun’s every move.

When their eyes met, the coach gave him the slightest nod.

Go on, Miyauchi thought.

He looked back toward the mound, where Eijun was doing a celebratory hop and fist-pump, grinning like a fool who just pulled off a magic trick.

“Still got one more,” Eijun said brightly, bouncing the ball in his glove as he refocused. “This one’s experimental. Kinda.”

Miyauchi sighed, crouching again. “Of course it is.”

Eijun adjusted his grip slightly awkward at first, fingers not quite traditional but steady. Practiced.
“Discovered this one messing around with some friends back in Nagano,” Eijun explained, casually flipping the ball in his hand. “We had this bet could I throw something that looks like a slider but moves like a changeup?”

“And you said yes?” Miyauchi asked flatly.

“Of course I said yes.” Eijun grinned, squaring up on the mound. “We called it the Slinder. Slider plus changeup. Wakana came up with the name, and I agreed. It stuck.”

“Obviously,” Miyauchi muttered, unimpressed.

Eijun set his stance, fastball mechanics sharp and clean.

But the pitch broke late sharply diagonal at first, then suddenly dipping down like a slider that fell asleep mid-flight.

He turned to Miyauchi again. “Actually, the idea hit me after watching a pro game overnight. Some lefty threw something weird late break, almost dead weight. I couldn’t get it out of my head. So next day, I dragged the guys out to test it.”

THWAP.

The ball hit the mitt low in the zone.

Miyauchi stared at it.

( It was the Slinder. The same pitch Wakana once called “a troublemaker in disguise”not quite one thing, not quite the other. Nobu said it looked like Eijun was trying to throw a frisbee with a grudge. And Eijun? He liked how it danced. Said it moved like it had its own attitude. )

“That wasn't just a slider.”

“Or a changeup,” Eijun said, triumphant. “The Slinder. It lives!”

Miyauchi blinked. “You’re loud. You’re strange. Your form’s unorthodox.”

He stood, dusting his knees.

“But your pitches are real.”

Eijun chuckled, brushing the sweat from his brow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Eijun shook out his arm, letting the tension settle a bit.

“There’s a couple more I’ve messed around with,” he said. “Not ones I used a lot, but they got me through when I needed them. Then another one like came unexpected. Hah.”

He adjusted his grip.

"The curveball, the forkball, and the curved sinker."

He glanced at Miyauchi. Ready to throw the next pitches.

Miyauchi might've been shocked by what he heard, but he was ready to catch. He couldn’t let this shake him the coach had chosen him to catch for this kid instead of Miyuki or any of the other capable catchers.

Pitch #7– Curved Sinker (Custom Grip)

A recent development spun like a breaking ball, but dipped in late with a curving angle that dropped below the barrel line.

Miyauchi’s mitt jerked a bit when he caught it. He looked up, surprised.

“That was weird.”

“Exactly,” Eijun replied.

He explained while resetting his grip again. “I figured this one out totally by accident. Was trying to throw a breaking pitch on a wet day, and the ball slipped out a little early. But it dropped in a way I hadn’t seen before. Later I started messing with finger pressure and wrist tilt. And one time, bam it curved and sank. Just clicked."

Pitch #8 – Forkball

( Used in his match vs the Kansai team )

The grip was deeper, fingers split tight around the seams.

“This one. I threw it back in that match against the Kansai team. I could sort of control it  when I got lucky. It’s still wild sometimes, but if it drops right, it’s nasty.”

The release was clean but the drop was brutal.

It plummeted mid-flight, nosediving like a rock just before it hit the glove.

Thwap.

Miyauchi’s mitt nearly buckled.

He stared at the ball in disbelief. “That one’s disgusting.”

“Used it once in a pinch,” Eijun said. “Worked like a charm.”

“Remind me never to be your pinch hitter.”

Pitch #9 – Curveball

He reset quietly this time.

“The curveball? That one came from watching other pitchers. I kept mimicking different arm angles until something finally clicked.”

Grip shifted.

The windup flowed easily familiar. The curve came in with a sweeping break, slow and deliberate, pulling away from where a right-handed hitter would be tempted to chase.

It landed perfectly into Miyauchi’s target.

The catcher exhaled, caught somewhere between impressed and overwhelmed.

“That’s your ninth,” he said, almost accusing.

Eijun just smiled, stretching out his arm and rotating his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said, easy and light. “But who's counting?”

Behind them, the bullpen door creaked open slightly—someone stepped out. A clipboard snapped shut. Quiet footsteps retreated.

Neither Miyauchi nor Eijun looked up.

“Well?” Eijun asked again, cocky but calm.

Miyauchi rose to his feet, brushing dust from his knees.

“You’re a bit too noisy. A little odd. Your form’s unorthodox. By all rights, it shouldn’t work but somehow... it does.”

Pause.

“But your pitches are real,” Miyauchi said, the corners of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide between approval and disbelief. “No matter how weird you look doing it, the ball gets where you want it to go.”

Eijun chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll take that as a compliment again, hehe.”

Miyauchi stayed quiet, but in his head, the thoughts tumbled fast.

Honestly,  catching for him was great. Challenging, too. I can’t believe this happened. Me—of all people.
I’m not Miyuki, not Chris. Just the guy who listens more than talks. But coach still picked me to catch for the pitcher everyone’s been whispering about. The same kid Miyuki’s been half-obsessed with, apparently.
I only saw some clips. Heard the chatter. But now? I'm behind the plate for his first pitch at Seidou. This is a huge opportunity.

A grin tugged at his lips.

I can’t wait to mess with Miyuki and the others about this.

Unseen by Eijun, a small cluster had gathered just beyond the bullpen fence.

Coach Kataoka stood with his arms crossed, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap. He said nothing but his gaze hadn't left the mound since the first pitch. Every pitch had been logged, not just by sound, but by precision. By intention.

Next to him, Rei Takashima who had arrived late moved her fingers swiftly across her clipboard, her notes increasingly dense and underlined. This wasn’t just raw talent it was layered. Built. Studied. And that custom pitch Slinder? She hadn’t seen that on any scouting tape.

A few steps behind them, crouched slightly by the dugout gate, Miyuki Kazuya leaned just far enough to see the bullpen clearly.

His expression was unreadable, chin propped on one hand. His eyes tracked every movement not the ball, but the body behind it. The rhythm. The hesitation before the curve. The pause after the fork.

His mouth twitched into something that almost looked like a smirk.

Then he ducked back out of view before anyone could catch him watching.

That should’ve been me catching for him, first he thought. But Miyauchi step in before I even moved.

But next time...

He glanced one last time toward the bullpen, just as Eijun reset on the mound.

What matters is he’s here now.

Chapter Text

The crack of the ball against Miyauchi’s mitt echoed in the bullpen, sharper than most. Kataoka’s arms stayed folded, his cap brim shadowing his eyes, but he hadn’t looked away once since Sawamura stepped on the mound.

The boy’s motion wasn’t refined. His stride overextended, his torso twisted almost too far, and the release point shifted slightly with every pitch. A textbook instructor would have torn the form apart.

But Kataoka wasn’t watching for polish. He was watching the ball.

And the ball was alive.

Each pitch carried a stubborn bite, refusing to travel in a straight line. It bent, darted, dipped like it had a will of its own. No two throws behaved exactly the same, yet Sawamura delivered them as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Not forced, not deliberate just natural, almost joyful, like he was playing catch with the game itself.

He’s rough. Too rough. But the ball itself it doesn’t let you look away.

Kataoka had seen dozens of power pitchers come and go. Furuya, for example, was a phenomenon in raw speed, but speed without control was like a sword without a hilt dangerous, unpredictable, incomplete. Sawamura was different. He didn’t just rely on speed he had velocity, yes, but with it came sharp control. The movement on his pitches, paired with that accuracy it forced even seasoned eyes to follow, to track, to feel unsettled.

“—Tch!” Miyauchi grunted as the next ball snapped down and across, curving late and burying itself into the bottom edge of the mitt. His glove hand recoiled as if stung, the webbing snapping taut with the impact.

“That was weird,” Miyauchi muttered, shaking his wrist before tossing the ball back. His voice was low, but not low enough to escape Kataoka’s ears.

The coach’s eyes narrowed slightly. That pitch sharp break, late sink, almost like a curved sinker. Difficult to catch, harder still to read.

This was precisely why Kataoka had chosen Miyauchi for the task. Chris was still in the middle of rehabilitation, and Kataoka refused to push him harder than necessary. Miyuki, on the other hand, would have been too compatible. If Miyuki caught Sawamura, everything would look fine—too fine. Kataoka wanted to see the boy’s raw form, to know whether his pitches could unsettle a steady, unflappable catcher who had no familiarity with them.

At the same time, the evaluation extended to Miyauchi himself. A catcher’s role was to adapt, to read, to steady the storm on the mound. If Miyauchi could handle Sawamura’s unconventional arsenal, it would prove his own reliability as a supporting backbone of the team. For both pitcher and catcher, this was a test not only of skill, but of trust and adaptability.

Still, Kataoka’s gaze hardened. He had been here before. Promising first-years had stepped into Seidou’s bullpen with the same shine boys who threw hard, boys who impressed scouts, boys whispered about as the next ace. And just as quickly, he’d watched them break. Some buckled under expectations. Others chased the spotlight and lost their way. Talent, he knew, could burn out faster than it appeared.

Measured footsteps broke his thoughts. Rei Takashima approached from the side, clipboard hugged close, pen already poised. Her gaze flicked to the mound, then to Kataoka.

“You’ve been watching him longer than anyone else today.” Her tone was calm, businesslike. “So? What’s your read?”

Kataoka exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t answer right away, eyes still fixed on the boy. Sawamura was grinning as if he hadn’t noticed the weight of eyes on him. As if this were just another dusty field back home.

“Takashima,” Kataoka finally said, voice low. “It’s too soon.”

Rei raised an eyebrow. “Too soon to evaluate, or too soon to admit what you’ve already decided?”

Kataoka turned his head slightly, a faint crease forming at his brow. “Talent isn’t enough. I’ve seen plenty burn out after a week. Consistency. Mentality. The ability to shoulder this uniform.” His gaze returned to the mound, where Sawamura’s next pitch snapped against the mitt with a heavy thwack. “ Right now, I can’t say for certain.”

Rei’s pen hovered, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The question isn’t whether he has it now. It’s whether we give him the stage to find out. You know as well as I do other schools would kill to have him on the first string. And the tournament is coming fast, Kataoka. Sawamura’s caliber  doesn’t belong sitting on the bench.”

Kataoka’s brow furrowed, but his voice was steady. “This team isn’t built on rushing decisions.”

Rei scoffed under her breath, frustration slipping through her professional mask. “And if your caution costs us? If you wait too long, what then? You think fire like that waits forever?”

Their words didn’t rise, but the weight in them did. Rei pushed for boldness, risk, opportunity. Kataoka countered with restraint, patience, balance. The tension was not just about Sawamura, but about the very philosophy that guided Seidou.

Because baseball wasn’t just skill. It was timing. It was trust. A first-year could throw fire, yes—but could he shoulder the pressure without destabilizing the team? Could he fit into Seidou’s rhythm, not just flash for the crowd?

On the field, Sawamura wound up again, oblivious to the quiet war over his future.

When the bullpen round ended, Miyauchi rolled his shoulder out with a long exhale, handing the ball back. Sawamura jogged forward, his grin as unbothered as if he’d been playing catch in a backyard. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his eyes burned, clear and steady.

Kataoka stepped closer. The air seemed to shift; even the freshmen standing nearby straightened unconsciously. Sawamura froze for half a beat, then quickly set down his duffel bag to bow deeply, nearly at a ninety-degree angle.

“Coach! Good day! This is Sawamura Eijun—thank you for letting me borrow the bullpen to pitch whatever I like!”

Kataoka didn’t react immediately, only staring at the boy. Sawamura blinked, then spotted Rei behind him and straightened quickly.

“Ah! Takashima-san, good day!”

The voice carried firm, brimming with conviction that almost tipped into recklessness.

Kataoka studied him in silence. The boy’s form was still bent forward, shoulders stiff, waiting for acknowledgment. When Kataoka finally spoke, his voice was even.

“Raise your head.”

Eijun obeyed immediately, straightening. His grin returned, unpolished but earnest, like someone who didn’t yet know how to mask his own fire.

Kataoka’s gaze lingered a moment longer. Then he shifted, turning his eyes toward Miyauchi. “Your assumption?”

Miyauchi hesitated rare for him before answering. “The ball isn’t easy to handle. It moves more than expected. Hard to predict the break. It’ll take time to sync with him, but...” He rubbed his wrist absently. “there’s something there.”

He gave a small bow. “Thank you, Coach, for letting me be part of this evaluation.”

Kataoka’s reply was short, but steady. “I trust your capacity as a catcher. That’s why I chose you.”

Miyauchi allowed himself a faint smile, the smallest flash of pride breaking through his calm exterior.

Kataoka gave a single nod. Nothing more, nothing less.

Eijun tilted his head slightly, not fully understanding the weight of the exchange, but still standing tall.

For the first time since the session began, Kataoka’s lips pressed into the faintest line that might’ve been approval or simply acknowledgment that the boy had entered his sight.

Rei’s eyes flicked to Kataoka, expectant. He didn’t flinch.

“Let him prove himself to the team first,” Kataoka said at last, his tone final. “If he shows me he can endure shows me he can stand firm through pressure, not just pitch well in practice then I’ll decide.”

The answer left Rei unsatisfied, but unchallenged. For now, Sawamura’s fate remained suspended not denied, not promised.

But one thing was certain.
Sawamura Eijun had forced his way into the conversation.

Chapter Text

The crack of the bat echoed across the dirt of Field A, each swing a controlled release of frustration. Miyuki Kazuya adjusted his grip, the leather of the bat worn smooth beneath his fingers. He’d been hitting for a while now, every repetition sharp, precise. But his mind wasn’t on the ball. It was on the bullpen. On the whirlwind of pitches he’d glimpsed from beyond the fence earlier.

Nine pitches. Nine distinct weapons, each delivered with a raw energy that bordered on chaotic. He’d seen the way Miyauchi’s mitt jerked, the subtle widening of his eyes. He’d felt the tension in the air, the unspoken awe that had settled over the field.

That should have been me.

The thought, unbidden and unwelcome, surfaced again. He knew it was selfish. He knew Miyauchi was a skilled catcher, deserving of the opportunity. But the idea of guiding that raw talent, of molding those unpredictable pitches into a cohesive strategy it was an irresistible challenge.

He swung again, the ball cracking sharply as it met the wood. This wasn’t just about catching a few pitches. It was about understanding a pitcher. About unlocking his full potential. And Miyuki Kazuya wasn’t about to let anyone else steal that opportunity.

He paused, taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat from his brow. Okay, get a grip, Kazuya. He could always offer to catch for Sawamura but the boy wasn’t officially part of the first string yet. Until then, Miyuki couldn’t interfere. Unless, of course, Sawamura himself came to him and asked. And if that happened, why would he ever refuse?

His eyes flicked toward the edges of Field A. The morning sun was already creeping over the school grounds, spilling long shadows across the dirt. Training had begun early today individual practice, announced by the coaches at dawn. Rare. Suspiciously rare. Kataoka never let the players train without direct supervision unless something important was happening. And with the Kanto tournament looming close, the timing clicked in Miyuki’s head.

So that’s it. Something’s brewing. Something big.

That was when the thought gripped him again—sharp, electric. He remembered the bullpen at Field C, the glimpse of Sawamura’s pitches. He understood why Kataoka had chosen Miyauchi; any other second-string catcher would’ve made sense. But Miyauchi was first string. Just like him.  The question repeated itself in his mind, relentless.

And beneath it, another sting settled in. Rei-san had known about Sawamura all this time weeks, maybe months and yet he’d heard nothing. No hint, no warning. It wasn’t betrayal, not exactly, but the silence left a faint bitterness in his chest. He pushed it down, burying it under the crack of bat against ball in Field A, yet the thought lingered, stubborn as ever.

He grinned to himself, the corner of his mouth twisting upward into that familiar, unnerving expression. The kind that unsettled teammates and made them mutter under their breath about his “weird moods.” A smirk one second, laughter the next, and a shadowed stillness right after. Dark amusement flickered across his face, unreadable to anyone watching.

Time to see what everyone’s thinking, Miyuki decided, lips quirking further. Time to set his own strategy in motion. He was almost eager excited to see Sawamura up close, and just as curious to watch the others’ reactions when the coaches finally introduced him.

He swung once more, the ball cracking off the bat, then let the wood drop to the dirt with a heavy clunk. The sound carried sharp and final through the morning air.

The game, in more ways than one, was already underway.

Meanwhile, over on Field C, Kataoka turned back to Sawamura after the bullpen.
“You can go with Takashima and get your practice uniform,” he said firmly.

Sawamura’s face lit up, and he bowed deeply before exiting with Takashima. Once the boy was gone, Kataoka shifted his attention to Miyauchi, who had been waiting quietly nearby.

“You can return to practice. Also, inform the first string we’ll be holding a simulation game this afternoon. Tell Yuki to lead the practice.”

Miyauchi nodded, excused himself, and headed for the field.

The first to notice his arrival was Ryosuke, who was going through his personal batting routine. He glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly, as if Miyauchi carried something important. His stare lingered until Tanba approached, asking,
“Where have you been?”

“Coach gave me a task,” Miyauchi replied simply.

That one statement was enough to draw Ryosuke and Tanba’s sharper attention. Both looked at him expectantly, as though demanding he say more.

Before the silence stretched, Miyuki stepped in. He had been watching from the side, his thoughts still dwelling on what he’d witnessed in the bullpen earlier. Gripping his bat harder, he sent the ball soaring high, almost as though trying to impress someone unseen.

As Miyuki walked closer, his trademark smirk surfaced.
“Ohhh, Miyauchi-senpai. You’re back. How was your little task with the coach?”

The words carried an edge half casual, half probing. Miyauchi stiffened at the remark, caught between answering and holding back. The quiet tension between the two didn’t go unnoticed; Tanba and Ryosuke exchanged glances, silently observing.

Finally, Miyauchi answered evenly, “It made me realize I still have a lot to work on. There are pitchers out there who’ll demand more from me than I thought, and if I can’t handle them properly, I’ll drag the team down. I need to get stronger not just for myself, but to be someone the team can rely on.”

That reply caught Yuuki’s attention from a distance. The captain’s eyes sharpened, his focus shifting subtly toward Miyauchi. Behind him, Jun leaned against the fence, his expression oddly reminiscent of the suspenseful manga he had read the night before.

By the afternoon, as the simulation game rolled on, two figures approached Field A. One was Coach Kataoka. The other, walking at his side, was none other than the head of Seidou High.

The team halted briefly, eyes drawn toward the unexpected visit.

“With all the new first years, we now have a total of ninety-three members,” Kataoka announced.

The headmaster surveyed the ground, watching the intensity with which the players trained.
“All the members look so focused,” he remarked. “Do you really think this year’s team can reach Koshien?”

Kataoka met his gaze squarely.

The headmaster continued, his tone both doubtful and concerned.
“In the past five years, Koshien has always been too far a goal. I don’t think this team can stir the nation that way.”

Kataoka’s response was unwavering.
“Our goal has always been the same to conquer the nation. There’s no need to worry.”

While the two spoke, the players continued their drills.

“Field A is for regulars’ batting,” Kataoka explained calmly. “Field B for full defensive practice. Field C is reserved for special evaluations and matters that require my direct supervision. The abilities of these athletes far exceed those of last year’s top four.”

“Hyahhh!” Kuramochi’s wild voice cut through the air as he sprinted across the diamond.

“Our iron wall defense is something to boast about. First, shortstop Kuramochi, second year. Next, second baseman Kominato, third year ”

The introductions rolled on: Isashiki’s strong arm in center, Yuuki’s unwavering presence as cleanup and captain, Masuko’s heavy power at third base, and Miyuki’s cunning as the pivotal catcher.

“These are the players who will be known and feared throughout the nation,” Kataoka concluded.

The headmaster’s expression tightened. “And the pitchers? Tanba has yet to regain his sharpness. You’ve brought in new arms, but how will you use them?”

“Not exactly the way you think,” Kataoka replied coolly.

The headmaster sighed. “There are many who doubt your methods, Tesshin. I’m not the only one. For a school with such a baseball tradition, you’ve been questioned often.”

Kataoka didn’t flinch. “That doesn’t matter. I turned down pro offers to return here. My duty is clear—I’ll see it through to the end.”

The headmaster gave a faint, almost weary smile. Strict though his former student was, he could never quite overcome the iron conviction Tessin carried. Quietly, he wondered to himself: Can that boy make his presence known under such a system?

Soon after, Kataoka gathered the team at the center.
“Listen up! There are only two months until the summer tournament and weeks before the Kanto preliminaries. We can’t afford aimless training anymore.

“Whether we’re climbing Mount Fuji or a small hill, the first step looks the same. But the resolution required is completely different.”

“YES, SIR!” the team shouted in unison.

Kataoka’s voice thundered on: “Day after day, put your life on the line for your goal! As long as you keep your spirits high, your training will never falter!”

As his words echoed, more figures approached. The club president Ota, the assistant coach, the main scout Rei and behind them, a new figure emerged.

A teenage boy with dark brown hair, a duffle bag slung at his side, and glowing brown eyes stepped forward. A lollipop rested casually in his mouth, his grin wide and unbothered.

The field buzzed with curiosity.

“Who is that?”
“Wait— isn’t that?”

Some whispered. Others stared, stunned. Kanemaru went pale, as if seeing a ghost. Kuramochi and Masuko, however, could only grin in relief—finally, their roommate had arrived. Ryosuke’s keen eyes sharpened. Yuuki murmured softly, “I’d like to try batting against his pitches.”

Jun blinked, unable to believe it. And Miyuki his smirk widened, his eyes glittering like he’d just been handed the most entertaining puzzle of the year.

It was Sawamura Eijun.

And before the team could react fully, Sawamura’s shocked voice cut through:
“Ojisan?!”

The school head chuckled warmly. “Oh, Eijun. You’re here.”

Confusion rippled across the field. Why did the new kid call the headmaster Ojisan?

Sawamura, still baffled, leaned in to whisper but his voice carried far too well.
“Wait,  aren’t you supposed to be on a date with Aunt Marie? Don’t tell me you ditched her?!”

The entire field froze, laughter threatening to burst. The headmaster simply chopped him lightly on the head.
“Later, brat. After this, I’ll go to her. For now, I have a personal task. Don’t mind this old man just go make friends.”

Even the strict players couldn’t hide their surprise at this softer side of the bald headmaster. Murmurs spread like wildfire.

“Are they related?”
“Wait, wasn’t that the pitcher from Akagi?”
“No way, wasn’t he supposed to have turned down every offer?”

From the sidelines:
“Isn’t that the lollipop guy?”
“Thought he was a myth.”
“He just appeared like he’s been enrolled since April.”

The rumors swelled until Kataoka’s voice rang out, silencing the chaos.

“Everyone listen up. A new first-year, absent until now due to health issues, will be joining. This morning, I personally evaluated him in Field C with Miyauchi as catcher. From what I saw, he has the tools to contribute but he still has much to prove.”

He turned to Sawamura. “Introduce yourself.”

Sawamura puffed his chest, lollipop still in place.

“Hello! I’m Sawamura Eijun, 15 years old, birthday May 15th. Height 175 cm, weight 65 kg last time I checked. Born and raised in Nagano, went to Akagi Middle School. I’m the only son, and I’m happy to have Masuko-senpai and Mochi-senpai as my brothers—but I don’t mind adding more if you want, just approach me!”

He grinned proudly, but Kataoka quickly cut him off. “We don’t need your life story. Position?”

“Oh—pitcher! I can cover other positions, but I’m confident on the mound. Please take care of me for the next three years!” He bowed, then stood tall, eyes sweeping across the field like an actor facing a stage.

Kataoka gave his decision without hesitation.
“I’ve seen enough from the bullpen. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be with second string. Prove your worth. For today you run with the other first-years. Understood?”

“Yes, bos—coach!” Eijun saluted sharply, only to freeze as a click echoed nearby. He turned, horrified, to see his bald uncle holding a camcorder, grinning like the devil.

Kataoka, unfazed, let the silence settle before continuing. The players remained lined up, tense and waiting. At the far end, Sawamura muttered under his breath toward his uncle, standing near Takashima-san.
“We’re not done yet”

His words dissolved into the air, unheard by most but they carried weight, a quiet promise to himself.

The team stayed lined up in front of Coach Kataoka, the headmaster watching close by, and Rei. Miyuki, standing with the others in the front, caught the glimpse of the announcement. His eyes followed Sawamura’s figure as the name was called. Second string, huh. A faint smile tugged at his lips. For a split second, he thought about stepping forward, about intercepting him. That kid wasn’t just some ordinary pitcher they all didn’t know it yet, but Miyuki did. He’s got way more in him than they realize.

But before Miyuki could move, a sharp voice cut through the field. It wasn’t someone he immediately recognized, but the tone was loud enough to turn heads. The speaker’s gaze carried confusion, almost disbelief, as if Sawamura’s promotion was a personal offense.

“Coach, pardon the interruption, but I have a question I need to clarify,” the player said firmly.

Kataoka’s expression hardened slightly, but he gave a single nod. “Go ahead.”

“I understand your decision, Coach, but as a member of this team, I find it unfair to have a newbie someone who hasn’t even participated in the intrasquad games suddenly promoted to the second string. Even if he has talent, we’ve been working hard every single day just to be noticed. And from what I’ve heard ” the player hesitated, then pressed on boldly, “he has connections to the headmaster. Isn’t this promotion just favoritism because of that?”

A murmur rippled across the lineup, but Kataoka’s silence was enough to cut it short. He lifted his head, voice calm yet edged with steel.

“I understand your concern. As coach, I owe every one of you fairness. But let me be perfectly clear what I saw from Sawamura was enough for me to make this decision. It has nothing to do with his junior high record, nor his connection to anyone in this school.” His gaze flicked toward the headmaster, who now wore a faintly irritated look, before returning to the team. His eyes sharpened. “If you doubt it, then take it as his challenge. Sawamura will prove his worth in the second string, the same way any of you would have to. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The firmness in Kataoka’s words left little room for argument, but the tension in the air didn’t vanish.

From where he stood, Miyuki’s eyes narrowed, his aura darkening like a storm. Who the hell does this guy think he is—saying Sawamura doesn’t deserve second string? Connection? His jaw clenched, his thoughts sharp and unrelenting. He doesn’t deserve second string because he deserves nothing less than first.

Nearby, Ryosuke’s gaze turned razor-sharp, practically murderous. His arms crossed loosely, but his voice was cold enough to chill bone as he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Jun and a few others to catch.“Who’s the punk questioning the coach’s decision? I don’t even know him. Who the hell is he?”

Miyauchi, a few steps away, let out a sharp snort through his nose, the sound crisp and dripping with clear irritation. His upper lip twitched as he glanced subtly toward the player, the faint wrinkle between his brows signaling unmistakable dissatisfaction. No words were needed his snort alone carried the weight of disapproval, enough to make anyone paying attention think twice before speaking out again.

Kuramochi, standing nearby, clenched his fists lightly, jaw tightening. What the hell ? he thought, eyes flicking toward Masuko for confirmation. I haven’t even seen his full potential yet, but what we’ve seen before and just his recent game  is more than enough. He deserves to be here. Connection? That’s absurd! The disbelief twisted in his chest, a mix of indignation and raw frustration. He could barely contain the sharp, unspoken what the fuck that threatened to escape, his gaze darting quickly to Masuko, silently asking, Am I the only one thinking this is insane?

And then—Sawamura’s reaction.

The lollipop that had been in his mouth was gone, crushed between his teeth and spat aside earlier. Now, irritation flickered in his eyes, a restless edge he couldn’t quite hide. His lips pressed into a hard tsk, the sound carrying faintly as his jaw tightened.

It was small, but some caught it. Rei, standing off to the side, noticed the crack in his composure. Yuuki, directly in front of him, also caught the look brief, unguarded, sharp with annoyance. A few others in the front row saw the flash of teeth where the lollipop had been broken, though none said a word. They kept silent, but the moment left an imprint.

The silence stretched thin, tension crackling like static across the diamond. For once, Sawamura didn’t fill it with a joke, a grin, or even a muttered complaint. He simply stood there straight-backed, gaze leveled, his expression unreadable.

His eyes fixed on the one who had questioned his place, the weight of his stare colder than anything the team had seen from him before. No smirk, no irritation, no boyish energy. Just a quiet, razor-sharp presence that made even the first strings shift uncomfortably.

Ryosuke, usually unshaken, felt a flicker of disbelief tighten in his chest. That brat— he actually had the guts to stand there like that like someone who didn’t need to prove himself, only to wait for everyone else to realize it.

Even Kataoka, arms folded, regarded the boy carefully from the corner of his eye before finally breaking the tension with a firm command.

“Back to practice. Now.”

Chapter Text

Eijun slumped over his desk, chin on his arm, staring blankly at each classmate passing by. His unfocused gaze didn’t go unnoticed.

Kanemaru, seated nearby, frowned. He still couldn’t believe his rotten luck out of all the people, this noisy classmate had to end up in the same room as him. Worse, every time their eyes met, Sawamura just had to blurt out that embarrassing nickname.

“Kaneee~,” Eijun muttered under his breath, smirking mischievously.

Kanemaru’s eyebrow twitched. He clenched his jaw, silently regretting every choice that led him to this desk. On the other side, Toujou quietly smiled, amused by their dynamic.

Toujou approached Eijun’s desk, voice gentle.
“Sawamura-kun, something wrong? You look kinda  out of place. Is this about your new training with the third-year senpai? The one Takashima-san assigned to you?”

Kanemaru snorted before Eijun could answer. “Or maybe it’s about all those people staring at you like you’re some star.” His voice carried more concern than jealousy, though his knitted brows and sharp tone made him sound like he was scolding.

Eijun tilted his head. Inwardly, he knew Kanemaru cared but outwardly, all he saw was Kaneee looking grumpy again. Still, he felt lucky to have these two in his class. With all the eyes on him in Seidou—whether in the cafeteria, the hallway, or even the toilet of all places at least here he had allies.

It had only been a week since his first appearance, and some senpai still looked at him with suspicion, whispering like he was a criminal. Was it because he was placed in the second string? Or because he called the headmaster “Ojisan” in front of everyone? Either way it was Ojisan’s fault!

But Eijun also blamed himself. He had blurted out “Ojisan” so loudly that day, shocked to even see him there. His mouth just moved before his brain caught up. That, plus the humiliation when Ojisan filmed him on his first day and sent it back to his parents in Nagano, made him want to snap his pencil in two. And to make things worse, that guy who questioned why he was promoted still lingered in his head. Like it’s my fault? It was Coach’s decision, tsk!

Training wasn’t easy either. Takashima-sensei had paired him with a respected third-year catcher—Takigawa Chris Yuu. It was a huge honor, but Eijun struggled with the workload. He already had his personal regimen from back in Akagi, the drills he’d done since first year in Akagi. Now Chris-senpai’s training method piled on top focused on stamina, control, and pitching power.

At first, Eijun was fired up. This was Chris-senpai, after all! But soon, exhaustion set in.

How do I balance both? His own training had shaped him into the pitcher he was, but Chris’s program was designed to push him even further. Doing one meant abandoning the other. Doing both at once? Impossible.

Once, he’d tried to bring it up peeked into Chris-senpai’s classroom to ask. But Chris was busy taking notes, so Eijun left. Another time, in the bullpen, he opened his mouth to ask but immediately shut it when Chris shot him that sharp look. Not out of fear no, Eijun just knew this was a private matter, not something to blurt in front of other second-stringers and curious third-years always watching. Still, the suffocating pressure made him swallow his words.

Senpai put real effort into this training just for me  but if I try to combine them, will I break down instead of improving? He narrowed down the possibilities in his head, but none felt right.

He sighed heavily. The weight of two paths each beneficial, but brutally hard together pressed down on him.

From across the room, Kanemaru’s voice cut through his haze.
“Oi, Sawamura. Don’t forget, we’ve got a science test after recess.”

Eijun jolted upright like he’d been struck by lightning. “TEST?!” His shout startled half the class.

Toujou blinked calmly. “Yeah, science. Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Kanemaru facepalmed. “I knew it you didn’t study. If I were you, I’d cram right now. Sensei’s coming in a few minutes.”

Eijun’s eyes lit up with desperation. He leaned toward Kanemaru, puppy-dog expression in full force. “Kaneee~…help meee”

Kanemaru only smirked back, evil glint in his eyes. Serves you right.

Eijun managed to skim only two pages before the teacher walked in, ordering notebooks closed. Armed with nothing but a blank sheet and a pen, Eijun’s soul nearly left his body.

Two pages!?? that’s all I’ve got. What did I even learn?

Resigned, he filled in answers by instinct, scribbling whatever “felt” right. Back in Akagi, this was his usual style. Maybe luck would save him again.

Minutes later, papers were collected. While the teacher checked, students copied notes from the board. Out of the corner of his eye, Eijun noticed Sensei’s brows twitching, his reactions oddly sharp at certain papers.

Finally, the bell rang. Instead of dismissing them, Sensei called names one by one, handing back graded sheets. Reactions rippled through the room some relieved, some groaning. Kanemaru looked smug when his score came back solid. Toujou received his paper with his usual calm smile.

Then came Eijun’s turn.

Heart pounding, he approached. Sensei handed him the sheet with a blank expression, making Eijun fear the worst. But then, unexpectedly, the man smiled and patted his shoulder.

“Sawamura-kun... I can’t believe this. In all my years of teaching here, this has never happened.”

Eijun blinked in confusion. “Eh? What do you mean?”

Sensei straightened, voice rising with excitement.
“Every year, I put advanced questions in the first test topics far beyond the curriculum, just to see who’s really sharp. No one ever gets them perfect. Some come close, some guess half-right but you—YOU answered them all correctly!”

Gasps spread through the classroom. Kanemaru’s jaw dropped. Toujou’s brows lifted slightly in surprise.

Eijun froze, brain short-circuiting. Me? Correct? ALL?!

Sensei clapped him on the back, laughing loudly. “Incredible! You’ve got real scientific instinct! Sawamura-kun, forget baseball you should join my science club! You’ll be my best student ever! In fact, I’ll talk to Kataoka-san about transferring you hahaha!”

The class erupted in stunned chatter. Even passing teachers peeked into the room at the commotion.

Eijun’s face turned ghost-white. “EHHHHHHH?! No way!! Sensei—I’m enrolled under a sports scholarship!”

Sensei waved it off with a wild grin. “Don’t worry, leave it to me!” His loud, mad-scientist laugh filled the room.

Behind him, Kanemaru buried his face in his hands. “You’ve gotta be kidding me”

Field B – Training Grounds

Echoes filled the field in the afternoon. As soon as school ended, the players rushed straight into practice. The metallic clink of bats, the sharp thud of gloves, the zip of balls cutting through the air, and the shouts of encouragement and frustration blended into a rhythm that carried across Seidou’s campus.

Field B was occupied by the second string, currently grinding through fielding drills. Cones dotted the dirt infield as coaches swung fungo bats, sending balls shooting in unpredictable hops. Players sprinted, slid, and threw, dust kicking up in clouds that streaked white uniforms with brown. The drills demanded focus: grounders to short, pop flies in shallow right, and double-play turns tested over and over until every motion burned into muscle memory.

Nearby, non-stringers and first years stood watching, silently measuring themselves against the ones on the field. Every bobbled grounder drew murmurs, every crisp play earned approving nods. The coaches assigned to second string observed with clipped focus, clipboards scratching with notes. No detail went unnoticed footwork, glove angles, throwing accuracy, relay timing.

Among the standouts was a first year appointed during the intra-squad game the tiny pink-haired Kominato Haruichi, second baseman, and younger brother of first-string regular Kominato Ryosuke. Despite his smaller frame, Haruichi read hops cleanly, his glove scooping up grounders with little wasted motion. His throws weren’t the hardest, but they were sharp and precise, landing in the first baseman’s glove like darts.

Some compared him to his brother, others judged his courage for taking the same position. A few upperclassmen whispered on the sidelines as Haruichi turned another smooth double play.
“His hands are clean.”
“Scary... he’s only a first year.”
Another grinned. “Reminds me of when Ryosuke first stepped on this field. Guess it runs in the family.”

But Haruichi himself only wanted to prove his worth as Haruichi, not as Ryosuke’s younger brother. He wasn’t at that level yet, but he would get there. The gleam in his eyes made it clear.

Other notable first years included Kanemaru Shinji, third baseman, whose sharp throws across the diamond carried surprising weight, though his glove still showed rough edges. His senpai tested him with teasing remarks—
“Cocky stance.”
“but the kid’s got an arm.”
Loud and restless, Kanemaru often looked like he was trying too hard, but there was no mistaking his raw talent.

Then there was Toujou Hideaki. Though he had given up several runs during intra-squad, he fielded with determination. He dove recklessly in practice, rolling in the dirt and coming up laughing, dust streaked across his uniform. “He doesn’t sulk even after mistakes,” one catcher muttered. “That’s harder to teach than mechanics.” Toujou’s persistence earned approving grunts from teammates, even when his execution wasn’t perfect.

And of course—one name everyone whispered about on and off the field:
Sawamura Eijun.

The “ace” from Nagano. Despite not playing in intra-squad, he was promoted directly to the second string—a move that sparked protest from some, quickly silenced by Coach Kataoka. After all, this was the same pitcher who had led a small-town team to a national championship in his second year and a runner-up finish at the most recent national junior baseball tournament.

Outstanding among even the second string, Sawamura’s presence was impossible to ignore. During fielding practice, his reads on batted balls were uncanny. He moved before others reacted, cutting off sharp liners in the gap, then launching throws to bases that popped like gunfire into gloves. His pick-offs were lightning-fast, catching runners leaning. His transitions were crisp—catch, plant, fire—each throw whistling across the diamond before most realized he had released it. At the plate, his swings cracked loud enough to make heads turn from Field A.

The supervising coaches couldn’t hide their amusement. Now and then, an impressed whistle or a quiet chuckle slipped out, their clipboards filling with notes that didn’t read like ordinary second-string evaluations.

But while the coaches were entertained, the players around him were unsettled. Some second stringers exchanged uneasy glances each time Sawamura’s throws snapped across the field. A few tried to downplay it with humor.
“Guess that’s what a national ace looks like, huh?”
“Don’t get sloppy, or he’ll outshine us all.”

Others were less charitable, grumbling under their breath.
“No wonder Coach pushed him up so fast. But  he skipped the line.”
“Yeah. Irritating, isn’t it?”

Yet even those complaints fell quiet the moment Sawamura made another play—diving to snag a line drive in right, popping back up, and rifling a perfect throw to second base. The sharp pop of the ball hitting leather echoed across the field. A third-year infielder chuckled lowly. “That’s not luck. He’s the real deal.”

Field B, usually just a place for sharpening basics, suddenly felt different. Charged. Like a proving ground. Every fumble or hesitation from others seemed louder, harsher. And every clean play from Sawamura pulled all focus back to him, whether they wanted it or not.

The second string wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But with Sawamura Eijun on the field, it was impossible not to. From the dugout, a tall third-year with a mole on his face watched closely. An aspirant right fielder, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. From the start, the new guy, Sawamura never slowed down. He leapt over the fence just to catch a ball that should have gone out. Earlier, he’d fired such a strong throw to first base that the baseman committed an error trying to catch it.

Remarkable, the third-year thought. No wonder he was promoted so fast.

Unlike those who said Sawamura didn’t deserve his spot, he had no complaints. In fact, from what Sawamura was showing now, he deserved a first-string post.

The senpai knew his own chances were gone—his batchmates Yuuki, Ryosuke, Jun were already first string, while he remained second string. That stung. He had worked hard for years, but the gap was clear. Still, he felt proud to be part of Seidou. If this first year could outshine me, then so be it. The new batch is stronger. Stronger means farther.

And yet—there was something odd. Sawamura’s body twisted and bent in ways almost unnatural, like a gymnast. His throws came from strange angles, almost wild, yet always controlled at the very last second. The third-year found himself leaning forward, squinting, wondering how much of this was skill and how much was recklessness.

But what unsettled him more was the boy’s expression. He always smiled. No matter if he missed, slipped, or pulled off something absurd, he grinned as if he were enjoying every second. And the gum always chewing, like it was part of his rhythm.

Curious, the third-year asked a first year beside him:
“Hmm. Why does he smile like that? Doesn’t his jaw hurt from chewing gum every minute?”

The first year laughed nervously. “Ahh... don’t mind him, senpai. Sawamura’s always like that. He says chewing helps him focus. And  well, the smiling? That’s just him. He never stops.”

“ That so?” the senpai muttered, unsatisfied by the answer.

He looked back at the field. Sawamura was wiping dirt from his uniform, still grinning as if the world itself couldn’t weigh him down. The third-year tightened his grip on the dugout railing.

That smile—it wasn’t arrogance, nor was it carelessness. It was something stranger. A smile that refused to crack, like armor. Almost as if, no matter how the game turned, Sawamura was promising he wouldn’t break first.

The senpai shivered. He couldn’t decide if that was reassuring  or terrifying.

And then, before he could settle on an answer.

“Yoshhhh!!”

Sawamura’s shout cut through the field as he dove hard to his left, sliding across the dirt. His glove snapped shut around the ball another impossible catch. Holding it high in triumph, he flashed his trademark grin. “Out!”

But the price was clear. His cheek was scraped raw from the dive, his arm reddened with fresh bruises.

Immediately, the coaches called for a substitution. The standby nurse jogged over, crouching beside him to check his cuts. The supervising coach, however, wasn’t impressed.

“This is only practice!” the man barked. “Why are you acting like it’s the finals already?!”

The whole dugout went silent. No one dared to laugh, even though Sawamura’s dive had been spectacular. A few of the first-years exchanged uneasy glances, while the upperclassmen shook their heads.

Kanemaru muttered under his breath, just loud enough for those around him to hear:
“That’s what you get for showing off too much now you’re all banged up.”

But Sawamura only grinned wider, even as the nurse dabbed disinfectant onto his cheek. He sat there with dirt all over his uniform, bruises stinging, and still looked like he couldn’t wait to jump back in.

That Night – Cafeteria

Voices clattered everywhere plates, forks, spoons. Sawamura sat in the corner, eating slowly. The bruise on his cheek stung, and deep inside he admitted it was his fault. Reckless. He had pushed too far. Still he was happy.

Across from him sat Haruichi, concern plain on his face.
“Sawamura-kun, next time, be careful. I mean, it’s not like I’m meddling, but with those bruises you look like you got mugged.”

Sawamura laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.
“Hehe, yup. The coaches scolded me, even Takashima-san. Lesson learned.”

Kanemaru snorted. “You should. Otherwise, you won’t be able to pitch at all.”

From a corner, a cold voice cut in. Somehow, no one had noticed him until now. Furuya. The only first year in the first string.

“What happened?” he asked flatly.

“Ohh, it’s nothing. Just a few bruises from practice earlier,” Eijun answered, then went back to eating. Furuya just stared silently.

The table quieted for a beat. Then a ripple passed through the room, the atmosphere shifting when a group of first-string regulars walked in with trays in hand. Yuuki, Ryosuke, Kuramochi, and Masuko. Their presence carried a weight, like a different rhythm compared to the noisy cafeteria.

Kuramochi’s sharp eyes swept across the tables, and he paused when he caught sight of Sawamura’s cheek.
“Oiii, brat. What the hell happened to your face? You trip over your own feet again?” His tone was mocking, but the twitch of his brow showed genuine curiosity.

Ryosuke set his tray down with an easy grace, his usual calm presence quieting the air around him. His eyes lingered on Sawamura for a moment not sharp, but thoughtful. Almost like an older brother noticing something off. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer than the others expected.

“That’s not from tripping, is it? Looks more like practice got a little rough.”

Some second-string players at nearby tables perked up, whispering. The regulars noticing Sawamura? That was rare.

“Wait, did Kominato-senpai just sound soft?” one muttered, eyes wide.
“No way. Ryosuke-senpai doesn’t do ‘soft.’ He only gives orders.”
“Exactly. He usually roasts people cold and sharp. But that tone just now”
“Like he was talking to his younger brother, not a random first year.”

They stole glances, half-expecting Ryosuke to snap back into his usual bluntness. But he didn’t. Instead, his voice carried that same casual warmth, just enough to make it sting less and that, more than anything, threw the second string into quiet shock.

One of them chuckled nervously. “Guess that bruise earned Sawamura some kind of miracle.”

Sawamura scrambled upright, hands waving. “Ah—it’s nothing, senpai! Just a scratch, really. I’ll heal fast!”

Kuramochi clicked his tongue, half annoyed, half amused. “Tch. You’re a pain already and you just got here. Don’t go collapsing before you even get a chance to pitch in a real game.”

Ryosuke gave a faint smile, though his eyes lingered a little longer. “Still, if you’re the type to throw yourself around like that, no wonder Coach is watching you closely.” He left it at that and turned away, carrying his tray to sit with the other regulars.

The second-stringers fell back into hushed murmurs.
“Did you hear that? Ryosuke-senpai actually commented on him.”
“Kuramochi too  what’s with this guy?”

Sawamura sat frozen for a moment, chopsticks in hand, before Haruichi nudged him back toward his food. His cheek still throbbed, but somehow, his chest felt lighter.

From two tables back, Miyuki’s gaze drifted toward the cluster of first-years. His eyes landed on Sawamura almost immediately the faint swelling on his cheek, the way he grinned like nothing was wrong even though the pain was obvious. Miyuki leaned back in his seat, unreadable as ever, though his stare lingered longer than he intended.

Beside him, Yuuki followed his line of sight. He set his tray down with a soft clatter, tilting his head as if weighing the scene. “Rough day with the second string? Looks like they didn’t hold back.” His tone was quiet, almost casual, but his eyes said otherwise.

Neither of them moved to intervene. Miyuki only pushed his glasses higher, the faintest curve tugging at his lips, while Yuuki returned to his meal with quiet composure.

From two tables back, their eyes followed Sawamura. They saw the swelling on his cheek, the way he laughed too loud, the way he waved his chopsticks like nothing was wrong.

They didn’t need words to know he was forcing it. His smile was too stubborn, his movements too sharp like someone daring the world to call him weak.

Later that night, after dinner, his friends invited him to hang out in the lobby. Eijun waved them off with a quick excuse.
“Nah, I’m tired. I’ll just crash in the room.”

It was a lie. He wasn’t sleepy at all.

Instead, he wandered the quiet hallways, one hand brushing casually against his cheek. It still ached a dull, constant reminder. He hadn’t seen this pain coming. Not when he dived. Not like this.

The corridor was dim, only a few lights flickering along the walls. As Eijun walked through the half-shadow, he passed that guy—the same senpai who had mocked him on his first day, the one who whispered behind his back, even in the toilet. Rage simmered.

Tonight, the senpai whispered to a friend, loud enough for Eijun to hear:
“Ohhh look, it’s that diving idiot. Should’ve stayed in swimming. Waste of a baseball player and what a joke that he thinks he belongs here.”

That was it. Eijun turned, eyes sharp.
“Senpai,” he called, voice steady. “I don’t understand why you act like this toward me. I didn’t do anything to you. So tell me why?”

The senpai scoffed, lips twisting into a cruel grin. “You dare talk back? You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But guts don’t make talent, bastard.”

Eijun held his ground. “I’m not a bastard. I have a name—Sawamura Eijun. And yes, I’m talking to you, bastard.”

The tall senpai stepped closer, his shadow falling over Eijun like a blade. His voice dropped to a sneer, sharp enough to cut.
“You piss me off. Everything about you. That stupid face, that fake confidence, that mouth of yours—you don’t belong here.” He leaned in slightly, letting the words linger like a knife’s edge, eyes narrowing to slits. “You think winning some middle school games makes you hot shit? You’re nothing. Just a charity case with a free ticket in, living off someone’s connections. Without that, you’d still be a nobody throwing balls in the dirt of some backwater.” He jabbed a finger toward Eijun, voice dropping low but venomous. “Don’t think we don’t know you’re just here because of some connection, some pity invite. A scrub from the countryside, playing hero in middle school, you think that means anything here? Pathetic.” He straightened abruptly, the corridor’s dim light casting harsh shadows across his face, making his sneer look even sharper. “You don’t deserve this uniform. You don’t deserve Seidou.”

He paused, then leaned even closer, voice dropping to an almost mocking whisper.
“And what’s worse? You’re two-faced. Acting like some friendly, bright little idiot when people are watching—laughing, joking, playing dumb. But underneath? I see it. That arrogance. That sharp tongue. Like you’re better than everyone else. You fool them with that sunshine crap, but I’m not buying it. You’re rotten inside. Two different Sawamuras—one fake, one real and both piss me off.”

The corridor seemed to tighten, silence pressing heavy between them.

The senpai smirked, satisfied with his own venom. But the next second, the air shifted.

Eijun didn’t move a muscle, yet something about him was different like the dim corridor itself bent to his presence. The careless grin he usually wore was gone, replaced by a stillness that wasn’t natural for someone his age.

The senpai’s throat tightened. For the briefest instant, he felt like prey standing in front of something he couldn’t name. His hands, clenched at his sides, began to sweat.

What the hell is this? Why is that? he’s just a first-year, right? So why? why does it feel like I’m standing in front of a monster ?

The corridor seemed to grow colder. For a heartbeat, the senpai felt something press down on him an intensity radiating from Eijun that hadn’t been there before.
It wasn’t anger, not even intimidation. It was something heavier, more controlled, like the air itself had sharpened around the boy.

Eijun’s gaze locked on him, unblinking.
“Don’t mistake me, senpai,” he said quietly, his tone edged with steel. “I don’t wear masks. What you see—this is me. All of me.”

The words hung in the air like a blade. For the first time since he had cornered the boy, the senpai’s smirk faltered. His throat bobbed, the air around him suddenly colder, heavier. He couldn’t find his voice just looked away first, a flicker of fear betraying him.

Eijun gave a short, dry laugh, his expression calm.
“Connections? Senpai, you’re mistaken. I was recruited directly by Takashima-san. If you don’t believe me, ask her yourself. And Ojisan? the headmaster—oh, come on, he might have ties to the school, but he doesn’t meddle with the baseball club. Whether I’m here or not  that’s none of your concern.”

His tone cooled, every word deliberate.
“And let me tell you this—it isn’t my fault Coach Kataoka saw value in me. Unlike you. Others stay late to practice, to push themselves. What about you? Sit around? Mock those you think are weaker? That’s what you call being a senpai?”

The corridor felt tighter, dim shadows pressing in as his words cut sharper than expected. His calmness wasn’t lighthearted it was suffocating, a stillness that made the air heavy.

He leaned in slightly, eyes steady, voice never breaking its calm edge.
“So let me ask you?  why are you even here? You think I don’t deserve my place? No. Between us, it’s you who doesn’t. Someone with no effort, no resolve—naturally, Coach Kataoka would see nothing in you.”

The senpai’s face twisted in rage. He grabbed Eijun’s shirt, fist tightening until the fabric bunched hard against his chest. For a second, his friend who had followed him there froze, eyes darting between them. He had never seen Sawamura’s usual noisy energy turn this sharp, this cutting. It was like staring at a completely different person.

Eijun smirked, his voice dropping lower, darker.
“Ohh, what now, senpai? Scared? Do it. Punch me. Go ahead!”

His grin widened provoking, reckless, pure Sawamura. But behind it, there was an edge, something unsettling an intensity that made the senpai hesitate. For all his bluster, his grip faltered. The friend stepped forward awkwardly, muttering, “Hey! maybe let it go, man”

The senpai’s eyes flickered, doubt seeping in. He had called Sawamura two-faced, but now he understood this wasn’t two personalities. This was one boy carrying something deeper, something sharp enough to cut down anyone who stood in his way.

His grip on Eijun’s shirt tightened, knuckles whitening, the air between them taut.

The guy’s fist twitched higher ready to strike but before he could, a voice cut through, low and edged:

“…Oi.”

Both froze.

Miyuki Kazuya stood a few steps away, arms folded loosely, glasses catching the corridor light. His eyes weren’t sharp yet but they didn’t need to be. Just his presence shifted the air, the kind of calm that made even the brashest upperclassmen hesitate.

“What are you idiots doing? Planning to start a fistfight out here in the corner like thugs?” His tone was casual, but the weight behind it made the senpai’s grip falter.

Eijun didn’t flinch. As Miyuki’s eyes met his, the intense, cutting aura he had carried moments ago softened, melting back into the bright, reckless energy everyone knew grinning, lively, and completely himself.

“Ahh—bonding, Miyuki-senpai. We’re getting closer, you see.” His grin radiated that familiar confidence, easy and unshakable.

Miyuki’s lips curled in a faint, dangerous smile. “Closer, huh? If by closer you mean giving Coach Kataoka a reason to kick you both out, then yeah. You’re doing great.”

The senpai released Eijun’s shirt instantly, stepping back with a mutter. “Tch— bastard. Not worth it.” He stalked off down the hall, hiding his frustration, his friend trailing behind him, wide-eyed and uneasy.

Eijun adjusted his collar, still grinning, eyes sparkling now, even as he watched the man retreat. The tension in the corridor lifted slightly, leaving him light on his feet again. He was back to his usual self: confident, teasing, and unbothered, ready to move on without letting the confrontation linger.

Miyuki, however, didn’t move. He studied Eijun for a moment longer, expression unreadable, before finally pushing his glasses up. “You’re reckless, Sawamura. Keep that up and you’ll break before you ever get a chance to stand on the mound.”

He turned to leave, tossing one last glance over his shoulder. “But if you can back up that mouth of yours then maybe, just maybe, it’ll be interesting to watch.”

Eijun watched Miyuki leave, the dim corridor stretching behind him. He took a deep breath and spotted a nearby vending machine outside, the bench right beside it perfect for a quiet break. Dropping a coin in, he pressed the button, and the familiar click of a Pocari Sweat echoed softly. Sitting on the bench, he twisted open the can and took a long sip, tilting his head back to look at the sky. Compared to Nagano, so many more stars dotted the night sky.

His thoughts drifted back to the confrontation moments ago. He admitted, deep down, that part of it was his fault he had pushed the senpai to his limit but the words hurled at him were cruel, unfair. Controlling his anger wasn’t easy, but he had managed it just enough, keeping his sharpness steady. Miyuki’s presence had been a huge help, a silent anchor that eased the tension slightly.

For some reason, the image of someone vaguely like Miyuki someone calm, strong, and quiet kept clicking in his mind. Not someone he knew personally, but the feeling of that presence, a catcher always ready, echoed strangely in his memory.

The memory of a recurring dream crossed his mind. He often saw a mysterious catcher in it a man with no discernible expression, only a mitt ready, catching every pitch Eijun threw. He could never remember the man’s face clearly upon waking, but the feeling lingered: that someone, somewhere, had been silently guiding him. Sometimes he wondered if it was a premonition, or just his imagination taking form. He had even asked his parents once. His ojii-san had answered with a firm, “It’s just a dream, Eijun,” but the dreams continued, always appearing when he felt uncertain or down. Eventually, he stopped asking, accepting them as superstition but the feeling always lingered, like something real was hidden behind the dream.

The night grew darker, and sleep eluded him. He dozed lightly, but the corridor and sky held him awake. Then, footsteps approached. Miyuki Kazuya appeared again, holding a small box. He stopped in front of Eijun, silently observing him for a moment before speaking.

“Miyuki said calmly, handing over the box. ‘Rei-san asked me to give this to you. She couldn’t find you earlier and wondered where you’d gone, so I volunteered to bring it over. It’s a medical kit for your cheeks and arm.’”

Eijun took it, nodding. “Thanks, Miyuki-senpai. Really, you’re a lifesaver. My cheek still hurts a bit, so this will help.”

Miyuki started to turn, but then paused. He picked up a drink from the vending machine and sat down beside Eijun, quietly opening it. A comfortable silence passed before Miyuki began to speak.

“When I was younger  after my mother died, my father buried himself in work. I was alone, didn’t know what to do. Then, one day, I saw a real baseball game nearby. That was the first time I watched a catcher play, and I wanted that mitt. I asked my father to get me one, and I started learning everything I could catching, positions, reading the game. My youth team cost a lot, but my father didn’t mind. He said, ‘Do what you want, Kazuya.’ That meant everything to me.”

Eijun listened, eyes narrowing slightly as he sipped his drink.

“I joined a youth team the next day. It wasn’t easy; people discriminated against me because of my height, age, being alone  but I kept at it. By junior high, I ended up at Edogawa. Do you know it?” Miyuki laughed lightly. “You destroyed us, haha. But I learned a lot there especially from someone like Chris-senpai. Great catcher, really.”

Eijun tilted his head. “Wait!? you met Chris-senpai back in junior high?”

“Yeah,” Miyuki said, chuckling. “I was a first-year, he was a second-year. Rei-san came to recruit Chris-senpai and also offered me, but when I told her I was only a first-year.  That day, seeing her face,  I thought, wow. Hard to laugh at a moment like that, but baseball became everything after my mother’s death.” He looked up at the stars, voice softening, memories heavy yet fond. “It gave me direction  a reason to push forward.”

Eijun blinked, processing. “Sooo? why tell me all this now? Just a bedtime story?” His voice carried a mix of seriousness and his usual playful humor, tilting his head as if daring Miyuki to answer.

Miyuki laughed a soft, almost rare sound that made Eijun grin. “No. Sawamura, you’re funny. But to be honest, I’m telling you this because I know what it’s like to be new, to get noticed, to get challenged by upperclassmen. What happened earlier? That was exactly the kind of situation I experienced. And as a catcher, as a senpai, I can’t let it happen to anyone else. So if anything like that happens again, don’t hesitate to tell me, the captain, or even Coach Kataoka. That kind of behavior doesn’t fit the mission of Seidou Baseball Club.”

He leaned back slightly, tone lighter. “And you know what you did back there? You risked yourself. Another bruise, maybe worse. But everyone notices you, Sawamura. You can’t really hide. Your presence carries weight, you’re a first-year, and people will see you. That’s not a punishment—it’s part of growing. Being noticed is a responsibility, not just luck. You can’t just blend in anymore, but that’s fine. It’s how things work here. You push yourself, they notice, and it becomes part of who you are for better or worse.”

Eijun let out a short laugh. “Heh ...thanks, Miyuki-senpai. Guess I can’t exactly act invisible, huh?”

Miyuki smiled faintly. “Not exactly.”

For a while, they sat quietly, the vending machine humming softly beside them, the night sky stretching above. Eijun felt lighter not because of where they had come from, but because someone had taken a moment to ease his tension, to make him feel seen and guided, if only slightly.

Eijun shook his head slightly, laughing to himself. “Man... this is a lot for a vending machine chat, huh? Who knew I’d get life advice and childhood stories in the middle of the night?”

Miyuki laughed, shaking his head. “Sawamura, you’re a handful. But  keep that up, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll be interesting to watch you grow. Don’t lose that reckless side, that fire that’s part of what makes you. But learn when to control it, too. Strength without control can get you hurt, or worse, put your teammates at risk. You’ll need both heart and head if you want to survive this, and not just survive, but actually shine. People will notice you, whether you like it or not. How you handle that well, that’s what’ll really define you.”

Eijun tilted his head, grinning. “So,  I can’t just punch someone if they annoy me?”

Miyuki laughed, a little more forcefully this time. “Nooo! Definitely not! You’ll get yourself hurt or worse, someone else. That fire of yours?  it’s impressive, but it has to be tempered. You’re strong, Sawamura, but being noticed means responsibility, not just freedom to swing at anyone.”

Eijun let out a short, exasperated laugh. “Hah— okay, okay. Got it. No random punching.”

Miyuki smiled faintly, leaning back. “Good. That’s part of learning here. Keep that fire, but balance it, that’s what will let you truly shine on the mound, and in this team. People will see you,  make sure they see what you want them to. So, enjoy your chaos, Sawamura, but remember—there’s a time to fight, and a time to think. Master both, and you’ll go far. Fail at either, and well, you’ll learn the hard way.”

Eijun nodded firmly, finishing the last of his drink. “Got it, Miyuki-senpai. I’ll remember,  heart and head. Fire and thinking. All of it.” He paused, staring up at the stars, the night stretching endlessly above. A faint smile played on his lips as a quiet determination settled in him he wasn’t just going to survive, he was going to make sure every bit of his fire counted.

He tilted his head slightly, thinking aloud. “You know,  maybe there’s a pattern here. Like a theory. Energy! like my fire needs direction, or it dissipates. Too much chaos without control, and it just burns out or hits the wrong target. But if I channel it, measure it,  focus it where it matters, then it actually builds momentum. Heart fuels it, but head guides it. Maybe that’s how strength works not just raw power, but applied power. If I treat it like that, maybe I can actually predict the outcomes control the variables, even in a chaotic game.”

He tapped his fingers on the bench, almost like running an experiment in his mind. “So, the fire is constant, but how I direct it that’s the variable. And if I adjust it right.  I can turn my chaos into something useful. Something that actually wins games.”

Eijun let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Sounds complicated, but  that’s fine. I like complicated.”

Miyuki let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re hilarious, Sawamura. No wonder Youichi hates you and your thoughts,” he added with a faint, amused smirk.

Eijun let the words sink in, feeling a mix of amusement, reassurance, and the weight of responsibility. Miyuki’s gaze wasn’t just teasing it carried experience, care, and a hint of challenge.

Eijun smiled, finishing his drink. He was ready for whatever came next even if the night was long, full of stars, and full of things he didn’t fully understand yet. He let his mind drift once more to the image of that dream catcher, the mysterious figure silently guiding him, and for a brief moment, it felt less like superstition and more like a quiet promise that he wasn’t entirely alone.

Chapter Text

The dorm was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone else was already asleep, their steady breathing filling the room, but my eyes refused to close. I lay there on my futon, staring at the ceiling.

That  conversation with Miyuki-senpai replayed in my head over and over, my heart and head on fire, trying to find balance.

Tch. I turned on my side, burying my face into the pillow. My lips curved into a grin before I could stop them. Miyuki-senpai, saying things like that before bed, now I can’t even sleep.

Still, it made me feel weird inside. Warm. Annoying as he was, his words stuck. They weren’t just words either they felt like a challenge burned into my chest.

I tried closing my eyes. My brain wouldn’t shut up.

Eventually though, drowsiness won. But even in sleep, those thoughts carried over into morning.

Sunlight washed over Field B the next day. I was already there, stretching my legs and arms, waiting for practice to start. Today wasn’t just any day. I’d be training under Chris-senpai. Finally, real one-on-one practice!

The bullpen smelled like clay and leather, and the air was still sharp with morning chill. I leaned forward into a stretch, foot planted, when I heard footsteps crunching against the ground.

I looked up.

Chris-senpai walked over, casual in his practice gear, calm as ever. Nothing flashy about him, no weird aura like Furuya’s, but for some reason, I straightened right away. Just his presence carried weight.

And just like that, my memory flickered back to the first time we met.

It was just a normal day.

All of us first-years were running laps like crazy. Sweat dripping, lungs burning. Meanwhile, the upperclassmen were doing their own thing: batting practice on one side, the sharp crack of bats echoing, while others drilled defense.

I was near the back of the pack with Kaneee and Toujou, but even running couldn’t shut me up.

“You guys don’t get it, do you?!” I yelled mid-stride, pumping my arms harder. “Running isn’t just for stamina, it’s the core of baseball! Think about it. How do you chase a grounder if your legs give out? How do you sprint home from second if your legs are noodles? And pitching? Don’t even start with me! Power doesn’t come from your arm, it comes from your legs! The legs are the engine!”

Kaneee groaned, face red. “You’re too damn loud in the morning!”

Toujou chuckled under his breath but didn’t say a word.

I wasn’t about to stop. My eyes lit up. “Listen, every muscle is connected. If you only train your arms, you’ll topple like some scarecrow! But strong legs? You’re solid! The legs carry everything throw, swing, sprint—it’s science!”

“Since when do you know science?!” Kaneee barked.

I puffed out my chest. “This is Sawamura Theory! The stronger the legs, the stronger the baseball!”

Then, a calm voice slipped in beside me. “That’s interesting.”

I turned my head. Jogging right next to me was a boy with soft pink hair and clear eyes.

“I’m Kominato Haruichi,” he said politely, matching my pace without breaking a sweat. “And I think what you said makes sense. Legs are important.”

My grin exploded across my face. Finally! Someone gets it!

I started talking even faster, throwing out my wild theories like I was giving a lecture. And Haruichi actually listened! He nodded every so often, eyes steady on me.

Man, that made me so happy.

But then a sharp voice cut in from behind us. “Too loud.”

I twisted my head just enough to catch a glimpse of a tall, black-haired guy running nearby. His aura was heavy, calm but intimidating. Furuya Satoru, already promoted to the first string, was still running with us.

I just shrugged. Whatever. Not my problem. I turned right back to Haruichi.

Then a voice called from the sidelines.
“Furuya-kun! Sawamura-kun! Please come to the bench.”

It was Takashima-san. She was in full tracksuit jogging pants, zip-up jacket, clipboard under her arm. She looked ready to sprint laps herself.

Confused, I veered off from the pack, jogging toward her with Furuya beside me.

Two guys stood nearby.

One was Miyuki Kazuya. Yeah, that Miyuki. The catcher from Edogawa we faced at Nationals back in middle school. Heh. Just seeing him made me grin inside. We beat them good. That loss must still sting, huh, Miyuki?

The other guy, though—tall, brown hair, gloomy expression. Heavy aura. I tilted my head. Weird.

Takashima-san’s voice snapped me back.

“Good morning, Furuya-kun, Sawamura-kun. From today onward, both of you will undergo a special pitcher training regimen. You’ll be working more intensively than the rest of your batch.”

I blinked and raised my hand. “Uh— do I get to object, Takashima-san?”

She gave me this patient smile. “No, Sawamura-kun. This was decided by Coach Kataoka.”

Before I could argue, that mocking voice chimed in.
“Hah. Sawamura, you’re lazy as ever. Daring to object to Coach? Cocky much?”

I rolled my eyes. “Tch. Ignore, ignore.”

Still, I muttered, “My mom says overwork is dangerous, and my ojii-san always told me not to push too hard or I’ll collapse.”

Takashima-san didn’t even flinch. “It’s not overwork, it’s focus. Limits will be set and discussed with your assigned catcher. Furuya-kun, you’ll be with Miyuki. Your stamina, control, and mound presence need to improve. Especially since you’ll be pitching in the Kanto tournament.”

Furuya’s eyes lit up, his posture stiffening. “Understood, ma’am! I’ll do my best with Miyuki-senpai!” He bowed crisply, determination written all over him.

Miyuki smirked. “Grateful you’ll get the chance, then. Power’s fine, but your control? Suck. We’ll throw hundreds of pitches a day until you fix it"

I nearly choked. Hundreds?! I could handle that, sure, but this guy? Furuya would collapse before halfway!

As if on cue, I sneezed.

I snorted to myself, then caught the eyes of the gloomy senpai nearby. We stared for a moment before looking away. Awkward.

“And Sawamura-kun,” Takashima-san said next. “You’ll be working with Chris-kun, our third-year catcher. He’ll be teaching you everything you still need to learn.”

“Ohhh!” My eyes lit up instantly. I stepped forward, bowed, grinning like an idiot. “Sawamura Eijun! Nice to meet you, Chris-senpai! Thank you for letting me work with you!”

Chris gave a small nod. “Me too. Let’s do our best.”

Back to the present

I bent forward, finishing my stretches while Chris-senpai pulled on his gloves calmly. The memory faded, leaving only today in front of me.

On the main field, first-string was busy with defensive drills. My eyes landed on left field Furuya. He messed up a play but, of course, acted like nothing happened.

I snorted under my breath. “Same old Furuya. Just like that first time I saw him.”

Straightening my back, I turned to Chris-senpai. Whatever came next. I was ready.

Chris-senpai adjusted the strap of his mitt and spoke quietly, almost too casually.
“If you had arrived earlier, Sawamura, you’d already be practicing with the first string instead of being stuck here with me.”

I froze mid-stretch, blinking at him.
What the heck, Chris-senpai?! Why would he say something like that?

My chest tightened for a moment. Stuck with him? No way. Training with Chris-senpai wasn’t a punishment it was everything. Every time he gave me a program, every time he corrected my sloppy movements, I grew stronger. My stamina was better than ever, stable but always needing more. My body tougher than before, all because of his guidance.

I clenched my fists, glaring at him.
“Chris-senpai, don’t say stuff like that. I’m actually happy being with you! Honestly, my stamina? Way above average now, thanks to you! Without your training, I’d just be some noisy pitcher who burns out halfway. But with you. I’m improving every day!”

His calm eyes studied me, unreadable. Then he asked, almost testing me,
“You’re not jealous? Despite Furuya being in the first string already, even though his control is lacking? While you, stable and hardworking, are still training here ?”

Jealous? Did I look jealous?!

I let out a small laugh through my nose. “Hmm, not really. I know my time will come. I’ll make first string in the right moment. For now, I’m focusing solely on my pitches. That’s more important than rushing ahead, right, Chris-senpai?”

He tilted his head slightly, finally giving a hint of a smile.
“Okay, as you insist. Then let’s get to work. What pitches do you want to refine today? You told Coach Kataoka before you have pitches you can throw, but your control over them is shaky. Should we focus on that?”

I straightened my cap, eyes burning. “Yes. My forkball, the curve sinker, and my curveball. Those are my seventh, eighth, and ninth pitches. I have to make them weapons, not just tricks.”

Chris-senpai’s eyes sharpened, serious now. He nodded once. “Alright. But before that, show me your fastball. That’s your foundation. If it’s not sharp, none of the others will matter.”

“Yes, sir!” I shouted, slapping my glove.

I gripped the ball tight, feeling the seams dig in. My wind-up wasn’t elegant no neat textbook lift, just raw, driving motion. I kicked off the dirt and launched forward, arm whipping, legs powering like springs.

BAM! The mitt popped. Chris barely flinched.

“Again,” he said.

I fired another. Then another. Each one hissed through the air, faster, louder. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, breath coming sharper. Chris’s mitt thudded in rhythm, steady as a drumbeat.

“Your speed’s good,” Chris finally said. “But don’t just throw hard. Focus on release. Drive it to the mitt.”

I nodded, wiped my brow, and hurled another fastball. This one cracked into his glove so loud it echoed across the field. Chris’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything. That silence — it was approval.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Now, show me your forkball.”

I grinned, gripping the ball between my fingers, splitting them just enough, feeling the seams dig into my skin. My heart thumped in excitement.

“Here goes!”

Unlike textbook pitchers with their perfect balance and neat leg kicks, I hurled my body forward with raw energy, my legs driving like pistons, my arm snapping through the air. The pitch wasn’t elegant, but it was mine.

The ball cut through the air, but right before it smacked into Chris-senpai’s mitt, it suddenly dipped and swerved left, bouncing off the dirt.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry!” I jogged forward a few steps, scratching the back of my head. “Slipped out of my hand!”

Chris-senpai bent down, scooped up the ball smoothly, and tossed it back. “The drop was there. But you released too early. Again.”

I reset my grip, took a breath, and powered through the motion. My foot pounded into the dirt, shoulders whipping around, and I let another forkball fly. This time, the ball carried straight, then sank violently at the last moment. Chris’s mitt popped with a sharp thud.

“Better,” he said simply. But I swore his eyes gleamed for half a second.

Encouraged, I threw again and again, sweat rolling down my temple. Some pitches dove like knives, others went wild, skipping away, but every throw made my arm hum with energy.

“Next, the curve sinker,” Chris commanded.

“Roger that!” I gripped the seams differently, twisting my wrist just enough on the release. My body leaned harder into the throw, dirt kicking up under my cleats. The pitch spun forward, then dove with a biting downward arc. It landed low, scraping near the dirt.

Chris’s mitt snapped shut. He studied the ball. “The movement is sharp, but your consistency is shaky. You’re dropping your shoulder sometimes—don’t.”

I grit my teeth. “Got it! Again!”

Pitch after pitch, the curve sinker sliced down. Some bit the dirt, some found the mitt. My shirt clung to my back, my breath came heavier, but the fire in my chest wouldn’t burn out.

“Last one,” Chris finally said, settling into his stance. “Your curveball.”

I nodded, feeling my pulse quicken. The curveball wasn’t just another pitch it was a beast. Fast, sharp, unpredictable. Even I wasn’t always ready for the whip in my wrist.

I set my feet, bent low, then exploded forward. My torso twisted, arm cutting across, and I snapped the ball free.

The ball spun tight, curving hard so hard that Chris-senpai, calm as ever, reached out and missed.

The ball zipped past him, slamming against the fence with a metallic clang!

“Uwahhh!” I shouted, nearly tripping over myself as I ran up. “Sorry, sorry! That one just got away from me! Are you okay, Chris-senpai?!”

He straightened, adjusting his glove with a cool expression, though I swore I saw his lips twitch.
“Fast. Faster than expected. Control it, and it’ll be deadly.”

My chest thumped with pride. Hearing that from Chris-senpai—it was worth every drop of sweat.

I tightened my grip on the ball, grinning wide.
“Then let’s keep going, Chris-senpai! I’ll master these pitches no matter what!”

Chris just gave me that calm, unreadable look of his. He crouched again, glove steady like a wall that dared me to challenge it. No words of praise, no easy smile. Just that silence that said, prove it with your throw.

I exhaled and wound up. My shoulders screamed from repetition, sweat dripping down my jaw, but the fire in my chest drowned out every ache. I released sharp, fast, angled. The ball smacked into his mitt with a satisfying thud.

“Better,” Chris said simply.
One word. But my grin widened anyway.

Pitch after pitch, I kept going. My knuckles burned, the seams biting into my fingers, but I didn’t stop. Each correction Chris gave felt like a key unlocking something I didn’t know I had.

“Your release point lower.”
“Shoulder, don’t open too soon.”
“Think balance before speed.”

I repeated his words in my head, over and over, carving them in deeper than muscle memory. My body screamed, but my brain kept chanting: balance before speed, balance before speed.

The hours bled together. From the crisp cool of morning, when my body still felt light and alive, into the dragging heat of midday. At first, the breeze helped, carrying away the sting of sweat, but as the sun climbed higher, the air turned heavy and sharp. Sweat poured down my back, soaking my jersey until it clung like glue. My cap brim dripped constantly, making me blink through the sting in my eyes. My breath came in ragged bursts, the ball slipping in my grip more than once, tumbling off-target with a wild bounce.

Chris finally raised his hand, shrugging lightly, a calm look on his face.
“Alright, take a break. Drink up—catch your breath.”

I dropped onto the bench with a heavy thud, gulping water so fast it dribbled down my chin. My chest heaved like a furnace, arms trembling, legs stiff. My arm felt like lead, but the second my breathing settled, I was already bouncing my knee, itching to throw again.

“You’re restless,” Chris muttered, almost like he could read my mind.

“Of course I am!” I shot back, wiping my face with my sleeve. “How can I rest when there’s still so much to fix?”

For a second, Chris’s gaze softened, and I thought just maybe he understood exactly what I meant. But he didn’t argue. Instead, after only a short pause, he returned to his crouch.
“Alright. Again.”

From late morning into early afternoon, I hurled pitch after pitch. Forkballs that sometimes dropped perfectly, diving like daggers, and sometimes slipped away, bouncing like a rookie’s mistake. Curve sinkers that bit the dirt too soon, leaving me grinding my teeth. Curveballs that came blazing in faster than either of us expected, so wild that even Chris’s mitt had to shift sharply to catch them.

And in between, my fastballs. The pitch that always felt like my heartbeat. I drove them in again and again, harder, sharper the kind of pitch that made the air snap. My whole body went into them: legs slamming, shoulders whipping, fingers cutting the seams. Even as fatigue clawed at my muscles, I refused to let the speed die. I could hear the pop in Chris’s mitt, and every time it echoed, it pushed me to throw the next one harder.

When I faltered, Chris’s mitt was always there steady, waiting, grounding me. His calm presence against my wild energy.

By the time the sun climbed high, my uniform clung heavy with sweat. My lungs were fire. My fingers trembled when I reached for another ball. My vision blurred sometimes, spots of heat flashing across my eyes, but my grin never left.

Because every throw, even the bad ones, felt like progress.

I glanced at Chris, still calm, still waiting, like he had endless patience for me even though my pitches went everywhere. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Heh, you’re really merciless, Chris-senpai.”

For the first time, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like maybe he was holding back a smile.

That tiny reaction was enough to push me to throw again.

Chris clapped his hands once, glancing at the fading light over the field. “That’s enough for today. I’ve got somewhere to be.” His tone was even, but there was the faintest trace of satisfaction in his eyes as he looked at Eijun.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, trying not to look too smug about catching that flicker of approval. My chest felt a little lighter.

“Ah—wait, senpai, before I forget!” I jogged over to my bag, rummaging through it until my fingers brushed against a worn notebook. The cover was bent at the corners, pages sticking out from being opened too many times. I carried it everywhere, just in case.

I hurried back and held it out with both hands.
“Here! Uh, my training notebook. There’s the stuff you gave me before, and then um, some extra.”

Chris-senpai raised an eyebrow, silent as always, but he took the notebook anyway. His fingers brushed against mine for a second cold compared to my sweaty palms and then he started flipping through the pages.

The sound of paper turning echoed louder than it should have in my ears.

I scratched my cheek, forcing a laugh.
“S-so, see, the first part is your regimen: the stretches, the pitching drills, the stamina work you had me start on. I’ve been doing all of it, promise! But then I kinda added my own stuff too. From my middle school days. And maybe a few things I picked up from watching videos. And okay, I might have combined them into one.”

Chris-senpai stopped flipping. His eyes scanned the page, and I swear the air around us got heavier.

“You’re doing two regimens?” His voice was low, calm, but it made my stomach flip.

I waved my hands quickly.
“N-not exactly! I mean, yes, but also no! It’s like I minimized the overlap! I didn’t want to waste time repeating the same things, so I merged them. A little of yours, a little of mine, like— like mixing a new pitch, right? A custom blend!”

He kept staring at me. Not the notebook. At me.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, nerves bubbling up.
“I should’ve asked you first. I know, I know! But you’re always busy, and it’s not like I could just barge in every time I got an idea. So I just tested it myself. Carefully!”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His expression barely moved, but his eyes sharp and unblinking felt like they were dissecting me. Like he was trying to figure out whether I was an idiot, reckless, or something else entirely.

My throat went dry. I looked down, rubbing the back of my neck.
“You’re staring really hard, Chris-senpai.”

The silence stretched, heavy, almost suffocating. I shifted my weight, the notebook still lying open in his hands. The pages crinkled softly as the wind caught the corner, but Chris-senpai didn’t move. His eyes they hadn’t left me once.

I laughed weakly, trying to break the tension.
“It’s not, um, weird, right? Mixing your plan and mine? I just  I didn’t want to waste time waiting. You already gave me so much, I thought if I could push just a little harder then maybe I could catch up faster.”

My words tumbled out too fast. I wanted to bite my tongue, but it was too late. Every truth, every bit of desperation I kept tucked away spilled out before I could stop it.

Chris-senpai finally blinked, closing the notebook with a soft snap. His expression didn’t change, but the weight behind his gaze did. It wasn’t sharp or cold it was something else. Something that made my chest squeeze painfully.

“You ” His voice was low, steady, almost disbelieving. “You push yourself too far.”

The words landed heavier than I thought they would. Not an insult, not even criticism just a truth laid bare. I’d heard people call me stubborn, loud, impossible to rein in. But from Chris-senpai, it sounded different. Like he wasn’t just pointing out a habit, but exposing something I couldn’t hide.

I froze, my stomach dropping. Was I about to get scolded? Dismissed?

But Chris didn’t look angry. His eyes lingered on me, steady, like he was measuring not just my words but everything I had poured into that notebook: the mornings, the aching muscles, the stubborn drive that kept me throwing long after I should’ve stopped.

His brows knit the tiniest bit, and then…

“But ” He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to measure each word before letting it go. “You’re also unbelievable.”

I swallowed hard, heat rushing up my neck. I didn’t know what to do with that praise, scolding, whatever it was. My hands curled into fists at my sides, itching for something to hold onto.

“Unbelievable?” I echoed, my voice cracking just slightly.

His stare softened, just a fraction, like a shadow breaking under sunlight.

“You’re the kind of pitcher who’ll ruin himself just to keep moving forward.”

The words struck, not like a fastball to the chest, but like something heavier something that lingered in the air between us.

Chris-senpai’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned back just slightly, but his eyes pinned me in place.
“Your combined regimen the long tosses, the strength work, even the shadow pitching it’s good enough. Better than good, actually. You’ve built a foundation most players your age don’t have.”

My breath caught. Better than good? Coming from Chris-senpai, that was like being told I’d just thrown a perfect game.

“But more than that,” he went on, flipping the notebook once more before closing it with deliberate care, “you didn’t just pile on drills blindly. You balanced them. What I gave you, and what you added yourself they don’t clash. They actually support each other. That’s rare.”

I blinked at him, stunned. My throat tightened like I’d just swallowed fire. Balanced? Rare? Me?

“You push because you think more is always better,” Chris continued, his tone quieter, steadier. “But this” he tapped the notebook against his knee“this shows you’re learning it’s not about breaking yourself. It’s about keeping steady, finding the rhythm you can sustain, and building strength on top of that. You’ve managed to take what I taught you and make it yours. That’s no small thing.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t a scolding. It wasn’t just caution. It was something heavier, something warmer, like he was giving me credit I didn’t even know I deserved.

I could feel heat crawling up my neck, my hands clenching and unclenching against my thighs. My chest swelled painfully, like my ribs couldn’t contain everything pressing against them.

My throat tightened, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
“You really think I’m moving forward?”

Chris didn’t blink.
“I’m saying you’ve already found a pace that works. You’re moving forward without even realizing it. Don’t ruin that by doubting yourself.”

My throat tightened. Praise like that it felt too big, too heavy for me to hold. I opened my mouth, ready to argue, to deny it, but nothing came out. Because deep down, a small part of me wanted to believe him.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was grounding. Like his words pinned me to the earth, keeping me from burning up completely.

Chris-senpai slowly started gathering his things. I scrambled up too, almost tripping over myself before blurting,
“I—I had a great time today. Practicing with you, Chris-senpai.”

He gave me the faintest smile, quiet but solid, like the kind that leaves no room for doubt.
“That’s good. I’m glad.

He added a few more pointers before heading toward the bullpen gate. Small corrections, tiny adjustments that didn’t overwhelm me, just things I could add on my own. He left it up to me whether I’d use them or not. That  meant a lot. It wasn’t him forcing anything on me. It was him trusting me.

At the edge of the bullpen, he paused. “Tomorrow’s the Kanto tournament playoff,” he said. His voice carried the same calm weight as always, but there was something sharper behind it. “Go watch. Study it. Watch the batters, the pitchers. Notice their timing, their posture, their decision-making. Then come tell me what you learned.”

I froze. “Eh? Me?!”

But he didn’t answer, didn’t look back. He just raised a hand in a small wave before disappearing down the path.

The bullpen felt different once he was gone. Quieter. Colder. But my chest was still burning.

I clutched my glove against me and muttered under my breath, “Kanto tournament, huh, If it’s something Chris-senpai told me to do, then I’ll definitely watch. No way I’m letting him down.”

I tilted my head back, eyes catching the open sky above the bullpen fence. For the first time, the thought of sitting in the stands just watching didn’t feel boring. It felt like a challenge. Like stepping onto a different kind of mound.

And maybe,  just maybe if I paid close enough attention, I’d see something no one else did. Something worth showing Chris-senpai.

Chapter Text

Kanto Tournament, Jingu Stadium

Seidou High School vs. Yokohama Kohoku Academy

The morning sun rose on a battlefield painted in crimson and navy. The stadium pulsed with life long before the game began. By the time the sun cleared the edge of the stands, waves of voices were already crashing together footsteps echoing on the concrete, fans shouting to one another, cheers swelling and falling like the tide. Flags snapped in the restless breeze, bold blues and whites and Seidou’s sharp crimson fluttering against the sky. The smell of sweat, sunscreen, and dusty infield dirt clung to the air as though the game had already started.

I slipped into the crowd with the other first-years, cap pulled low, notebook wedged beneath my arm. My stomach buzzed not with nerves, not today, but with anticipation. Chris-senpai’s words from the night before lingered like an anchor.

Watch carefully.

So that’s what I was going to do.

Every pitch.
Every swing.
Every hesitation.

If Chris-senpai wanted me to see the game differently, I’d carve every detail into memory until the whole field unfolded in front of me like a map.

“Man, it’s really packed.” Haruichi’s voice was soft but full of awe as he craned his neck toward the stands. “It’s nothing like practice games.”

Beside him, Ono-senpai. The second-string catcher adjusted his bag. “It’s the Kanto tournament. Of course the crowd’s bigger. And ” he gestured toward a pocket of fans waving navy flags on the far side of the bleachers, “ we’re not the only ones who came ready.”

That section belonged to Yokohama Kohoku Academy. Their supporters were loud, organized, and impossible to ignore. Rows of matching uniforms in crisp navy-blue filled the seats, brass instruments polished and glinting under the sun. Their chant rolled like a steady drumbeat, challenging the air even before the teams set foot on the field.

Yokohama, a powerhouse from Kanagawa. They weren’t Inashiro-level giants, but their reputation was carved into recent tournaments disciplined pitching staff, strong defense, and the kind of batting lineup that punished the smallest mistake.

“Kanagawa schools always bring serious heat,” whispered Toujou, eyes following the Yokohama Kohoku cheering squad. “They don’t come this far to lose.”

I leaned forward on the railing, gaze fixed on the diamond below. The groundskeepers were finishing the final sweep, rakes dragging across the infield dirt with practiced rhythm. White chalk lines shone freshly drawn, perfect against the brown earth.

Seidou’s players trickled out of the dugout to stretch, each one carrying that unspoken electricity that only came with elimination games. Yuuki-senpai’s calm figure led the group, while Jun-senpai carried himself with sharp, restless energy. Even from the stands, I could see Mochi-senpai crack his knuckles like he couldn’t wait to move.

The upperclassmen. Our senpai looked steady. Strong. Ready.

I felt a flicker in my chest.

This was it.
The Kanto tournament.
A stage bigger than anything I’d ever stood on.

Around me, the non-regulars gathered in clusters—first-years, second-stringers, and even benched upperclassmen united in one purpose: support. Our section didn’t rival the official Seidou cheering squad, but the energy was raw and earnest, voices already warming up for the chants that would carry across innings.

“Eijun-kun,” Haruichi murmured, catching me scribbling something in my notebook. “What are you writing?”

Before I could answer, Kaneee leaned over my shoulder, squinting. “Wait—why’d you even bring a notebook? You gonna do homework here or something? What’s it for?”

“Nothing important,” I said quickly, though my hand didn’t stop moving. My pen scratched against the page, sketching the pitcher’s mound, marking where the shadows fell, noting how the wind tugged at the foul pole flags. Small things. But Chris said small things mattered.

And if I was going to be Seidou’s pitcher, then I had to see it all.

I muttered without thinking, “That Yokohama battery they’re solid. Seidou’s guys are gonna have a hard time scoring.”

Everyone around me froze.

“Hah?!” Kanee gawked.
Ono blinked, almost startled.
Even Haruichi’s eyes widened just slightly.

I stared back at them, confused. “What? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

They exchanged glances like I’d just spoken a different language. My cheeks burned, but inside my chest, a stubborn heat curled tighter.

When Yokohama’s players finally jogged onto the field, the stadium’s balance shifted. Their navy uniforms gleamed under the sunlight, white lettering bold across their chests. The crowd roared for them, the brass section blaring, a wall of sound that met Seidou’s crimson tide head-on.

Two forces.
Two schools.
Two paths colliding on the Kanto stage.

The umpire’s voice crackled through the stadium speakers, announcing the official start.

The roar of the crowd swelled as both teams lined up, caps tipped in unison as they bowed to each other and the stands.

“Play ball!”

The words rang sharp and clear, and with them, the atmosphere snapped taut.

Seidou was in their usual crisp whites, the deep blue lettering gleaming under the midday sun. Their dugout was alive with energy, voices carrying as players pounded fists into gloves, calling out encouragements. Every movement radiated confidence. They weren’t just representing their school today they were representing their name.

Across the field, Yokohama Kohoku Academy stood tall in their own sharp uniforms: deep navy jerseys with bold white lettering across the chest, their look as disciplined as their reputation. Kanagawa’s pride. Their brass cheering squad glinted in the sun, instruments polished to perfection, blasting chants that rolled like thunder through the stands. Yokohama had clawed their way into Kanto with a lineup known for its discipline and heavy hitters.

My pen tapped restlessly against my notebook. Even from here, the air felt heavier when Yokohama stepped into position.

On the mound for Seidou, Tanba-senpai adjusted his cap, his face tight with focus. His warmup throws had carried good speed, sharper than I expected. He wasn’t the kind of pitcher who overwhelmed with raw power but his rhythm, his balance, that steady presence it demanded respect.

Behind the plate, Miyuki-senpai crouched low, mask tilted just enough for the sun to flash across his grin. His signals were quick, precise. Even from the stands, I could almost hear his voice calm, clear, confident.

The first Yokohama batter dug into the box, rolling his shoulders, knocking dirt off his cleats with the bat’s handle. A tall right-hander, muscles coiled like a spring. The stands erupted with Yokohama supporters, navy flags snapping high.

“Go, Yokohama!”
“Show them Kanagawa pride!”

The voices mixed with Seidou’s cheers, blue-and-white banners clashing with navy in the open air. The stadium didn’t just feel alive it felt like it might split open from the noise.

I leaned forward on the railing, notebook open, pen ready.

Tanba-senpai wound up. Smooth. Straightforward. No wasted motion.

The ball cut through the air, smacking into Miyuki-senpai’s mitt with a clean pop that made my chest tighten.

“Strike one!”

The umpire’s call echoed, and a chorus of Seidou voices erupted in unison.

My hand trembled as I scribbled notes, heart pounding as if I were the one standing on the mound.

This—
This was the Kanto tournament.

And this was only the beginning.
The first inning slid by clean. Tanba-senpai’s pitches worked the zone with quiet authority fastball at the letters, slider biting late, curve dropping just enough to fool. Yokohama’s leadoff swung late, fouled one off, then chased a breaking ball into Miyuki-senpai’s mitt. One down. The next batter made contact but rolled it straight to Kominato-senpai at second routine throw to first. Two out. The third batter watched a fastball paint the inside corner and walked back shaking his head.

“Three up, three down,” Haruichi murmured beside me, almost like he couldn’t believe it.

But I could. My pen scratched across the page. Tanba-senpai’s rhythm  it’s calm. He doesn’t let them breathe.

Seidou’s offense in the bottom half wasn’t explosive, but they chipped away. Yuuki-senpai battled through a full count, spoiling off two borderline pitches before finally coaxing a walk. His bat never wavered eyes locked, patient. Masuko- senpai followed, crowd buzzing as the crack of his bat sent a clean single bouncing past the mound into center. Runners on first and second, one out. The tension spiked.

Jun-senpai came up swinging, but Yokohama’s pitcher had bite he chased high heat for strike three. Two down. The inning hung in the balance.

Then Miyuki-senpai stepped in, that calm grin under his helmet. The first pitch, he let go by strike. The second, he fouled off, sharp and deliberate. But the third he turned his wrists quick, driving it on a line into left-center. Yuuki-senpai charged home, and our bench erupted.

“Seidou, fight-o!”
“Seidou, fight-o!”

My pen flew across the page. Miyuki-senpai’s timing  perfect. He waited, then punished. First blood. 1–0, Seidou.

Through the second inning, Tanba-senpai kept Yokohama caged.
Grounder to short. Strikeout swinging. Pop fly to center. My notebook page filled with steady lines tempo consistent, no panic, zero wasted throws.

The third inning tested him. Yokohama’s cleanup hitter a broad-shouldered lefty caught one of Tanba’s fastballs square and sent it screaming toward right. The whole crowd jumped to their feet then roared as Mochi-senpai snagged it on the run, glove snapping shut inches before the fence. The breath I’d been holding came out in a laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Toujou muttered, shaking his head. “That was gone in most parks.”

Not today, I thought, scribbling furiously. Seidou defense—solid.

But I noticed something else just before the ninth spot, there was their eighth batter. The right fielder. Number 8 on his back, 8th in the lineup. Not tall, but wiry, eyes sharp. He fouled off two tough pitches, then stretched the count until he punched a soft grounder to third. Out, but not easy. He sprinted down the line like a blur. Even out by a step, the crowd gasped at his speed.

I scribbled quick: #8 right fielder—good eyes, legs dangerous. Feels like Mochi-senpai.

Kaneee leaned over my shoulder, whistling low. “That guy’s trouble if he gets on.”

Haruichi nodded, quiet but firm. “His jumps on leads same vibe as Kuramochi-senpai.”

I tightened my grip on the pen. Chris-senpai said to watch everything. That guy, he’s not an ordinary player . He’s a trigger.

By the fifth, the score was still 1–0. Tanba-senpai was locked in, his mechanics smooth, but I could see the small things his shoulders rising higher between pitches, the way his glove-hand lingered on his thigh a beat longer. Fatigue. Just hints.

Miyuki-senpai jogged to the mound once, mask tilted up, calm words traded. Tanba-senpai exhaled and went back to work. He punched out their eighth batter with a fastball up and in, then forced the ninth into a dribbler that Tanba-senpai fielded himself. The inning ended.

But in my notes, the pen stopped tapping.

His rhythm is good but the cracks are there. Will it hold?

The sixth began like the others. Leadoff man grounded out. One away. The crowd buzzed, restless, like they were waiting for something to break.

Then it did.

Yokohama’s second batter turned on a fastball that caught too much plate line drive up the middle, past Sakai-senpai glove. A single. Their cheering section exploded, brass horns blaring.

Third batter followed with a sharp grounder between first and second—another hit. Two on, one out.

I gripped my pen so hard the cap bent. They’re timing him now. They adjusted.

Cleanup came up again. Tanba-senpai set, breathed deep, delivered. Crack. The sound was different he’d squared it. The ball screamed into the right-field gap. Both runners scored before the relay even reached the cutoff. The scoreboard flipped: 2–1, Yokohama.

Our bench shouted, voices fierce, but the momentum had shifted.

Tanba-senpai tightened his jaw, got the next hitter to chase a high fastball—two outs. But Yokohama wasn’t letting go. Their sixth batter connected with another single, plating the runner from second. 3–1.

The crowd’s roar rolled like thunder.

Miyuki-senpai called time again, mask pushed back, voice low. Tanba-senpai nodded once, but his shoulders looked heavier. The next pitch —a curve that hung just long enough. The batter slapped it down the line, fair by inches. Another run in. 4–1.

The Seidou cheering squad fought to rally, drums and chants rising, but Yokohama’s navy wall roared louder.

And just when I thought it might stop, that eighth batter the right fielder was up again. The one I’d marked earlier. He wasted no time, dropping a perfectly placed bunt down the third-base line. Safe at first. The stands thundered as he immediately took his lead, wide and twitchy, like a coiled spring.

“Watch him,”Haruichi murmured, serious.

Kaneee scowled. “Yeah, guy’s a Kuramochi-senpai copycat.”

I leaned forward, pulse hammering. No, not copycat. Different. His reads are sharper. If Tanba-senpai isn’t careful, this guy will tear bases apart.

Sure enough, on the second pitch, he was gone sliding into second before the throw even crossed the mound. Steal.  Yokohama Kohoku’s section roared like they’d won already.

And the next batter, feeding off that momentum, lined a single into right. The runner scored easily. 5–1.

I stared at the field, notebook forgotten for a moment. My chest hurt not from fear, but from the weight of it. Five runs. Just like that.

Beside me, Kaneee muttered, “Tanba-senpai—”

But I shook my head, surprising myself with how certain my voice sounded.

“He’s not done. Not yet.”

Everyone turned to look at me, startled. But I wasn’t backing down.

Because even through the noise, through the runs and the cracks in his rhythm, I could see Tanba-senpai’s eyes. Still sharp. Still burning.

And that meant—

This game wasn’t finished.

The inning change buzzed through the stands, Seidou’s offense striding up with fire in their eyes. We were trailing now momentum slipping but if there was one thing our lineup could do, it was bite back.

Yuuki-senpai stepped up, shoulders squared, his bat heavy but steady. First pitch he let it pass. Ball. The next, he timed clean, driving it deep into right-center. The sound cracked like thunder, and the whole Seidou bench leapt up.

“Go, go, go!”

But then—

A blur of navy.

Yokohama’s number eight, their right fielder, tore across the grass like his legs had springs. I blinked, pen frozen above the page, as he tracked the ball all the way into the gap. At full tilt, he launched himself sideways, glove snapping open

Thunk!

The entire stadium gasped. He hit the ground, rolled once, but when he came up, the ball was buried in his mitt. Out.

Yuuki-senpai stood there at first base, hands on hips, lips pressed tight. Not frustration—respect. Even he knew that was no fluke.

My chest thudded, and I scribbled fast:
#8 RF—speed insane. Reads trajectory early. Not luck—skill.

I couldn’t help it the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“That guy, he’s good.”

Kaneee leaned forward, grimacing. “Good? He robbed Yuuki-senpai clean.”

Haruichi’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “The way he accelerated at the last second it’s not just speed. His first step is sharp. Like he already knew where it’d drop.”

I clenched my pen tighter. Chris-senpai’s voice echoed in my head. Notice everything. Yeah,  that guy wasn’t just another outfielder. He was a wall. A weapon.

Seidou tried to rally, but each time, Yokohama’s battery pitcher and catcher both tightened the screws. Breaking balls on the black, fastballs biting the corners, nothing wasted. Even when contact was made, their defense swallowed it whole.

The scoreboard held. 5–1.

By the time the bottom of the seventh rolled in, the whispers in the stands were louder. Restless.

“Five runs down.”
“Seidou can’t crack them.”
“Do they even have anyone else to stop Yokohama’s bats?”

And then—movement in the dugout. A substitution call.

“In place of starting pitcher Tanba-kun, we have Furuya-kun taking the mound. He’ll be batting eighth.”

The announcement snapped like a whip. The crowd erupted with surprise as a tall, lean figure walked toward the mound, cap low, eyes shadowed but burning.

Furuya.

I leaned forward hard, notebook pressed against the rail. My heart pounded with a sharp excitement. That guy.... he wasn’t the same Furuya I’d seen stumble in practice. The moment he climbed the mound, it was like the stadium itself held its breath. Every movement said one thing: he was ready to show exactly what he could do. I couldn’t help but give him credit his focus, his presence it was something else entirely.

From the corner of my eye, Haruichi’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“I still can’t believe it, the same first-year as us. Sawamura-kun, Toujou-kun, Kanemaru-kun and him.”

Kaneee muttered something, half in disbelief, half awe. “He’s ridiculous.”

The upperclassmen didn’t join in. They just watched quietly, probably unaccustomed to seeing a first-year step onto the mound and shift the whole rhythm like that. Not doubt. Not even envy. Just a silent acknowledgment.

A monster.

That word floated in my head but it didn’t stick. Because as I looked to my right, notebook balanced in my lap, I caught Ono-senpai watching me. His gaze flicked from Furuya on the mound then back to me.

There was something in his gaze like he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

Furuya was a monster, yes. Everyone could see that. But the way Ono-senpai’s stare lingered, his throat moving as if he’d swallowed something he couldn’t say.

I didn’t understand it. I just felt the weight of it—like there was something important in that look, something I wasn’t supposed to see yet.

Furuya stepped onto the mound without a word, glove raised, eyes forward. The substitution echoed through the stadium announcer’s mic, but Yokohama’s dugout didn’t even flinch. If anything, their chatter sharpened, their coach clapping hands together.

“Don’t let it shake you! Five runs is our wall defend it!”

Their bench roared back in unison, voices pounding with confidence.

I tightened my fist around the pen. They weren’t scared. They were ready to crush us no matter who stood on the mound.

But then—

Pssshhh!

The first pitch tore through the air, a bullet straight into Miyuki-senpai’s mitt. The sound cracked like lightning, reverberating through the stadium. The radar flashed—150 km/h. Gasps rippled across the stands, even from Yokohama’s bench. Their number five leaned forward, mouth open.

Toujou muttered, awestruck, “That fast!?”

I scribbled furiously: Furuya’s fastball—raw power. Straight, no movement. But speed alone shakes hitters. Stadium stirred.

The batter didn’t even swing. Just froze. Strike one.

Next pitch. Another heater, this one high, burning past the bat before the swing was even halfway. Whiff. Strike two.

Third pitch. He poured everything through, shoulders whipping, no hesitation. The batter’s knees buckled before the ball even smacked into Miyuki-senpai’s mitt. Strike three.

The umpire’s fist shot up. The crowd erupted.

And it didn’t stop.

Batter after batter walked up, only to be carved apart. Some swung late, some missed completely, some didn’t even try. Furuya mowed them down, each pitch a blazing fastball that dared them to catch up and none of them could. By the end of the seventh, Yokohama had struck out in order three batters erased like they were nothing.

Our dugout buzzed with energy. Guys pounded the railing, voices rising.

“That’s it, Furuya!”
“Keep it going!”
“We’re not done yet!”

Even with the score at 5–1, that flame hadn’t died. Watching him throw, it was impossible not to feel it.

Miyuki-senpai too he crouched behind the plate, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His signals were crisp, sharp, like he was enjoying a puzzle no one else could solve. He wasn’t just catching he was orchestrating. And Furuya followed him without hesitation.

I clenched my pen, almost jealous. That rhythm  that battery. It looked unbreakable.

Still, as I wrote, a thought nagged at me. Furuya’s pitches were blazing, but it wasn’t perfect. A few missed spots, a heater that sailed just high, another that tailed off target. Against another lineup, maybe they’d punish him. But right now, in this moment, no one could touch him.

The seventh ended, and our bench leapt to offense again. Eighth inning. Our turn to fight back.

Mochi-senpai was up first. I could see the frustration etched into his stance even from here. He hacked at the first pitch, fouling it back so hard the clang rang in my teeth. His jaw was tight, shoulders twitching like he was ready to punch through a wall. He battled off another, then another, but Yokohama’s battery didn’t waver. Their rhythm was unshaken, almost smug. The fourth pitch—he chopped it toward short. Easy scoop. Easy throw. Out.

My pen pressed harder against the page. Mochi-senpai’s speed was deadly, but even he couldn’t crack them. That pitcher— no, that whole infield moved like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

Next came Kominato-senpai. Different energy entirely—no tension, no wasted motion. First pitch, he swung sharp, and the crack sent the ball skipping clean between second and short. Single. Just like that. Our dugout lit up, voices exploding. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, his legs flashed, he was already diving into second, dust flying before the catcher’s throw even left his hand. Safe.

My pen scrawled: Sharp reads. Calm. Deadly.

Yuuki-senpai followed. His whole body radiated stubborn fire. He fouled one. Then another. The sound echoed like war drums across the park. He wasn’t giving an inch, even as the pitcher and catcher worked him tighter and tighter. But finally, the ball climbed off his bat, too high, too soft—pop fly into shallow left. Out.

“Damn” I muttered, almost biting the pen cap. He fought, but their wall didn’t even crack.

Then Masuko-senpai stepped up. Heavy bat, heavier swing. He grounded one hard toward the right side, the kind that usually eats infielders alive. But Yokohama Kohoku’s defense swallowed it whole, clean and crisp, flipping it to first like it was nothing. Out.

And there still stranded at second was Kominato-senpai. But not frozen. Not defeated.

He edged off the bag, shoulders twitching like a sprinter waiting for the gun. My pulse jumped just watching him. He’s going for it.

On the next pitch, he exploded forward, body a blur against the dirt. The stadium gasped as the throw fired down sharp, fast, perfect. Kominato-senpai stretched, hand stabbing for the base—

“Out!”

The umpire’s fist cut the air. The Yokohama section roared.

I felt my chest clench, pen nearly snapping in my grip. Their timing.  Their precision. It  wasn’t just the pitcher. It was the battery. The wall.

Chris-senpai’s voice echoed in my head: Watch everything. Not just the pitcher. The whole field. The whole rhythm.

And right now, I could see it crystal clear—Seidou had the will, the grit, the hunger. But Yokohama’s battery they were a fortress.

Every pitch, every throw, every glance between pitcher and catcher—it all snapped together like gears in a machine. No wasted motion. No hesitation. They read us, matched us, shut us down before we could even breathe.

So when Kominato-senpai took off, it wasn’t hope. It was desperation, a gamble against that wall

The Yokohama catcher’s throw was a dart, their shortstop slapping the tag on in one motion. The stadium roared. Our dugout groaned in unison.

I gripped my notebook tighter. Even when we tried to force cracks into them their wall held.

The wall stood.

Every inning, Seidou tried to chip at it. Every inning, Yokohama’s battery shut the door. Miyuki-senpai called for calm, but the frustration built. Our bats weren’t dead they were locked.

By the ninth, the scoreboard still glared: 5–1. Time had run out.

The final out came, and the umpire signaled the end. The Yokohama section exploded in cheers, brass horns blaring, while our side clapped in solemn rhythm.

Game over.

On the field, the players lined up, caps tipped, walking to the center of the diamond. Seidou and Yokohama bowed, then moved for the handshakes, ritual carved deep into the game.

I closed my notebook halfway, the weight of it heavy in my lap. Furuya’s dominance had been real, but the wall of Yokohama’s battery  it was something else entirely. Solid. Relentless. Like no matter how eager we were, they were always a step ahead.

Miyuki-senpai’s smile lingered in my mind. He enjoyed it. The challenge. The wall. That guy was on a different level, and I knew he was already thinking of the next time we’d face them.

As I got up with the rest of the bench, filing out from the stands above the dugout, a voice cut through the noise.

“Wait—Ei… Eijun!”

It rang out from below, sharp enough to freeze me mid-step. The players, the coaches, even the stands quieted just enough to notice.

I blinked, looking down.

There standing by the fence near the dugouts was Yokohama’s number eight. Their right fielder. His eyes locked straight onto me.

My breath caught.
“Yes?”

He smiled. Not mocking, not cocky warm. Familiar, almost too much.

“I’m glad you’re here in Tokyo,” he said, voice steady, carrying over the buzz of the crowd. “It’s been a while since the last time we saw each other. I really missed those days. I’m really glad you look good.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t some throwaway line. It was like something pulled out of the bottom of his chest, heavy and raw, like he’d been waiting to say it for a long time.

The words dropped heavy, strange. My chest tightened, confused. Everyone was staring now the players, the crowd, even my own teammates.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Who the hell is this guy? Why’s he talking like we know each other?

Before I could speak, he bowed politely, then straightened with a grin.

“Ohh—I need to go. But see you next time, Ei.”

He waved once, turned, and jogged back to his team only to catch a sharp chop to the head from their coach for his stunt. His teammates barked at him, dragging him back into formation.

But I just stood there, frozen.

Notebook half-closed in my hands. My teammates staring at me, confusion etched on their faces.

And in my head, a single thought spinning, relentless.

I don’t remember him. So why does it feel like he knows me so well just from the way he acted ?

After the game, everyone went back to school. Questions flooded in, but I don’t know, I really don’t know.

How do they even expect me to answer that? Did we meet somewhere before? Or is there some history I’ve forgotten?

I really don’t know.

Everyone keeps staring. Ryosuke-senpai’s gaze like he wants to dig something out of me. Mochi-senpai leaning over, teasing about being a spy they’re joking, right? Half curious, half teasing but I don’t know.

There’s nothing in my memory. No clue. No spark. Nothing.

Later, back in my room, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I try to remember anything. His face. His voice. A place we might have met.

But it’s all blank. Nothing. Just this strange feeling that I should remember him.

Next time I see him.  I need to ask. How does he know me? Where did we meet? If he remembers me to someone who looks like me like that . I need to know.

I sigh, chewing on the end of my lollipop, and try to sleep, but that thought keeps spinning.

Chapter Text

The day after Seidou ’s elimination in the Kanto tournament, practice carried on like always.

In Field A bullpen, the pitchers were lined up: Tanba, Kawakami, and Furuya, each throwing with steady rhythm. Coach Kataoka stood nearby, arms crossed, his sharp eyes never missing a detail. Miyauchi squatted behind the plate, catching and grunting encouragement, while Miyuki offered his usual blunt observations.

“Your balance is off again, Furuya. Don’t just throw with power think about the game. Where’s your sense of timing?” Miyuki’s voice carried across the bullpen. “And your stamina won’t hold if you keep pushing like this.”

Kawakami, meanwhile, was throwing with a calm focus, his pitches landing with clean precision. There was more confidence in his delivery than before less hesitation, more trust in himself. Each ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt with steady rhythm, a quiet sign of how much sharper he was getting day by day.

Tanba, on the other hand, radiated stability. His form was steady, his rhythm unwavering, the mark of a veteran ace who had been through battles already. Every pitch he threw had weight behind it, not just in speed, but in presence.

Furuya’s pitches cracked against the mitt, heavy and sharp, but Miyuki’s criticisms followed after every few throws.

Outside the bullpen fence, a small crowd had gathered—students, alumni, even a few scouts. After Furuya’s fiery performance in the tournament, word had spread fast. People wanted a closer look.

Some voices whispered from the rail.
“Kawakami’s as reliable as always.”
“Tanba’s looking strong today—back to ace form.”
“And that monster Furuya?”
They trailed off, breath caught between awe and unease.

In the same crowd, a group of Miyuki’s fan girls squealed, clapping their hands. Miyuki-kun looks so cool, just standing there! He doesn’t even have to do anything! One of them sighed dramatically, earning a few annoyed looks from the scouts trying to focus.

Coach Kataoka, stoic as ever, gave no reaction. His eyes stayed forward, unreadable.

On the main field, the defense team drilled with the same intensity. Shirasu’s throws cut through the air like lasers, scooped up smoothly by first-stringer Fumiya at first base. Yuuki tracked fly balls with calm precision in right, gliding effortlessly as if the ball belonged in his glove. Ryosuke dominated the left side of the diamond, his footwork crisp, linking with Kuramochi at second. Kuramochi darted around like a phantom, quick enough to steal bases even in a practice scrimmage. Their chemistry was electric, making even routine plays look sharp.

From the dugout, Masuko, Jun, and the other upperclassmen roared encouragement, their booming voices rattling through the air. The sound carried a weight that seemed to pull everyone along. Rei Takashima stood nearby with her clipboard, pen scratching steadily as she noted every detail, while Ota nodded with quiet satisfaction, arms folded behind his back. To anyone watching, Seidou looked brilliant every motion polished, every player alive with determination.

Among the spectators, two first-years in Seidou practice uniforms stood shoulder to shoulder. The shorter one, Haruichi, had his eyes lowered, fists clenched, determination burning in his small frame. Beside him, Eijun balanced a notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, lollipop stick sticking out from his mouth. His glasses slipped down his nose glasses he didn’t really need, but wore anyway. He mumbled to himself as he scribbled notes, enough to make Haruichi glance over, half exasperated.

“You’ve been watching them like prey, Eijun-kun. Did Takigawa-senpai ask you to do this too?” Haruichi tilted his head, curiosity clear in his tone.

Eijun puffed his cheeks, tapping his pen. “Nope. But since I didn’t see Chris-senpai this morning, I figured I’d add some extra observation. Can’t let him think I’m slacking, right?”

Eijun tilted his head, pen still twirling between his fingers.

Haruichi blinked, then smiled softly. “They’re good.”

For a moment, the steady rhythm of the game filled the silence between them the crack of the bat, the thud of the catcher’s mitt, voices echoing across the field. Eijun’s grip on his pen tightened as his eyes traced the field, admiration bubbling inside him.

“Yeah, they’re amazing,” he admitted, eyes glued forward. “All of them are aiming higher, pushing themselves to improve every second. Look at their defense so sharp, so solid. Even when they switch positions, they never miss a beat.” His chest swelled as he spoke, admiration coloring every word.

He jabbed his pen toward the infield. “Ryosuke-senpai and Mochi-senpai, especially they’re on a different level. The way they move together, it’s like—  like they’ve been connected since birth!”

He burst out laughing at his own joke, and Haruichi couldn’t help but chuckle too, his shoulders shaking with amusement.

“I can see that,” Haruichi said, his smile small but warm. “Nii-san and Kuramochi-senpai. I wish I could stand out there with them. With Nii-san especially.” His voice carried quiet determination that caught Eijun off guard.

Eijun studied him, then grinned. He’s serious “You will, Haruichi. We’ll both make it there. No way we’re letting Furuya be the only first-year in the first string.”

Haruichi’s eyes softened, then sparked with fire. “Hehe right. We can’t let Furuya-kun leave us behind.”

Eijun nodded, grin splitting into a bright smile. “Yahhhh!” he shouted, fist pumping high into the air.

From across the field came an annoyed roar.
“Sawamura! What the hell are you yelling for?! You’re louder than me!” It was Jun, glaring from the dugout.

Eijun flinched, then puffed his chest, shouting back without hesitation, “That’s because my spirit’s burning hotter, Jun-senpai!”

The players around them burst into laughter, and even Haruichi shook his head, hiding his smile.

Rei, still holding her clipboard, pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered under her breath. “Unbelievable”

By noon, with boredom tugging at him, Eijun strolled off without much thought, looking for a spot where he could jot things down in peace. Before he realized it, his feet had carried him toward the administration wing.

Eijun now lay sprawled across the couch in his uncle’s office, a lollipop tucked in the corner of his mouth. One hand lazily flipped through his notebook, scribbling something with surprising focus.

The headmaster glanced up from his desk. At first, he thought Eijun was simply slacking off again. But the boy’s unusually serious expression caught his eye.

“What are you working on?” his uncle asked, voice steady.

“Ah, this?” Eijun twirled his pen, not looking up. “It’s a task Chris-senpai gave me.”

The headmaster leaned back slightly, relief flickering in his eyes. At least the boy wasn’t wasting his time. Still, he couldn’t ignore the report that had landed on his desk just yesterday—a note about a minor incident inside Seidou’s baseball grounds. On its own, it wasn’t anything serious, yet it was connected to Eijun’s sudden promotion to the second string. It wasn’t a bad thing, but the situation had drawn more eyes toward the boy than expected. The matter was already being handled by the Seidou baseball management, but as his guardian, he couldn’t help but worry.

Tessin, his old student and now Seidou’s head coach, had assured him he would manage things. And yet, as a headmaster and an uncle, the responsibility felt heavier when it came to Eijun.

“Ojisan, why that serious face?” Eijun’s voice cut through his thoughts. The boy tilted his head back, staring at him upside down with a grin. “You look like someone who’s about to commit a terrible sin.”

A sharp smack landed on the back of his head.

“—Oww! Ojisan!” Eijun yelped, rubbing the sore spot.

“You brat,” his uncle muttered, hiding his sigh behind annoyance. “Instead of lying here, shouldn’t you be practicing? Or maybe doing homework?”

“I already finished my homework earlier,” Eijun shot back, puffing his cheeks. “And practice—I’ll do it later. Right now I have something very important to do!”

His uncle raised an eyebrow. “And what important matter is that?”

Eijun jumped to his feet, already gathering his things. “Catching up with Chris-senpai’s schedule, of course! And it just so happens—it’s the perfect time! So—bye, ojisan!”

Before the headmaster could react, the boy was already halfway out the door, leaving behind the faint echo of hurried footsteps. The office felt suddenly empty, as though a small typhoon had just blown through.

The headmaster sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That boy. At least he’s being taken care of.” His gaze drifted to the door Eijun had just stormed through. That boy went in and out as he pleased, like a whirlwind—unpredictable, impossible to contain.

Soon after, Eijun headed straight to the room where his senpai was. As he raised his hand, ready to peck at the door, a sudden tap on his shoulder made him freeze. Slowly, he turned and there stood Masuko, his roommate and senpai.

“Ahh—Masuko-senpai!” Eijun yelped nervously, lollipop nearly falling from his mouth. “I just wanted to see Chris-senpai—is he here today?”

Masuko’s thick brow lifted as he pointed inside the room. “Chris is over there.”

Eijun followed the direction of his finger. His eyes landed on the third row, middle chair near the window. There he was—Chris, sitting tall with that calm air only he carried. Around him were other third-years he had only seen from afar during first-string practices.

Sakai Ichirou, the third-year left fielder. Beside him sat Kadota Masaaki, the tall, broad-shouldered outfielder. At Chris’s other side was Kusunoki Fumiya, the shortstop but usually filled in at third base. And scattered in the room were familiar figures that nearly made Eijun’s jaw drop—Kominato Ryosuke, Yuuki Tetsuya, Isashiki Jun, Tanba Koichiro. It was a gathering of Seidou’s first-string core.

Eijun’s mouth fell open. Woooow... He had never seen so many of them gathered in one place before. And at the center of it all sat Chris Yuu Takigawa, calm and composed as always. To Eijun, Chris was nothing short of amazing.

Even a few girls had gathered in the corner, sneaking glances as if they couldn’t believe their eyes—the star players of Seidou baseball club, all in one room.

Eijun suddenly felt awkward. He couldn’t just march in there. His feet were already turning to retreat when he remembered—Masuko-senpai was still behind him.

“Chris! Sawamura was here for you!” Masuko’s booming voice carried through the room.

Eijun froze. His fate was sealed. All eyes turned on him as he stood there awkwardly, waving shyly. Outside, he wore a smile. Inside, his mind spun into outer space. Whaaa, I’m dead! This is the lions’ den! I’m just a newborn cub!!

Before he could escape, Masuko gave him a not-so-gentle push forward. Stumbling on his feet, Eijun was forced into the spotlight. He could feel the stares of not just the third-years, but some classmates on the side as well.

“Ahhh.... Chri—Chris-se—senpai! Good day!” He bowed stiffly.

“Only Chris?” Ryosuke’s keen eyes narrowed at him.

“Ahh—nooo!” Eijun flailed. “How could I forget my benevolent senpais? Good day, Ryosuke-senpai, Jun-senpai, Tanba-senpai, Sakai-senpai, Fumiya-senpai, Kadota-senpai, and Leader-san—hello, good day!”

Ryosuke smirked. Yuuki chuckled under his breath.

Chris cleared his throat. “Sawamura— what might you be doing here?”

“Ohh! Chris-senpai!” Eijun scrambled, holding out his notebook with both hands. “This Sawamura Eijun has finished the task you gave me!”

Chris accepted the notebook without hesitation, his calm gaze flickering with curiosity.

Eijun continued breathlessly, words tumbling out in one rush. “All the things I noticed—every batter, the pitchers of both teams, Yokohama and Seidou as well. How their defense worked, their coordination, every small detail. I wrote it all down, every last bit, for you, Chris-senpai! The timing, the signs, even the way their outfielders shifted when the count changed—I didn’t miss a thing! Please, please check it when you have time, I’m begging you! And if you don’t get something or if it looks weird, just call this Sawamura Eijun! I’ll explain it all, no problem! I’ll come running wherever you are—faster than a flash! Faster than lightning! Like—BAM—I’m already there!”

He bowed once more, so low his bangs nearly touched the floor. Then, flustered, he spun toward the door. “This Sawamura Eijun is pleased to see all senpais here, but I won’t disturb your star gathering any longer! Please forgive this lowly first year! I’m going now, byeeeee!”

Before Chris or the others could react, Eijun bolted out, practically running.

The entire room was silent for a long moment. No one spoke.

“Just like that?” Jun finally broke it, incredulous.

“Yeah. Just like that,” Ryosuke said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Very Sawamura thing to do.”

“Oooooh, did you see how shy he was? Acting brave, but his actions totally betrayed him!” Fumiya laughed.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Yuuki leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp. “Still, it was brave to come here at all. I commend it. Later—I’ll ask him for batting practice.” An aura of quiet command radiated from him.

Masuko scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, pretending not to notice the sudden shift in atmosphere.

In the background, the girls whispered among themselves.

“Is he a cutie?”
“Yahhh! Chris-kun’s kouhaiii!”
“We have Miyuki, then him—kyaaa, Seidou baseball club is full of hotties”

The third-years exchanged glances, stunned. Sawamura, famous among girls? Kadota shrugged, shaking his head with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Chris opened the notebook. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the neat handwriting, notes broken down with startling clarity. Even someone who had never played baseball before could follow it easily.

Ryosuke leaned closer, catching a glimpse. “That’s definitely our game against Yokohama. You asked him to do this?”

“Yeah,” Chris murmured, flipping another page. His expression grew thoughtful. “But I didn’t think it would be this detailed ....very detailed.”

Ryosuke’s brow arched as his eyes moved over the notes. Each batter was analyzed with uncanny precision—their timing, their stances, even the way they reacted to certain counts. Defensive shifts, pitcher tendencies, small adjustments made mid-inning—it was all there. Nothing flashy, no wasted words, just sharp observation.

“This is something even our staff would have a hard time putting together,” Ryosuke muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. His eyes flicked to Chris. “And this was from a first year?”

Chris didn’t answer right away. He lingered on one page where Eijun had drawn a rough sketch of the battery of Yokohama, arrows pointing at how the batters reacted. A faint crease formed on Chris’s forehead—not disapproval, but something closer to restrained surprise.

“He noticed things most pitchers at his age wouldn’t even think about,” Chris finally said, his tone low but firm. He closed the notebook halfway, thumb resting on the edge as if unwilling to let it go. “Not just guts. He’s seeing the game as if he’s been at this level much longer than he has.”

Ryosuke smirked faintly, though his eyes were sharp. “Tch. So the noisy brat’s got an eye after all.”

Chris’s lips tugged slightly, a ghost of a smile. “An eye— and the will to use it. If he keeps this up, he’s not going to stay in the shadows for long. He might surpass us in no time.”

For a moment, Ryosuke’s smirk deepened not out of amusement, but something closer to challenge. His sharp gaze lingered on the notebook, then narrowed faintly. “Hah. Then I guess we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t get ahead of us too easily.”

The room shifted with a subtle weight. The third-years exchanged glances, realizing Chris—who rarely praised anyone outright—had just acknowledged the raw potential of their newest, loudest kouhai.

By the time afternoon practice was in full swing, the grounds were already alive with motion. The sound of bats cracking against balls and gloves snapping filled the practice grounds. Infielders were running drills, pitchers threw in the bullpen, and the outfielders chased fly balls under the afternoon sun. The air was alive with the steady rhythm of practice until the sharp blast of a whistle cut through it all.

Over at the second string’s corner of the field, they had been in the middle of individual batting practice. At the center of it all stood Eijun , gripping the bat with a mix of intensity and enthusiasm.

“Listen up, senpai! Batting is just like studying math problems—you make the wrong calculation, and boom, strikeout! But if you find the right formula, the ball flies!” he shouted, smacking the next pitch into the net with an exaggerated follow-through.

The others blinked at him.

“Since when did batting turn into a cram school lecture?” muttered one of the second-stringers, half laughing.

Another scratched his head. “Wait... isn’t math his worst subject?”

Sawamura didn’t notice the mutters, already stepping right back into the box. “Every swing’s like solving an equation, see? Muscle memory is your pencil, and the bat is your notebook! If you can’t solve the problem, keep rewriting until you do!”

By then, several teammates were either snickering behind their gloves or shaking their heads in disbelief.

“Only Sawamura could make batting sound like a study session,” Kanemaru groaned, though a grin betrayed his amusement.

It was in the middle of this bizarre pep-talk-practice that the whistle pierced the air, dragging their attention toward the main field.

For a moment, the second-stringers hesitated, bats still in hand and balls rolling to a stop. Murmurs rippled across the group.

“What’s going on?” someone whispered.
“Is it about an announcement?” another asked, lowering his glove.

The sudden shift in atmosphere spread quickly. Even Eijun, still gripping the bat mid-swing, blinked in confusion, tilting his head like a puzzled pup.

Then—

Heads turned. A manager jogged onto the field, her voice carrying over the bustle. “Everyone—Coach Kataoka wants all members assembled on the main fields right away!”

Murmurs rippled through the players. It wasn’t often that the coach called for every single member at once, not during practice, not without warning. Bats lowered, gloves tucked under arms, and one by one, the noise of drills faded as players started moving toward the main field.

Not long after, Coach Kataoka arrived in response to the sudden announcement summon. The first string, the second string, and even the non-regulars were gathered together on the main field. The weight of his presence silenced the whispers, and when he finally spoke, his voice deep and resolute cut clean through the tense air.

“Listen well. The rosters that represented Seidou  in the spring is temporarily dissolved,” he announced. The words dropped like stones, the weight of them sinking into every heart present.

The ground had gone silent.

“The summer regional tournament will only allow twenty players to represent. ” Kataoka continued. “That means every single spot is now open. Whether you were a regular before or not, it doesn’t matter. From this point on, every player has the chance to claim one of those twenty spots”

A ripple of shock spread through the crowd. The first-string players exchanged tense looks, some pale at the thought of losing their hard-earned positions. For the second string and non-regulars, it was like a door suddenly cracked open. A chance most had thought impossible until now.

“This will be decided not by promises, but by performance,” Kataoka’s gaze swept over them all, unflinching. “First string, second string, non-stringers—each of you will have your chance to prove yourselves in upcoming practice games.”

He began naming the matchups.
“Team one: Teito and Murita High against the first string. Team two: Asakura North and Kawashiro against the non-regulars, including first-years and upperclassmen alike. Team three: the second string will face  Kukushikan from East Tokyo  and Inashiro.”

Kataoka’s tone sharpened, leaving no room for doubt. “The schedule will be announced later. Don’t concern yourselves with the order prepare to play at your best whenever your turn comes.”

A ripple ran through the field. Some of the first-years shifted on their feet, nerves flickering in their eyes. The veterans, by contrast, stood straighter, a few nodding curtly as if to say they understood what was expected.

Miyuki only pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, unreadable as ever.

Eijun, meanwhile, was leaning toward the teammate beside him, whispering about something entirely unrelated his grin wide, his hands fidgeting with restless energy. Kataoka’s stern voice cut across the air like a whip, but judging by Eijun’s distracted chatter, it was clear he hadn’t caught half of it.

Gasps broke through the crowd. Some players froze, others muttered in disbelief. “Inashiro? Against the second string?”

Another murmur rippled through the room as the next name appeared on the list.

“Kukushikan too?” someone whispered, voice tight.

The air grew heavier. Kukushikan’s reputation was clear—one of Tokyo’s most disciplined schools, their roster stacked with veterans who’d played together for years. Facing them wasn’t just a match, it was a trial by fire.

An assistant coach’s voice rang with unease. “That’s far too much, Coach Kataoka. Kukushikan alone would’ve been enough. But Inashiro too? If they send even half their regulars, the second string will be crushed. Shouldn’t they be facing the first string instead?”

Gasps rippled wider this time.
“Both of them? That’s insane”
“Kukushikan’s practically made of veterans already!”
“And Inashiro—everyone knows what they’re like. We’ll get destroyed”
Some players paled, others exchanged nervous glances, while a few clenched their fists as if refusing to accept defeat before the game even began.

But Kataoka’s expression didn’t waver. “As for Kukushikan, they already accepted after we extended the offer. Inashiro, on the other hand, volunteered themselves. The moment they heard we were inviting opponents, they were the first to offer, requesting to face our second string. That was their one condition.”

His explanation only stirred the storm further.

“They’re lowering themselves to our benchwarmers?” one player whispered, incredulous.
“No way,  why would they waste their time like that?” another muttered.

Before the chatter grew too loud, Ryosuke spoke, arms folded. “It’s not really about the team they’re facing” He trailed off, the words heavy with unspoken meaning.

Miyuki cut in, voice low but sharp, as if he’d already pieced something together. “More like someone they want to face.” His eyes flicked sideways toward Sawamura, who at that moment was laughing carelessly with Kanemaru, completely oblivious to the tension that hung in the air.

The realization spread through a few of the older players, their eyes narrowing, and even Rei Takashima’s pen paused mid-scratch. They, too, had an inkling of Inashiro’s true intention.

The air was thick, restless, on the verge of breaking. Kataoka let it settle for a moment, then spoke again, his tone brooking no argument.

“It doesn’t matter who stands across from you. What matters is that you give everything. Prove your worth to me, and to this team. That’s all.”

The team straightened, thinking the address was over, when Kataoka’s voice cut through the silence once more.

“Sawamura.”

Eijun jolted, lollipop nearly falling from his mouth. “Y-Yes, sir?”

Kataoka’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “Come to my office after this. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

The pause that followed seemed longer than it really was. Then, as simply as before, Kataoka added, “That’s all. Dismissed.”

Eijun blinked, confusion flickering across his face before he turned back to Kanemaru. “Eh? What’s that about?” he whispered, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the buzz of teammates already speculating over the announcement.

Eijun lingered in the ground for a second, teammates filing past him with curious glances. His stomach twisted, the lollipop stem biting between his teeth as he finally forced his legs to move.

From the sidelines, Haruichi tilted his head slightly, Kanemaru crossed his arms with a sharp look, and Toujou narrowed his eyes all three exchanging silent, curious glances as if trying to read what was going on.

“Oi, Sawamoron!” Kuramochi loud voice cracked the tension, laughter spilling out as he came bounding over. “You’ve been slacking all day, that’s why Coach called you in! Hyahhh ha-ha-ha!”

Eijun’s face deadpanned instantly, lollipop clicking against his teeth as his brows twitched. “Mochi-senpai it’s not good you’re laughing at me tho.  And don’t forget who helped you answer half your English essay last time.” His flat glare carried more weight than his words, but his puffed cheeks betrayed the sulkiness underneath.

Masuko sighed, stepping in before Eijun could snap further, and gave Kuramochi a light tap on the shoulder. “Tone it down. Don’t make a scene.”

Kuramochi grumbled, but the grin never left his face.

The walk to the coach’s office felt longer than it should have. By the time he stood before the door, he wasn’t sure if the quick thump in his chest was nerves or annoyance at himself for being nervous.

He knocked.

“Come in,” Kataoka’s voice rumbled from inside.

Eijun slid the door open, stepping into the tidy, paper-stacked room that smelled faintly of coffee and turf. He shuffled forward until he stood before the desk, where Kataoka was quietly reviewing documents. Without lifting his head, the coach gestured to the chair across from him.

“Sit.”

Eijun obeyed quickly, sitting stiffly. His eyes darted to the tea set placed neatly to the side. Kataoka poured hot tea into the cup before him with steady hands, then gave a slight nod. Hesitantly, Eijun picked it up, sipping slowly, though the warmth did little to calm the nerves twisting in his stomach.

Kataoka finally looked up, eyes sharp beneath his cap. “I received a report,” he began evenly. “About a certain incident on campus. A near fight.”

Eijun froze mid-sip, nearly choking. His knuckles tightened around the cup. Crap. Crap. Crap. His face paled, panic sparking in his mind as he thought through every possible outcome. A suspension? Being dropped from the team? His heartbeat roared in his ears.

“That kind of behavior,” Kataoka continued, “goes directly against the policy of Seidou’s baseball club. Normally, there would be punishment.”

Eijun’s mind spun. Am I done for? What if they kick me off? What if I ruin everything here—Do I need to kneel and beg? Should I bow so low my forehead dents the floor?!

But then Kataoka’s next words landed like a thunderclap.

“But Miyuki told me everything.” The coach’s voice remained steady as he lifted his cup, sipping his tea. “He explained the situation. It almost became a fight, yes—but it didn’t escalate. He stepped in at the right moment.”

Eijun blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Kataoka set the cup down firmly. “But listen, Sawamura. If anything like this happens again, you come to me directly or to Rei. We will handle it. Understood?”

“Yes, Coach.” The answer came out fast, almost too fast, but a wave of relief washed over Eijun. His shoulders dropped, his chest loosening. It felt like he had been pulled back from the edge of a cliff.

Kataoka leaned back slightly, his gaze steady on the boy. “Originally... Kukushikan was the only team I would have wanted the second string to face. Their performance this season has been remarkable. I wanted you to see what it’s like to pitch against a team of that caliber, to understand how much work it takes to stand strong against players like them.”

He paused, letting that sink in, before continuing. “But then Inashiro came into the picture. That’s when it clicked for me. This is the challenge you need. It’s risky, yes. Inashiro is no ordinary opponent. But I accepted it for the team’s growth. And for you to face it head-on.”

His voice carried weight, every word deliberate, as if engraving it into Eijun’s chest. He didn’t flinch or soften his gaze; he wanted the boy to understand the seriousness. For Kataoka, it wasn’t just a practice game—it was about testing the team’s resolve, and especially the resolve of the pitcher in front of him.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Kataoka’s tone stayed even, though in his mind a thought lingered. Inashiro made the first offer, and they particular want to face the team where you current belong.

The coach leaned back again, letting the words settle in the quiet office. The faint ticking of the clock filled the silence, each second stretching longer than the last.

Eijun froze. Thoughts scattered wildly Inashiro? And Kukushikan too? The names echoed in his mind, powerhouses he’d only ever seen from afar, the kind of teams that devoured players without a second thought. This is interesting, isn’t it? His mind buzzed with excitement, imagining the challenge, the thrill of pitching against them, testing his limits, feeling almost— blessed.

Deep down, Eijun felt a quiet, overwhelming happiness bubble up. Even if it was just a practice game, he’d be facing the teams he’d admired from afar before. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips, a silent laugh in his mind. I can’t wait to face them especially him.

Sawamura’s thoughts were cut sharply by Kataoka’s voice as the coach continued.

“That game will show your presence on this team. I know what’s been circulating among the players. I’ve heard the whispers. That’s why I’m giving you this chance. Take it. Make it count. Show them your presence. Prove that you belong.”

His voice grew firmer, sharp like the crack of a bat against the ball. “It’s easy to crumble under doubt. But if you let their words define you, you’ll never step forward. So stand tall, Sawamura. This isn’t just about pitching . It’s about showing what you bring to Seidou.”

The words hit Eijun like a fastball straight to the chest. His throat bobbed. Prove them wrong? Me? Coach actually believe me ? His heart pounded with a mix of exhilaration and resolve.

Kataoka leaned forward, eyes locking onto Sawamura’s. “So tell me, Sawamura. Will you accept this challenge?”

Eijun’s grin widened, unwavering. “Yes, Coach. I’ll face them. No doubt about it.”

Kataoka’s lips quirked in a faint nod, satisfied. The challenge had been issued and accepted.

He gave a small nod, his expression as firm as ever. Then, after a brief pause, his voice dropped, final and unyielding.

“Go. Don’t waste this chance.”

Eijun shot up from his seat, his heart hammering. He bowed deeply, voice ringing with raw determination.

“Got it, boss!”

As he stepped out of the office, the weight of the task settled fully on his shoulders but so did something else. A fire.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Kataoka alone in the quiet office. For a long moment, the coach sat still, staring at the spot where Sawamura had stood. His brows knit, a sigh escaping through his nose.

“Boss?” Kataoka muttered, his brow furrowing. For a moment, the word hung in the air like an echo, unfamiliar in his own mouth. He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing. Boss? Who was he even talking to?

The dorm corridors hummed with the steady rhythm of footsteps and chatter. Training was no joke anymore after Coach’s strict announcement about dissolving the roster and the upcoming practice games, the air around Seidou had shifted. Everyone felt it. Pressure and expectation weighed down heavier than ever.

Kuramochi and Masuko trudged back toward their room, hair still damp from the shower, uniforms clinging faintly with the scent of soap and sweat.

Kuramochi shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw set. I can’t slack off. Not now. Not after everything I worked for. Protecting his position, his number that wasn’t just pride. It was survival. Every stolen base, every sharp ground ball, every inch of grit had brought him here. He couldn’t let someone just claim it without a fight.

Beside him, Masuko was quiet, his mind chewing on the same weight. He had already decided extra swings tonight, no matter how late. Maybe he could rope a few third-years into keeping him company in the cage. His bat wasn’t just his weapon; it was his reason to stay in the lineup.

Kuramochi finally broke the silence. “So— too many teams, huh? But Inashiro” He clicked his tongue.
“Figures. They’re bringing  their  roster team ??”
He just wondered if Inashiro would bring the roster team to the game, or just the reserve team. The thought made his chest heavy. If it’s their main roster, then that’s trouble. Those guys are monsters even compared to the usual competition. If it’s the reserve team, it’s still no walk in the park. Either way,  damn it, there’s no such thing as an easy path with them.

Masuko gave a low grunt of agreement. “Yeah. Lucky we’re not playing their first string right away. But even their second team’s no joke. Those guys are trained just as hard. Can’t let our guard down.”

Kuramochi smirked, though his eyes stayed sharp. “True. Still, better them than Mei Narumiya right off the bat. Don’t need that circus this early.”
He couldn’t overcome the thought of facing Inashiro. The game they had against them before was a total loss, and the memory of being completely outmatched still lingered in his gut.

Masuko huffed a laugh. “Yeah, save that headache for later.”

As they walked, Kuramochi’s thoughts flickered toward his roommate. “Wonder what that little brat’s cooking up for the practice game,” he muttered under his breath. Bet Coach throws him out there as a starter. Wouldn’t surprise me.

He was wondering after that brat Sawamura got called by Coach. Kuramochi didn’t see him, but he had heard a second-year murmuring in the corner, saying someone was running with a tire strapped to his waist, shouting like it was the end of the world reciting some verse they couldn’t even comprehend. The image popped into his mind again, and Kuramochi thought, no way, that’s gotta be my roommate. It almost made him laugh. Almost.

Masuko raised a brow. “You mean Sawamura? Yeah. Coach Kataoka wouldn’t announce a clean slate just to let him sit. He might be on the second string for now, but he’s got something. That kid isn’t just guts—there’s an aura about him. Even as a first year, he carries the same presence you’d expect from the first string.

Kuramochi scoffed lightly, though not without a glimmer of reluctant respect. “Tch. Guess we’ll see.”

When they reached their room, both froze. A faint noise spilled from inside—something between muffled cheering and the smack of a ball against a bat. Kuramochi narrowed his eyes. “Oi, don’t tell me”

Masuko exchanged a look with him, and together they slid the door open.

There he was. Sawamura, sprawled on the floor like he owned the place. A half-empty bag of chips sat on his right, a small pudding cup on his left.

Masuko dropped to his knees instantly, hands trembling as he spotted the pudding. “M–my beloved” he whispered, eyes wet with betrayal.

Kuramochi, meanwhile, was ready to blow his top. “Oi, brat! You’re eating and lazing around while the rest of us are grinding” His words cut off when he caught sight of the TV.

At first glance, he thought it was just some cartoon. Bright colors, a buzzing crowd, sharp motions across the screen. But as the camera panned across the field, Kuramochi’s jaw went slack.

It wasn’t a cartoon. It was baseball.

More than that—it was Inashiro’s last Koshien game. The moment they had represented West Tokyo in the Koshien Summer Tournament. The powerhouse school, that lefty Narumiya Mei’s team, fighting on the biggest stage.

Eijun sat forward, eyes locked, chips forgotten in his hand. His expression wasn’t his usual goofy grin, it was serious, sharp, studying every pitch, every swing.

The room fell quiet except for the TV commentary and the steady thrum of the crowd in the recording.

Kuramochi let out a slow whistle, his lips curving into an amused grin. He couldn’t believe what he saw.

Masuko’s eyes went wide, mouth open in disbelief. Both of them were shocked speechless.Then, Eijun casually spoke, his voice cutting through the silence. “Narumiya’s fastball. He’s hiding the release point longer than usual, see that? But the moment he drops his wrist on the curve, the batter reads it. That shortstop though—damn, his positioning is insane. Always two steps ahead of contact. And look at their cleanup hitter—he’s crowding the plate on purpose, forcing Narumiya to pitch inside. Their coach? tch, look at that serious face. He already knows they can’t win unless they change the rhythm.”

Masuko and Kuramochi exchanged a stunned glance. Neither of them moved, their earlier irritation forgotten. The brat wasn’t fooling around. He was dead serious.

And from the sharp glint in his eyes, there was no mistaking it. Sawamura wasn’t just preparing for any practice game. He wanted Inashiro. A clash was coming, and he was already standing on that battlefield in his mind.

To Be Continued.

Chapter Text

He thrashed faintly beneath the sheets, his breathing jagged, as though something unseen pressed down on his chest. Shadows bled together in his mind, faces shifting and breaking apart before he could grasp them. Voices echoed from the dark distorted, half-mocking, half-familiar—pulling him deeper into the haze. Someone was there, standing far too close, their laughter ringing sharp in his ears. The sound gnawed at him with the weight of recognition, yet the harder he tried to see, the quicker their features dissolved, slipping away like mist through his hands.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch it.

The scene shifted abruptly.

Now he was standing alone on an empty diamond. The stands were bare, the crowd gone, and the towering lights above flickered one by one until only darkness pressed in. A bat hung loosely in his grip, heavy, almost suffocating.

His voice rang out, flat and final.

“I should quit baseball now.”

The words cut through the empty air, heavier than he expected, like they didn’t just leave his mouth but carved themselves into the world around him. The bat slipped from his hands, clattering against the dirt with a hollow echo that seemed to stretch on forever. The stadium lights flickered, one by one, until darkness swallowed the field.

His own voice still rang in his ears, low and final. I should quit baseball now. It echoed again, as if the shadows themselves whispered it back, hollow and unrelenting. The silence that followed was suffocating. No cheers. No teammates. Just a lone figure, standing on a diamond that felt less like home and more like a grave.

There was no hesitation. No trace of a joke. It was his own voice, clear and absolute, echoing through the hollow silence. For a moment, it felt real, so real that a cold shiver ran through his body, like the weight of the words themselves had stripped the game away from him.

His eyes snapped open. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, a thin stick dangling from the corner of his mouth. He sat up abruptly, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple.

“Just a dream,” he muttered, voice hoarse. His hand raked through his hair as if trying to shake the chill out of his skull. Flopping back against the pillow, he pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes.

“Damn stupid dream,” he whispered, though his heart still thudded like the words had been carved into him. He dragged a hand down his face with a groan. “Tch, serves me right for staying up so late. I really shouldn’t crash past midnight anymore.”

His muttered complaints faded into silence as sleep refused to return. The night dragged on, shadows pressing against the window until dawn finally broke.

Morning practice rolled around, the grounds were already alive with noise and movement. The batting grounds clattered with the steady rhythm of swings, the bullpen rumbled with fastballs pounding into mitts, and the outfield buzzed with shouts as fly balls soared under the pale sky.

Jun, rushing toward the main field where the first-string players were already gathered, slowed his steps as he passed Field B. His brows drew together. Normally, that field was a storm of noise, the loudest group on campus. But now, an uneasy quiet clung to it. The crack of bats and pop of mitts echoed sharp and isolated, like something was weighing down the air itself.

Players moved with a kind of mechanical focus, their voices muted, none of the usual heckling or laughter cutting through the air. A ball skipped past an infielder, yet no one jeered or cracked a joke. It was just retrieved in silence. Even the second-string’s energy, the one thing Jun could count on to liven the mornings, seemed dampened, like the whole field was holding its breath.

Jun’s frown deepened as he lingered for a beat, the weight of the atmosphere crawling under his skin. Whatever had gotten into them, it wasn’t just fatigue. Something had shifted. He adjusted his bag strap, tearing his gaze away, but the unease clung to him as he finally pushed forward toward the main field.

Jun finally stepped onto the main field, slipping into his usual rhythm as he set his bag down and stretched his arms. The atmosphere here was completely different sharp, alive, and filled with the familiar energy of the first string.

On the mound, Furuya and Miyuki were working through pick-off drills, Miyuki barking short cues while Furuya’s throws cracked into the mitt with raw force. Nearby, the infielders and outfielders cycled through plays with practiced precision, dirt kicking up under their cleats as they sharpened their movements.

Yuuki, bat in hand, faced Furuya with his trademark grin. When the pitcher unleashed his fastest fastball yet, Yuuki met it with a thunderous swing, the ball exploding off the bat and disappearing past the outfield. A ripple of whistles and exclamations followed, and even Miyuki let out a low whistle.

When Furuya stepped down, Tanba took the mound. The senior’s delivery was steady, but beads of sweat rolled down his temples as his focus slipped. His fastball drifted too high, his slider lost its edge. His form wavered slightly, his control dipping, until Kataoka’s firm voice cut across the diamond.

“Plant your foot earlier. Don’t rush the release. You’re dragging your arm behind your body—fix it.”

The words were sharp but steady, and Tanba’s jaw tightened as he gave a short nod. He reset his stance, shoulders squared. A heavy silence lingered, only broken by the sound of his glove tightening.

From the dugout rail, Miyauchi leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the mound. His lips moved, shaping the words carefully, though no sound carried across the field. Relax. You’ve got this. Don’t overthink it. Just throw like you always do.

Tanba’s gaze flicked toward the dugout, catching the motion. Miyauchi lifted one hand, palm raised, then gave a small forward wave a quiet signal to go on.

Tanba straightened, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he reset his stance on the rubber. Kataoka’s gaze remained steady, unblinking, as if waiting for the adjustment he had demanded.

Everything looked like business as usual. Yet when Jun finally settled on the dugout bench beside Kuramochi, he noticed his teammate slumped forward, elbows on knees, looking as if he might collapse any second.

Jun blinked. “Oi, you dying or what?”

Kuramochi lifted his head just enough to shoot a weak glare. His voice came out rough. “It’s my damn kouhai’s fault”

Jun raised a brow. “Kouhai? You mean Sawamura? What the hell did he do to you? You look like a ghost.”

Kuramochi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear, that idiot’s not human. I accidentally woke up around four in the morning and he’s already up—pitching into the damn wall, cheeks puffed out, then switching to some weird exercise I’ve never even seen before. Looked like he was possessed or something. And of course, once he noticed me, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Next thing I know, he’s dragging me out for throws before the sun even thought about rising.”

Jun’s mouth fell open. “Wait—you’re telling me you actually let him?”

Kuramochi shot him a withering look. “Tch, like I had a choice. Once Sawamura latches on, you try shaking him off.”

Jun leaned back, a laugh bubbling out despite himself. “No wonder you look half-dead. Sounds like you’ve met your match.”

Kuramochi groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “If he keeps this up, he’ll be the death of me”

Jun let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair as if the weight of something heavier pressed down on him. His expression grew thoughtful, enough that even Yuuki and Ryosuke, from a short distance away, glanced over at the dugout, curious about the sudden change in mood.

Kuramochi peeked through his fingers. “Oi—Jun-senpai, is there something wrong?”

Jun leaned back against the bench, his gaze drifting toward the other side of the grounds. “Hmm... just wondering. On my way here, I passed Field B. The second string was practicing, but...” His brow furrowed. “It was quiet. Too quiet. Not the usual racket they make.”

Kuramochi tilted his head, uneasy. “Now that you mention it— yeah. The two fields are close enough. Usually we’d hear their yelling clear as day, but today” He trailed off, frowning. “It’s just the sound of balls hitting mitts. None of the noise.”

At that moment, Ryosuke approached, wiping his hands with a towel. He caught the tail end of their conversation and added smoothly, “You’re right. The second string’s definitely off today. Something’s missing.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And come to think of it. I can’t even hear Sawamura’s voice from here. That’s unusual.” He turned his attention to Kuramochi. “So, Youichi—did something happen? Aside from him dragging you out at four in the morning?”

Jun shifted his gaze toward Kuramochi as well, silent but expectant.

Then Yuuki strolled over, uncapping his water bottle. “That’s true,” he said between sips. “Kuramochi, spill it.”

Kuramochi froze, caught between all three of them. He straightened a little, hands raised defensively. “Oi, oi, what’s with this? Why does it feel like I’m being interrogated for something I didn’t even do?”

Ryosuke didn’t answer right away. He only fixed Kuramochi with a steady stare, the kind that said he wasn’t letting this slide. Before Kuramochi could fidget out of it, a hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

Kuramochi jerked his head around and nearly choked. “M-Miyuki?!”

The catcher leaned in with that sly grin of his. “That’s right, Kuramochi. Spill it out, will you? I was going to ask after practice, but since senpai already brought it up, I think I’ll need an answer now.”

Kuramochi bristled, glaring at him. “You bastard, what are you even doing here?! You should be out on the field, not sneaking around here!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Miyuki waved him off lazily. “For your information, I was on break. And the reason I’m asking...” his grin widened, “is because I bumped into Sawamura earlier this morning. I wanted to say hello, but get this—he barely noticed me. Just gave me a nod and walked right past like I was invisible. Didn’t even look back.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing faintly. “And while he was walking off, he kept murmuring something under his breath. So, mind explaining what’s going on with our dear kouhai?”

“W-wait, wait, hold on!” Kuramochi stammered, hands flailing. “This isn’t—!”

Ryosuke cut in smoothly, lips curling into something dangerously amused. “Kuramochi. Speak. Or I’ll dig up your baby pictures and post them on Insta.”

Kuramochi went rigid, color draining from his face. His eyes darted helplessly between Ryosuke’s calm smile, Yuuki’s piercing stare, Jun’s quiet expectation, and Miyuki’s foxlike grin closing in.

He clutched at his chest dramatically. “I can’t breathe! Damn it, this isn’t fair! I didn’t do anything! This is all Sawamura’s fault!"

Kuramochi’s face contorted like a man on trial for a crime he didn’t commit, eyes wide and wild, his jaw slack as if the weight of the world had just landed on his shoulders. His shoulders sagged, sweat dripping down his brow, and for a moment he looked less like Seidou’s fiery shortstop and more like a poor soul condemned by fate. The more the others stared, the more cornered he felt—like prey surrounded by predators, every ounce of fight draining out of him until all that remained was the silent scream written across his expression: why me?

Chapter Text

The dugout buzzed with restless energy long before the umpire called the players onto the field. The non-regulars were louder than usual, voices overlapping in a roar that rattled the benches. For them, this wasn’t just another practice match, it was a chance.

One of the third-years, a veteran who had spent his entire Seidou career outside the spotlight, stood up and raised his voice above the chatter.

“This is it, guys. For us third-years, this might be our last chance to show we belong. Even if we’re not in the first and second string, today we prove that we’re still Seidou players. Let’s make it count!

And that goes for you second-years and first-years too. You might think you’re just filling spots today, but don’t sell yourselves short. Every inning, every at-bat, every play. You’re carrying Seidou’s name with us. Show them you’ve got what it takes to stand here. Prove that when your turn comes, you’ll be ready to grab it. We fight together, no matter what string we’re in.”

His words struck a chord. Heads nodded, fists clenched, and the dugout roared again, this time with purpose.

On the sidelines, Rei’s lips curved into a smile, eyes shining as she leaned forward eagerly. Oota, standing next to her, gave a quiet nod of approval. Coach Kataoka, as always, stood with his arms folded, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes and his face unreadable but deep inside, even though he couldn’t deny the flicker of anticipation. He wanted to see just how far these so-called “non-stringers” could go.

Morning Game: Seidou vs Kawashiro High

The lineup had been chosen by Kataoka himself. At shortstop stood first-year Takatsu Hiroomi, nervous but determined. Another first-year, Kariba Wataru, crouched behind the plate, while Kaneda Tadahiro, also a first-year, took the mound. The rest of the roster was filled with second- and third-years, a mix of experience and desperation.

Across the field, Kawashiro High prepared with sharp focus. To them, it didn’t matter if Seidou sent out non-regulars or first string. A win was a win, and they were determined to crush whoever stood across the diamond.

The game began with Seidou on defense. Kaneda stood tall on the mound, shoulders tight with nerves, his fingers gripping the seams a little harder than usual. His first pitch came in hot, straight down the middle, almost too eager. The crack of the bat followed, a sharp line drive to left that forced the outfielder to scramble.

Kawashiro High wasted no time pressing their advantage. Their batters were disciplined, reading Kaneda’s rhythm, fouling off close pitches and waiting for mistakes. A wild fastball slipped high, then another caught too much of the plate. By the end of the first inning, one run had crossed the plate, the Kawashiro dugout roaring.

But Seidou’s non-regulars didn’t fold. Kaneda steadied his breathing, his catcher Kariba pounding his mitt with sharp, decisive calls. In the second inning, Kaneda struck out a batter with a high fastball, the next grounded out on a sharp hopper to Takatsu at short. Even when Kawashiro managed a deep shot to center, the third-year outfielder tracked it down, glove snapping shut at the warning track.

Still, Kawashiro pushed back. In the third, their cleanup hitter punished a hanging straight fastball, driving it hard into the gap for an RBI double. Another run slipped through, making it 2–0.

Yet through it all, the non-regulars held stubbornly. Every fielder dove after grounders, every cutoff throw was sharp, every cheer from the dugout rang with determination. It wasn’t pretty baseball, but it was gritty. Kaneda’s pitches still wavered, his control far from perfect, but his teammates backed him up with unshakable energy.

By the time the third inning closed, Kawashiro had scraped together two runs—but nothing more. The score stood at 2–0, and the Seidou bench erupted in applause, voices thundering as if they’d already stolen a victory.

In the bottom of the fourth, Seidou finally stirred. The first three batters of the lineup fought tooth and nail but couldn’t bring anyone home—one stranded on second, a failed steal attempt killing their momentum. But the fifth batter refused to fold. Swinging with every ounce of luck and willpower, he sent a fastball soaring to left. The hit should have been routine, but Kawashiro’s defense fumbled, and Seidou seized the chance. A second-year right fielder slid headfirst into home, cutting the deficit to 2–1.

By the bottom of the fourth, Seidou had finally scratched one run back, narrowing the gap to 2–1. But Kawashiro’s lineup wasn’t about to sit quietly.

In the top of the fifth, their leadoff man drew a walk, then advanced on a sharp grounder that slipped just past first. A sacrifice bunt moved both runners into scoring position, and a clean single up the middle brought one home. Seidou’s outfield cut off the damage there, but the score stretched to 3–1.

Not to be outdone, the non-regulars answered in the bottom half. Their fifth batter dug in stubbornly, fouling pitch after pitch until he finally got one he could handle. He ripped it into left, and an error by the fielder gave Seidou the break they needed. A runner slid home safely, bringing it back to 3–2 and drawing cheers from the dugout.

Still, Kawashiro kept pressing. In the top of the sixth, their cleanup batter punished a fastball that drifted too high. The ball carried deep into right, bouncing off the fence for a stand-up double. A follow-up single brought him across, restoring Kawashiro’s two-run cushion, 4–2.

And so, by the seventh, the scoreboard showed 4–2 in Kawashiro’s favor. But momentum hadn’t slipped away entirely, because Takatsu was about to step into the box.

Takatsu stepped up to the plate, recalling the quiet tips his seniors had whispered during practice. He narrowed his focus, eyes locked on the pitcher. A hanging slider came drifting in, he swung cleanly and connected. The ball skipped past the infield, and he tore down the line, claiming first base.

Kataoka gave the sign for a bunt. The next batter dropped it perfectly along the grass, and Takatsu exploded off the bag, sliding hard into second just ahead of the tag.

The following hitter dug in, grinding through the at-bat. He fouled off pitch after pitch until Kawashiro’s battery faltered. First with a wild ball, then with a mistake left hanging over the plate. This time, the bat cracked loud and true, sending a liner screaming into right.

Takatsu rounded third at full speed, the right fielder already firing home. The catcher set himself, glove low, waiting. But Takatsu’s slide came like lightning, cutting through the dust.

“Safe!” the umpire roared, arms spread wide.

Takatsu popped up covered in dirt, chest heaving, but grinning through it. The dugout erupted, cheers shaking the fence. Rei’s eyes lit up, her thoughts racing: Even the ones at the bottom, they carry Seidou’s strength.

By the end of the seventh, the score tightened to 4–3.

In the eighth, Kawashiro tried to extend their lead, but a third-year reliever shut them down. Seidou’s offense clawed for the equalizer, managing to put runners on first and second after back-to-back walks, but the chance slipped away when Kawashiro’s battery stiffened.

The ninth brought tension thick enough to choke on. Wataru stepped up as the seventh batter, followed by Kaneda in the on-deck circle. Both swung with all their might, but Kawashiro’s battery outmaneuvered them, striking them out. Instead of sulking, the dugout roared encouragement for the next hitter.

Bottom of the ninth. 4–3, Kawashiro still ahead.

The leadoff batter for Kawashiro smashed the third-year pitcher’s fastball but a veteran senpai in left field reacted in a flash. He charged in, slid forward, and snared the liner just before it could drop. Popping up smoothly, he rifled the ball back to the infield, killing any chance of extra bases.

The rest of the inning was a battle of nerves, Seidou’s fielders refusing to crumble. Outfielders made clean grabs, and the defense held firm until the final out.

The game ended 4–3 in Kawashiro’s favor.

It was a loss on the scoreboard. But for Seidou’s non-regulars, it was something else entirely: proof. They had fought, clawed, and nearly turned the game on its head. Kataoka’s eyes narrowed, and though his face showed nothing, pride simmered beneath the surface.

From the sidelines, several first-years of the second string had been watching closely. Haruichi leaned forward, eyes wide. “That was incredible. Especially Takatsu’s run, definitely a game-changer.”

Kanemaru crossed his arms, a grin tugging at his lips. “What a game. Seriously, that was way more intense than I expected.”

Toujou could barely sit still, bouncing with excitement. “If today’s like this, I can’t wait for the afternoon!”

But when the trio glanced around, they realized something was off. The game was exciting but it would’ve been even better if their noisy spark plug had been there.

“What time is he even showing up?” Kanemaru muttered, scanning the crowd.

Haruchi shook his head, lifting his phone. “No idea. His line’s been dead all morning.”

They already knew the truth, though. Before the morning match, the Assistant Coach had explained quietly: Sawamura had been absent since yesterday mid-morning. A sudden family matter had pulled him away, causing him to miss both yesterday’s practice and this morning’s session.

Still, none of them doubted it, Sawamura would appear. Especially in the afternoon, when Seidou’s second string was set to face Kukushikan. The three of them kept glancing toward the gates, half-expecting that any moment now, their loudmouthed teammate would come charging in, lollipop in his mouth, ready to turn the dugout upside down.

The afternoon crept closer, the air shifting as the second practice game approached: Seidou - second string vs. Kukushikan.

On Field A, both dugouts buzzed with energy. Players shouted, stretched, and slapped gloves, each one itching to swing, pitch, and crush every ball that came their way. Kukushikan’s side roared with bravado, while Seidou’s bench burned with quiet determination.

Unlike the morning game, the turnout had nearly doubled. The fences and bleachers were lined with Seidou alumni, students, and supportive parents who had come to cheer on their sons. Near the corner of the fence by Seidou’s dugout stood the first-stringers, easy to spot among the crowd. Some of the players from the morning match lingered as well, eager to see how the afternoon game would unfold.

It was Ryosuke who broke the hum of chatter, his voice carrying. “Sawamura’s not in the dugout. Does that mean he’s late... or not playing?”

The comment turned heads. A few of the first-stringers glanced toward Seidou’s bench, where Coach Kataoka stood with his usual stony face, arms crossed, watching as the second string prepared behind him.

Miyuki sat off to the side with Kuramochi lounging next to him, the latter half-distracted with his phone. Miyuki, however, had only one thing on his mind. His eyes swept over the dugout, sharp and searching. Ever since Sawamura’s sudden absence had been whispered about the day before, Miyuki had been waiting—half impatient, half curious. Even in their short time together, he knew Sawamura wasn’t the type to vanish quietly. If anything, the louder he arrived, the more himself he was. The thought made Miyuki’s lips twitch faintly. The moment Sawamura showed up, he’d steal every ounce of attention.

Some of the seniors beside them leaned forward, anticipation plain on their faces as they waited for the game to start. Kuramochi, though, wasn’t nearly as calm. His thumb tapped his phone screen again and again, firing off calls and messages that went unanswered. To everyone else, Sawamura’s absence was explained away as “a sudden family matter.” But Kuramochi knew more.

He had been there yesterday—right beside Sawamura when the headmaster had spoken those words that left his junior shaken to the core. He’d seen the way Sawamura’s world tilted in that moment. All Kuramochi could do then was place a hand on his shoulder and mutter clumsy words of comfort, words he wasn’t even sure he believed himself. But Sawamura had needed something, and it was all he could give.

Now, as the team gathered for their game against Kukushikan, Kuramochi couldn’t help but wonder: would he show up? Or had yesterday’s weight finally been too much? When the seniors had asked him about it, he couldn’t answer—not the truth. That was Sawamura’s to share, not his.

Still, his eyes never left the field entrance.

Back in the dugout, Kataoka faced his players, his arms folded across his chest, voice low but steady as he addressed them. His words weren’t flashy, but each one carried weight, grounding the second string in purpose. It was enough, their backs straightened, eyes sharpened, and the dugout buzzed with quiet resolve.

The umpire’s voice cut through the air, calling both teams to line up.

“Let’s go, Seidou!” a roar erupted, surprisingly led by Maezono of all people.

“All right, Kukushikan, let’s go!” their opponents fired back, voices unshaken and sharp.

Field A vibrated with noise, anticipation coiling through the crowd. The murmur of the spectators only swelled, whispers bouncing back and forth. Many had expected Seidou’s first string to meet Kukushikan head-on, but instead, it was the second string standing across the diamond. Some scoffed, doubting the match would be worth watching. Others leaned forward in curiosity, unwilling to underestimate any group wearing Seidou’s uniform. And when they caught the look in the second stringers’ eyes burning, determined they quieted, if only slightly.

For Kukushikan’s dugout, the lineup announcement stirred grumbles. Facing a first-year pitcher and a handful of untested players felt like an insult. But their head coach silenced them with a sharp command.
“Enough. First string or second, they’re still Seidou. Don’t underestimate them. Fight like you always do.”
That was all it took to light fire under their players. Another roar burst out of their dugout, steel against steel.

On the mound stood Toujou, shoulders stiff with nerves but eyes sparking with excitement. Beside him crouched his battery-mate, Ono Hiroshi, a calm second-year catcher.

“You’ve got three innings, Toujou,” Ono reminded, giving him a quick look over his mitt. “So pitch them your best. I’ll handle the rest. Just throw like you always do.”

Toujou exhaled, nodded, and when his gaze flicked toward third, Kanemaru flashed him a thumbs-up. It grounded him.

Meanwhile, in the dugout, Haruichi sat with his bat propped against his shoulder, restless. Though not in today’s starting lineup, he wanted nothing more than to contribute when given the chance. But his thoughts kept slipping elsewhere, toward the entrance, where Sawamura still hadn’t appeared. Each time he glanced back, disappointment tugged faintly at his expression. Chris, seated nearby, noticed. His face remained unreadable, calm as always, but his gaze lingered on the empty space too, betraying the same thought: He should be here.

The umpire’s call snapped them back to the field. The leadoff batter for Kukushikan, a wiry shortstop—stepped into the box.

Toujou gripped the ball tight, heart pounding. His first pitch, a slider, cut loose before he’d fully gathered himself. It sailed wide—ball one.

“Focus, Toujou!” Ono barked, loud enough to jolt him back.

A ripple of laughter stirred from Kukushikan’s bench, but Toujou forced his breath steady. This time, he wound up clean, snapping off a curveball that dropped just inside the corner.

“Strike!”

A flash of relief crossed his face, but Ono didn’t let up, signaling for variation. Slider, curve, slider again—the sequence kept Kukushikan’s batter guessing. Even so, the shortstop fought tooth and nail, fouling off two pitches before finally sending a grounder through the right side for a base hit.

The rest of the inning was a test of nerve. Kukushikan’s lineup pressed hard, hungry for every chance to punish the rookie on the mound. Toujou’s excitement teetered dangerously close to recklessness, and with a sharp crack of the bat, their cleanup drove in two runs before Seidou’s defense shut the door.

By the time Toujou returned to the dugout, sweat rolled down his temples, his chest heaving. Ono gave his back a firm smack with the mitt.
“Settle in. That’s over. Next inning, we take it back.”

And slowly, Toujou did.

In the second inning, his pitches bit sharper. The curveball dropped meaner, the slider pulled batters off-balance. Kukushikan’s swings grew impatient, their rhythm unsettled as grounders and fly balls found gloves cleanly. By the third, Toujou looked steadier, his shoulders looser as the defense locked in behind him. Kanemaru stabbing a hot grounder at third, Maezono scooping at first, and the outfield pulling down every ball sent their way.

When the top of the third closed, the scoreboard still read 2–0, Kukushikan. Seidou hadn’t broken through yet, though a runner had reached first base earlier, showing flashes of momentum.

But for Toujou, it was enough. His three innings had started rocky, but he had stood tall against a powerhouse name, and his team had his back.

The crowd, once doubtful, hummed with a different kind of anticipation now.

Bottom of the third inning.

Seidou’s batters strode toward the box with determination. They were trailing by two already, but nobody on the bench looked shaken. If anything, Toujou’s recovery on the mound in the top half had steadied their hearts.

Maezono was first to step in, gripping his bat with a wolfish grin. “Alright, let’s get one back.” His loud voice carried across the field, drawing a few smirks from the Kukushikan dugout.

The opposing pitcher, a tall right-hander with a heavy fastball, wasted no time firing in his first pitch. Maezono swung hard, fouling it straight back. “Tch—he’s got heat.” He reset his stance, eyes burning.

From the Seidou dugout, Kanemaru shouted encouragement. “Stay on it, senpai! Make him work!”

The at-bat stretched. Maezono fouled off pitch after pitch, refusing to give in. Finally, on the seventh pitch, he connected solidly, sending a sharp liner into left. The dugout erupted. “Nice hit!”

Nakada followed, squaring up early, but grounded into a fielder’s choice. One out. Runner on first.

Chris and Haruichi, both watching closely, exchanged a glance. “If we can keep the pressure on,” Chris murmured, “this pitcher might start to lose command.” Haruichi nodded quietly, still sneaking glances toward the stands still no sign of Sawamura.

Next at bat, Ono Hiroshi, the catcher. Unlike the power hitters before him, Ono shortened his swing, aiming simply to move the runner. The first pitch was a strike, but the second, a hanging curve was slapped into right field. Runners on first and second.

“Good eye, Ono!” A third year, yelled from the dugout, fists pumping.

The crowd stirred. Kukushikan’s fans began chanting louder, sensing danger. But Seidou’s bench roared back with equal force, Maezono’s voice leading them: “Let’s go Seidou! Let’s go Seidou!”

The inning continued, every batter grinding, fouling, forcing long counts. Though Seidou didn’t score yet, the atmosphere shifted. Kukushikan’s pitcher was working harder than expected, and the balance of the game had begun to even out.

Since the end of the third inning, the game moved back to the top of the 4th, where it was Kukushikan’s turn to attack. Toujou was subbed out from the mound, but Kataoka quickly suggested him to be in the lineup as the center fielder, batting 8th. Toujou gladly accepted, no matter the position, he was determined to give his all.

The new pitcher for Seidou was a second-year, paired up with Ono behind the plate. For the most part, things looked steady. A few hits and runs threatened, but the score remained 2–0 in favor of Kukushikan. Seidou managed to hold them back until the top of the 5th inning.

That was when trouble came—two Kukushikan runners reached base, standing on first and third. The next batter was a first-year, but the coach of Kukushikan sent a pinch hitter in the stead of the nervous first-year. The pinch hitter was also a first-year. Ono quickly signaled for an inside pitch, but the batter surprised everyone, making sharp contact. The ball soared high toward left field. Kukushikan’s dugout was already cheering, expecting an RBI. The runner from third charged toward home.

But then—small, steady hands snatched the ball out of the air at the last second. Haruichi Kominato had made the catch. Without hesitation, he fired the ball back to the plate. Ono caught it clean and braced himself as the runner slid in.

The ball smacked into Ono’s mitt with a sharp bang! A beat later, the umpire’s voice cut through the field—“Out!”

Seidou’s dugout erupted in celebration. Ono gave a big thumbs-up toward Haruichi, the man of the moment. He had been subbed in during the bottom of the third, slotted 6th in the lineup, and already left his mark.

From the sidelines, even the first-stringers couldn’t contain themselves.

“Ohhh, that was close! Thank god!” Fumiya let out, acting as dramatic as an actor on stage.

“Yeah, without Kominato junior catching that, Kukushikan would’ve scored for sure,” Yuuki added, his tone steady but firm, a small spark of relief in his eyes.

Ryosuke stayed quiet, but the satisfied smirk on his lips didn’t escape the notice of Kuramochi, Jun, Masuko, and Tanba, who stood nearby.

The game rolled on into the bottom of the 6th, and now it was Seidou’s turn to mount an attack. Leading off was Maezono, followed by Ono, and then Kanemaru. The bench leaned forward, voices ready to explode at the first crack of the bat.

Maezono stepped into the box, shoulders squared, eyes fierce. He didn’t bother hiding his intent. He wanted to drive the ball. The Kukushikan pitcher, still sharp despite the long counts earlier, fired in a first-pitch fastball. Maezono swung hard, only to send it foul down the left line.

“Tch—close!” he hissed, resetting his stance.

The at-bat dragged on. Six pitches, seven, then eight. Maezono spoiled everything he couldn’t drive, refusing to let himself go down easy. Finally, he launched one deep into right-center but the outfielder sprinted back and hauled it in at the warning track. A collective groan echoed from Seidou’s bench, but the applause that followed was genuine. He had worn the pitcher down.

Next came Ono. Calm, unflinching, he shortened his swing like always. The first two pitches were balls outside, signs of the pitcher’s mounting fatigue. Ono waited patiently, then slapped the third pitch into shallow center, landing safely for a single. Seidou’s dugout erupted.

“Nice one, Ono-senpai!” Toujou shouted from the rail, pounding the fence with his fist.

Runner on first. One out. The momentum tilted.

Kanemaru jogged to the plate, jaw tight, bat twirling once before he locked in. The pitcher, clearly wary, tried to pound him inside. Kanemaru fouled off one, then another, gritting his teeth. “Not giving in” he muttered.

On the fifth pitch, he connected squarely, only for it to scream straight into the third baseman’s glove. A lightning throw to second followed, forcing out Ono. Double play.

The chance dissolved in an instant. Seidou’s bench groaned again, but no one hung their heads. If anything, the mood was stubborn, teeth clenched, hearts refusing to bend.

Top of the seventh. Kukushikan wasted no time pressing the advantage, their leadoff batter waiting for a mistake. And a mistake came—Seidou’s pitcher suddenly lost his edge, fastballs sailing high and missing their marks.

“Ball four!” the umpire barked as the batter jogged to first.

Behind the plate, Ono crouched as steady as ever, but the strain was obvious. Each pitch came in wilder than the last, forcing him to stab his mitt across the strike zone just to keep the ball from skipping away. On one such catch, a heater that tailed too far inside the ball smacked violently against his glove. Ono winced, shaking his hand, though he tried to hide it.

But the very next pitch came in even wilder. Ono snagged it, but his wrist twisted awkwardly on the catch. This time the pain shot through sharply. When he rose to throw down to second, the ball floated weakly, dying halfway. His face tightened.

Ono winced, tugging off his mitt and cradling his right pinky. He lifted his free hand, signaling desperately. The umpire caught the motion and raised his voice, sharp and loud.

“Time!”

The game halted at once.

The field froze. Murmurs rippled through the stands as Seidou’s dugout leapt to its feet. Kataoka strode out, checked Ono quickly, and his expression hardened.

“Take him to the infirmary. Now.” His voice left no room for hesitation. Ono was helped off, supported by a second-year manager and Oota, Seidou’s baseball club president.

The sudden pause weighed heavy. Losing their catcher in the middle of the seventh was no small blow.

Kataoka turned back toward the bench. “Chris. Get ready.”

Gasps ran through the dugout. All eyes shifted to Takigawa Chris Yuu, the third-year catcher who had been sidelined for months. Calm as ever, Chris simply nodded and began strapping on his gear. Kataoka knew the risk. It wasn’t just Chris’s lingering shoulder injury. It was the battery. Who would pitch to him? Whoever he chose, Chris would have to handle it cold, mid-game.

Toujou seemed the most stable option, but pairing him with Chris without practice was dangerous. Kataoka’s jaw clenched as he weighed the gamble.

Near the fence, whispers grew louder. Some players worried, others clenched their fists in silence.

Among the first-stringers, Miyuki’s eyes narrowed. He had caught the exchange, seen Kataoka lean in and Chris’s calm nod. His lips tugged into the faintest smirk.

“They’re really putting Chris-senpai in” he murmured, loud enough that the players around him heard.

Heads turned. Yuuki, Jun, Ryosuke, Masuko, Tanba, Miyauchi, Fumiya and even Furuya, who had been dozing off since the start of the game but now blinked awake, followed Miyuki’s gaze toward the dugout, where Chris was fastening the straps of his chest protector. The realization struck them all at once. This wasn’t an ordinary substitution. For the first time in months, Chris was stepping back onto the field as Seidou’s catcher.

A mixture of worry and excitement swirled through them. It might have only been a practice game, but the fact that Kataoka had chosen to trust Chris now made their chests burn with envy and admiration. They wanted to be part of that moment.

But before the excitement could fully take hold, a sudden movement broke the mood. Kuramochi, seated among them, had gone stiff while staring at his phone. His expression twisted the look of someone who had just seen something shocking.

“Hey, where are you going?” Miyuki asked as Kuramochi abruptly stood and pushed his way out of the row.

But Miyuki didn’t hear an answer. Kuramochi pressed the phone to his ear, eyes wide, and halfway through the aisle his voice burst out.

“You WHAT!?”

The shout drew startled looks from the first-stringers nearby, the sound carrying even into the surrounding area.

And somewhere close to the field, a lone figure sprinted full tilt, phone pressed to his ear, duffel bag bouncing at his side, jaws working furiously as he chewed his gum in quick, sharp bursts. The white of a Seidou practice uniform caught the sunlight as he weaved through the area, every stride quick and urgent.

The moment hung heavy in the air, sharp and breathless like the hush before a storm breaks.

Chapter Text

Nagano moved at a slower pace than Tokyo, its air crisp with mountain wind, carrying a hint of early autumn. The streets were narrow, lined with houses pressed close together, their wooden beams darkened by years of rain and sun. Occasional bells rang from distant shrines, and the faint rustle of leaves whispered through the quiet neighborhoods. In one of its small hospitals, a room bathed in soft, golden light smelled faintly of blossoms arranged neatly in vases along the windowsill. The curtains swayed gently, catching the breeze that filtered through the half-open window. Three figures stood close together, their gazes fixed on the bed where an old woman rested, her breathing shallow but steady.

Eijun had arrived from Tokyo just yesterday afternoon, summoned by urgent news his uncle had delivered. The moment the message reached him, he had gone straight to Coach Kataoka and Takashima-san, his voice tight, laced with urgency, explaining the situation in full detail. He told them exactly what had happened, what his family had been told by the doctors, and what immediate measures were needed. With the support of the headmaster providing confirmation and context, the coaches understood without hesitation and granted him a temporary leave. There was no need for long discussion; they knew family came first. Now, Eijun sat in the chair closest to the bed, baseball cap stuffed into his bag, the crisp Seidou uniform replaced with plain, comfortable clothes. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest as he tried to stay calm.

Eijun’s father and grandfather had stepped out to buy food, leaving only his mother, Kyoka, nearby. Her eyes softened as she studied him, noticing the faint redness around his swollen eyes. She could see past his attempt to appear composed. He had cried, though he denied it completely, perhaps last night, perhaps earlier this morning. She understood without words. Eijun had always been close to his grandmother. From the time he was ten until just before junior high, he had spent nearly every day at her side, following her like a shadow, learning small lessons from her stories, her hands, her quiet patience. Everything had shifted after her sudden collapse years ago, when the doctors advised long-term observation. Thanks to government support, her pension, and the income from their rice fields and small store, the family had been able to manage her care and cover the bills without difficulty. Money had never been the problem. The real concern now was her health, which had been slowly declining, leaving a quiet weight of uncertainty over every day.Kyoka watched her son quietly, wishing she could shield him from the weight of worry, knowing he carried the same unspoken fear. She pressed a hand gently to her chest, silently hoping her mother in-law’s strength would hold just a little longer. In that quiet moment, she imagined Eijun carrying a piece of that strength with him, letting it steady him even when the fear lingered.

Kyoka reached out, brushing her hand gently over her son’s shoulder. Her fingers lingered for a moment, warm against the fabric of his shirt, a quiet anchor in the tense room. “She’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice steady but carrying the weight of everything she felt. “She’s always been strong, just like your grandfather. The Sawamura blood runs deep...she’ll hold on, and she’ll keep fighting.” Her eyes glistened with a delicate shimmer of unshed tears, blending reassurance with the deep worry she could not hide. She watched her son carefully, wanting to give him courage, to hold a piece of his fear in her own heart so he might breathe a little easier. For a moment, the quiet room seemed softer, the faint scent of blossoms and sunlight threading through the space as mother and son shared an unspoken understanding, bound by love and the fragile hope that strength ran through their veins.

Eijun blinked, lifting his gaze to hers. Her words steadied him, like a rope thrown across a chasm, but deep down he could not find full comfort. He remembered the countless times his grandmother had fought through pain, smiling when she could barely lift herself, refusing to let the family see her falter. Yet lying here now, seeing her breaths shallow and uneven, a weight pressed on his chest—a fear he could not shake. It was different this time. This time, the uncertainty gnawed at him. His mind replayed memories of her strong hands guiding him, her laughter warming winter mornings, her scolding that always came with care. He wanted to believe, to cling to the strength she had always shown, but his heart refused to settle.

Fear that this time might be different lingered in the quiet room, shadowing every thought and every heartbeat.

A soft rustle of sheets drew their attention, and slowly, her grandmother’s eyes fluttered open. Recognition sparkled immediately, and a smile spread across her worn face as they saw Eijun sitting nearby. “Junnie” she whispered, her voice weak but full of warmth.

Eijun’s chest lifted, relief washing over him. “Obaasan,” he said softly, leaning closer, careful not to startle her. “I’m here.”

Kyoka stepped closer, her hand brushing over her mother-in-law’s arm, fingers lingering as if to offer more than just touch a silent promise of care and presence. “You’ve been through so much. But look at you— eyes open, smiling already,” she said, her voice steady yet tender, carrying the depth of a daughter’s love.

His grandmother’s gaze moved between Kyoka and Eijun, her smile widening, eyes crinkling at the edges. “And you’ve brought my beloved grandson with you,” she said, her voice tinged with joy and a hint of mischief. “I was worried but seeing you here makes everything feel right again.”

Eijun shifted in his chair, trying to hide the lump in his throat. “I was scared, Obaasan,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to miss you not like before.”

Kyoka’s hand pressed gently against his shoulder, a grounding warmth. “We were all worried,” she said softly. “But you stayed strong. That’s what matters. You’ve been so brave.”

Her grandmother reached out a trembling hand, resting it over Eijun’s. The frailty in her grip was real, yet it carried a power that only love could give. “You’ve grown so much, Eijun. My brave boy,” she murmured, her eyes glistening. “You’ve always been my strength and now I feel mine again just seeing you.”

Eijun leaned closer, letting his hand cover hers, feeling the pulse of life beneath his fingers. The familiar scent of her, faint and comforting, filled him with a quiet courage he hadn’t realized he was holding back. He could hear Kyoka’s soft breathing nearby, steady, reassuring a shield of love surrounding them both.

For a moment, the quiet hospital room seemed to glow with a warmth that had nothing to do with sunlight or blossoms. It was a warmth born of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of a family tethered by enduring love and support. The fear that had clung to the edges of the room eased slightly, softened by presence and care, though still lingering in quiet corners, reminding them all how fragile yet resilient life could be.

The quiet trio reunion was interrupted when the door opened, and two more figures entered, carrying bundles of food and a variety of fruits. Eitoku and Eiji, father and son, paused for a moment, taking in the scene before them.

As soon as Eitoku’s eyes fell on his beloved wife, Hana, the packages in his hands slipped unnoticed to the floor. Tears welled instantly, and he rushed to her bedside, enveloping her in a tight, desperate hug. His sobs shook the quiet room, a mix of relief and fear spilling out all at once.

Eiji mirrored his father’s movements, stepping forward with the same intensity. His arms wrapped around his mother, holding her close, the emotion in his chest breaking free in silent tears. Both father and son pressed themselves to her, unwilling to let go, as if the act of hugging could make up for all the fear and worry of the past hours.

Kyoka and Eijun stood quietly to the side, watching the display of raw, unfiltered love. There was no need for words. The sight of their family united, the warmth of shared tears and embraces, spoke more than any conversation could. The room, once tense and fragile, now hummed with the chaotic but comforting energy of a family clinging to one another, finding strength in their togetherness.

Kyoka and Eijun had stepped back, giving Eitoku, Eiji, and Hana their moments of reunion. After the tearful embraces and quiet laughter, the room gradually settled into a calm hush. Though the atmosphere was lighter, Eijun felt a pull to step outside with his grandmother. He could not stay still knowing she needed the fresh air, even for a short time.

With the doctor’s consent and under the watchful eye of a nurse, he carefully guided her wheelchair through the hospital corridors. Hana, despite her frail frame, insisted on visiting the garden, her determination soft but firm. The nurse trailed a few meters behind, respecting their privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if necessary.

The garden unfolded like a small, fragrant sanctuary. Eijun slowly wheeled his grandmother along the winding path, pausing near a bench surrounded by a sea of lavender, their purple blooms swaying gently in the breeze. The soft fragrance mingled with the warmth of the sun, creating a tranquil bubble around them. He parked the wheelchair near the bench, kneeling briefly to adjust her blanket and settle her comfortably.

For a long moment, silence hung between them. Eijun’s eyes followed the delicate lavender flowers, but he could also feel his grandmother’s presence beside him. The quiet strength, the familiar warmth of her hand resting lightly on her lap. He watched her, absorbing the serenity on her face, noting how even small joys, the sun, the flowers, the breeze could spark life in someone so worn yet resilient.

Finally, her voice broke the silence. “Junnie,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the lavender.

“Did you need anything, Obaasan?” Eijun asked gently.

His grandmother shook her head, a faint smile curving her lips. “I just wanted to talk to you, my Junnie . Your Seidou life, tell me about it.”

Eijun’s face brightened, and he leaned a little closer. “Obaasan, it’s amazing. My roommates, Yoichi-senpai and Masuko-senpai, they’re incredible. Always looking out for me, giving advice. Masuko even shares his pudding—I always find little cups hidden under the cabinet. I feel really Lucky. And Yoichi-senpai— he looks intimidating at first, but deep down, he’s thoughtful and cares about me. Chris-senpai is strict, yes, but his catching knowledge is amazing. I’ve learned so much from him. Miyuki-senpai....hmm he’s impressive, serious, and sometimes kind of annoying. Other times he acts like a senpai and sometimes like a jerk,” he added, grinning at the memory.

His grandmother laughed softly, the sound warm and light in the garden air.

Eijun continued, his voice softer now, full of reflection. “Obaasan, it feels like we’ve been teammates since a century ago, like this connection has always been here. I’m not in the first string yet, but the next time you see me, I’ll make sure you know I’ve earned my spot so wait for it, Obaasan. It’ll happen soon,” he added with a chuckle. “And the friends I’ve made there—they feel like a second family. We train hard, laugh together, and support each other through everything. Being with them makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger, something meaningful.”

Her eyes softened, glistening faintly. “I’m glad to hear that, Junnie. You sound truly happy there.”

Eijun nodded, a small laugh escaping him, though it carried a hint of wonder and relief. “Yes, Obaasan. Before I came to Seidou, I felt like there was a piece missing, something I couldn’t quite understand something I needed to discover. But now, step by step, I feel like I’m uncovering it. Every day I learn, every practice, every moment with my teammates—it’s all helping me grow. It feels right, like I’m finally finding the place where I’m meant to be, a place where I can become who I’m meant to be.”

A quiet warmth spread through the garden, mixing with the gentle breeze and the lavender’s soft scent, as if the moment itself was acknowledging his growth and the hope blooming within him.

Her gaze shifted, sharp and curious. “Your father said you’re leaving later? He said you have a game to attend. Is that true?”

“Yes—yes, Obaasan,” Eijun answered quickly, a hint of guilt in his voice. “I asked Coach Kataoka for permission to leave temporarily. I— I wanted to make sure you were alright and spend a little time with you.”

Before he could say anything else, a soft smack landed on his shoulder.

“Obaasan!!?” he exclaimed, surprised. “What was that for?”

“You’re only a first-year, and you’re skipping practice now?” she teased, eyes sparkling with mischief and warmth.

“But...Obaasan, I wanted to see you,” he protested, though his lips curved in a small smile.

Her expression softened, and she leaned slightly closer, her hand brushing lightly over his arm. “Hmm, does Junnie truly love baseball?”

Even after the hit, he felt the force linger, a reminder of just how unexpectedly strong she was. He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yes, Obaasan. I love baseball. I really do. It’s a part of my life now, something I can’t imagine being without. Before, I always felt like something was missing, but now I know what I want to give to the game, and every day I’m building toward that.”

“That’s good,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, carrying the weight of her years and wisdom. “Dedication isn’t about winning every game, Junnie. It’s about holding onto what you love, no matter what happens. Baseball, or anything else in life, if you care about it, you must fight for it, practice it, and protect it with all your heart. That’s what gives strength, not just skill. True power comes from love and care, from devotion to what matters to you.”

Eijun nodded, absorbing each word. “I’ll— I’ll try my best, Obaasan. Always.”

She smiled, her frail hand reaching up to rest on his cheek briefly, warm and grounding. “Your heart is brave, Junnie. Remember, no matter how difficult, don’t let fear or doubt take away the joy of what you love. Be committed. Be relentless. And be kind, too. Strength comes from the love you carry, not just the power of your arm.”

Eijun’s throat tightened, a lump forming as he absorbed the gravity of her advice. “I’ll remember, Obaasan.k I promise.”

She leaned back slightly, eyes glimmering with pride and amusement. “Good. That’s my Junnie. Whatever happens, keep playing, keep living, and don’t ever forget what matters to you.”

Eijun glanced at her, then gently reminded her, “Obaasan, you should keep taking your medicine, okay? Follow what the doctor said. I want you to be healthy so you can come watch one of my games someday.”

Her lips curved in a soft smile, touched by his care. “I—I promise, Junnie. I’ll try. I want to see you play and not just from stories.”

For a long moment, they sat together in silence again, the lavender swaying softly around them. The sunlight warmed their faces, and the faint hum of nature provided a quiet backdrop. Eijun quietly held the wheelchair handles, watching his grandmother soak in the garden’s beauty, feeling her words settle deep into his heart.

A few minutes later, he picked a lavender flower gently, holding it out to her. She reached for it, laughing softly, brushing her fingers over his as they shared the small gesture. He teased her lightly, and she swatted him with mock annoyance, the soft laughter blending with the breeze. It was a simple moment, yet profoundly warm a memory stitched with

love, advice, and quiet understanding.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across Seidou’s Field A, every sound magnified under the weight of the game. Chris crouched firmly behind the plate, steady and focused, his hand flashing signals with precision. On the mound stood the current pitcher. The same one who had previously partnered with Ono before the unfortunate incident. Their rhythm was rough but determined, straining to hold back Kukushikan’s rising momentum.

Kataoka had made no move to change pitchers, a decision that rippled shock through the opposing dugout. Kukushikan’s players exchanged uneasy glances, muttering among themselves.

“They’re still sticking with him?” one player whispered, eyes narrowing toward the Seidou battery. His tone was laced with disbelief, though beneath it flickered unease.

Another leaned forward, peering out at the mound. “I guess so. Doesn’t seem like anyone else is coming in,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Strange. You’d think they’d be preparing another pitcher by now.”

One of Kukushikan’s coaches stood with arms crossed, gaze sharp as he studied the replacement catcher crouched at the plate. His eyes lingered on the mound, watching the pitcher stretch his arms longer than expected, a subtle strain showing in his form. The coach’s lips pressed into a thin line, his tone low and thoughtful as he muttered, “They must trust him. Or maybe they don’t have another choice. Either way, they’re gambling everything on that battery.”

On the fence line, Tanba’s expression was unreadable, shadowed by thought. He watched Chris closely, the sight stirring a complicated storm inside him. Chris, his battery partner from his very first year now back behind the plate where he belonged. A part of him swelled with quiet pride, seeing his old partner command the field once more. Yet worry gnawed at him all the same.

Chris had only recently come back. The injury still lingered like a scar beneath the surface. Every signal, every throw, every squat behind the plate carried risk. Tanba knew it too well, the fear of being pushed too far too soon. What if this game reopened wounds that had barely healed?

Lost in his heavy thoughts, Tanba didn’t notice the presence at his side until a hand rested firmly on his shoulder. Startled, he turned, only to meet Yuuki’s calm, unwavering gaze.

“Chris will be fine,” Yuuki said, his voice steady, reassuring. His eyes, however, stayed fixed on the diamond. “Coach wouldn’t let him play if he wasn’t ready. Trust that.”

Tanba swallowed hard, then gave the faintest of nods. But his gaze drifted back to the plate, where Chris crouched low, signaling once more as the next batter stepped into the box. The game pressed forward, and hesitation had no place here.

In Seidou’s dugout, silence reigned. Every player sat tense, their focus unblinking as they followed the game. Rei moved quietly toward Kataoka, who stood near the edge with arms crossed. His glasses reflected the light, but Rei knew better than to be fooled by his calm exterior. The weight of the game pressed heavily on him, visible in the hard line of his jaw and the stillness of his frame.

Rei said nothing, choosing instead to stand nearby. The dugout’s atmosphere was thick, every breath held as the team willed their battery forward. Then, faint at first, came the hurried sound of footsteps pounding against the ground. Louder and louder, until the rhythm was unmistakable.

Rei turned instinctively toward the dugout entrance and froze. A figure in white and navy sprinted toward them, duffel bag bouncing at his side, uniform disheveled, hair wild from running. Her lips curved before she could stop herself, warmth breaking through her composure.

“Sawamura-kun,” she said softly, the name carrying just enough to draw heads in the dugout.

Players turned, surprise sparking across their faces. Even Kataoka’s head shifted, his unreadable gaze landing squarely on the boy. Yet Rei, having worked with him for years, caught the fleeting flicker in the coach’s eyes. Relief.

“Boss!” Eijun skidded to a halt, chest heaving from the sprint. Sweat clung to his brow, but his voice rang out loud and clear. “This is Sawamura Eijun, reporting for duty! Before anything else, I sincerely apologize for arriving late. There was an accident on the road that blocked everything, and I had no choice but to run the rest of the way just to make it here.” He bowed sharply, nearly folding in half. “I’ll accept any punishment, no excuses! But please, please let me play in this game!”

He held the bow, sweat dripping down to the dirt. His hair was messy, sticking up in all directions. His uniform clung damply to his back, his shoes scuffed from the sprint. His bag had slipped from his grip and spilled halfway open on the ground. He didn’t care. Not about his appearance, not about the stares, not even about the sour smell of heat clinging to him. The only thing that mattered was that he had arrived.

The dugout remained utterly silent for a moment. Then, a heavy smack landed on his back, making him straighten with a jolt.

“Dude. You’ve got guts, showing up this late,” a third-year outfielder muttered, half annoyed, half relieved. His words carried no real bite, only the unmistakable comfort of seeing Sawamura standing there, alive and well. The same thought echoed silently through the rest of the team. Annoyance, yes. But mostly, relief.

Finally, Kataoka’s voice cut through the moment. Firm. Direct.

“Sawamura.”

Eijun snapped to attention, back straight, eyes blazing. “Yes, Coach!”

Kataoka’s expression was unreadable behind his dark glasses, but his voice carried the weight of the moment. “There’s one out. A runner on third. This is no easy stage to walk into. You’ll need to stay sharp from the first pitch." Kataoka’s gaze stayed fixed on him, unwavering. “The game is in your hands now. Prove to me your progress. Can you do it?”

Eijun’s fists clenched at his sides, eyes blazing with resolve. “Yes, Coach! I’ll definitely prove it!”

A murmur rippled through the dugout. Some of the players exchanged glances, relief flickering in their eyes at his sudden arrival. A few of the third and second-years exhaled quietly, tension leaving their shoulders. Rei, standing near the entrance, allowed herself a small, knowing smile, her eyes soft as they followed Eijun. For a moment, the heavy atmosphere that had pressed over the dugout lightened.

Out on the field, however, Chris remained unaware of Sawamura’s presence. His entire focus was locked on the pitcher standing on the mound, working through each breath, trying to stabilize the game and hold the line. Chris’s sharp gaze cut toward the batter’s box as the announcer’s voice carried over the field.

A pinch hitter.

The moment Chris heard the name, his chest tightened. The next batter from Kukushikan was a seasoned third-year, their cleanup hitter. Recognition flickered in Chris’s eyes he knew him. They had faced each other back in junior high.

Chris’s sharp eyes tracked the cleanup batter as he stepped into the box. His grip on the mitt tightened, a memory flashing back in junior high, the same player standing across from him, already a power hitter back then. He’s dangerous even after I heard he was injured in his first year, despite that he hasn’t lost that edge.

Chris drew a steadying breath, preparing to frame the first sign, when a sudden movement in the dugout caught his ear.

“Substitution,” Kataoka’s firm voice rang out across the field. “Substitution. Pitcher—Sawamura.”

Chris blinked, turning slightly, surprised. From behind the coach stepped a familiar figure—messy brunette hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling as though he had run straight into the middle of battle. Sawamura Eijun.

The first-year jogged toward the mound, bowing quickly to both sides of the field, his lips moving with quick apologies for his abrupt entrance. Chris couldn’t help it, his mouth curved into the faintest smirk. So he made it after all .

The current pitcher walked off the mound, pausing only to hand the ball over. Eijun bowed his head to him, murmuring words of encouragement, before taking his place at the center. Chris began his jog toward the mound as well, eyes never leaving Sawamura, who lifted his head and offered him a wide, confident grin.

“Do you want me to call everyone in?” Chris asked, keeping his voice low, glancing toward the fielders ready to move.

Sawamura shook his head firmly, his eyes sharp yet brimming with eagerness. “No need, Chris-senpai. It’s fine.” His voice carried a quiet certainty, steady but filled with energy. He straightened his posture, flashing the kind of fearless grin only he could wear in such a tense moment. “You call it, I’ll throw it. We’ll trust the others to back us up and together, we’ll stop this batter.”

His words weren’t just reassurance; they were a declaration. The gleam in his eyes told Chris he meant every syllable, that he trusted their bond as battery mates completely, as well as the teammates standing behind them.

Chris studied him for a second, then exhaled through his nose. “I see. Did Coach say anything about which pitches you’re supposed to throw?”

Sawamura’s grin widened, fire sparking in his eyes. “Honestly, I only just got here. No time to go deep into a plan. But right now—” He raised his glove, voice sharp with determination. “I want to show you my greatest weapon. My fastball.”

On the Kukushikan bench, players leaned forward, eyes narrowing as they caught sight of the commotion on Seidou’s side.

“Substitution?” The word rippled across Kukushikan’s dugout like a spark.

The bench players leaned forward, brows furrowed. “Wait— did they just say Sawamura?”

Another tilted his head, whispering, “Sawamura? That name sounds familiar... isn’t he a first year?”

Murmurs spread, a mix of surprise and uncertainty. The batter standing in the box tapped his cleats against the dirt, jaw tightening as he tried to mask his curiosity. So they’re putting in a rookie now? At this time? Bold move, Seidou.

On the dug out, Kukushikan’s coach narrowed his eyes, arms crossing as he tried to recall. “Sawamura...” The name carried weight, even if not everyone here remembered where they had heard it. “Let’s see what kind of gamble the head coach of Seidou is playing.”

On the sideline, Seidou’s first-stringers turned sharply as Kuramochi jogged back to his spot. They gave him a series of side-eye stares, suspicion heavy in their looks. Before they could fire questions at him, Kataoka’s firm voice cut through the air.

“Substitution.”

They all tensed. Of course, everyone had noticed the strain in the current pitcher. A change was expected. But no one expected this.

The player stepping in was none other than the boy they had been chasing rumors about since yesterday.

Excitement buzzed through the first-stringers like static. Miyuki leaned forward, his lips curling into a grin he couldn’t hide. A pang of jealousy struck deep in his chest, he wanted to be the one behind the plate catching that pitch.

His mind flashed back to Sawamura’s words, spoken not in his usual reckless tone, but with a rare, iron seriousness: “Not yet, Miyuki Kazuya. Not the right time, right? I need to earn my place in the first string before I can form a battery with the main catcher.

The memory cut sharper now, standing out against the din of the stadium. Miyuki clenched his jaw, unable to help the restless excitement stirring inside him. He meant every word back then. Sawamura wasn’t bluffing, wasn’t joking.

Every time that line replayed in his head, Miyuki’s anticipation only grew hungrier. Tonight, he would see whether Sawamura could live up to those fearless words.

Kuramochi, on the other hand, couldn’t stop the grin splitting across his face. He made it. His kohai had stepped onto the mound at last. Loud, ridiculous, and stubborn as ever, Sawamura was here finally where he belonged. And now, partnered with Chris, Kuramochi couldn’t wait to see what kind of storm their battery could unleash. 

Across the diamond, the fielders reacted in their own ways. Toujou’s smile widened, quiet but unmistakably thrilled. Kanemaru pumped a fist in Sawamura’s direction, brimming with energy, while Haruichi’s eyes gleamed as he straightened in position. Even the seniors, standing steady in their designated spots, couldn’t hide the tension sparking through their veins. Their noisy kohai was finally here, ready to shake the field.

Back on the mound, Chris lingered beside him a second longer, eyes firm and voice clear.

“We’ll start with your natural fastball,” he instructed, every word deliberate. “Then we’ll mix in your variations. This batter’s dangerous one clean hit and that runner on third will score. We can’t let that happen. Sawamura, throw with everything you’ve got. Trust me. I’ll handle the rest.”

For Chris, this wasn’t just another game—it was Sawamura’s first real chance after being promoted to the second string. The mark of his climb toward the main team. And today, standing behind the plate, Chris was determined. I’ll make sure everyone sees what he’s capable of.

His words were more than a plan. They carried reassurance, conviction, and a challenge all in one.

Eijun didn’t answer with words. He just nodded, eyes blazing like fire catching wind.

Chris gave a sharp exhale and jogged back to the plate, signaling to the umpire for the game to resume.

Left alone on the mound, Eijun closed his eyes for half a second, exhaling slow and deep. His breathing ritual, steady and focused, carried him into the moment. Then came the familiar crinkle of plastic as he slipped a hand into his pocket. A lollipop wrapper tore quietly, and with a practiced motion, he popped it into his mouth, grinning around the stick.

The reaction was immediate.

From Kukushikan’s dugout, a wave of confused murmurs rose. “Candy? Now?” Their expressions twisted with disbelief—what kind of pitcher chewed on sweets before his first throw?

On Seidou’s side, though, no one so much as blinked. They had seen this ritual countless times before. They knew what it meant. The anticipation didn’t falter, it only swelled.

Sawamura raised his glove, posture commanding, and when he spoke, his voice rang across the entire diamond.

“This isn’t the end — this is the beginning! So fielders, back me up!”

The words cracked through the air like lightning, resonating across Field A. For Kukushikan, it was a strange declaration from a strange pitcher. For Seidou, it was the familiar  that marked the start of something unforgettable.

Chris crouched behind the plate, glove raised, eyes narrowing at the figure digging into the batter’s box. Naoyuki Zaizen Kukushikan’s third-year cleanup. A man Chris had once known all too well.

“Kekekeke... your pitcher’s full of himself, huh, Chris?” Zaizen’s lips curled into a smirk, though his tone carried an edge sharper than his grin. His bat rested lightly on his shoulder, but his eyes were already measuring Eijun.

Chris didn’t flinch. “I don’t have any say in that. He’s just himself.”

Zaizen’s laughter rumbled low, mocking. “Good to see you again, Chris. By the way, how’s that shoulder of yours? A little sour still?” His words slipped with calculated cruelty, meant to dig where it hurt most.

Chris’s expression didn’t waver. He straightened slightly, his voice calm but firm. “I’m fine. Doing good so far.”

Zaizen chuckled at the cool response, shaking his head. “Still composed as ever. But let’s see if you’re ready for what’s coming.” He turned his eyes forward only to meet Eijun’s smile. A baffling, almost insulting sight. Who the hell smiles at his rival batter?

The grin only stoked his irritation.

On the mound, Eijun waited for Chris’s signal, nodding once at the call for an inside fastball. His posture was clean, his motion simple, no exaggerated leg kick, just steady, coiled energy.

Zaizen squinted as the windup began. Too plain. Too easy to read. His grip on the bat tightened.

The pitch came. Fast, sharp, and darting. Zaizen swung, convinced he’d timed it, but the ball veered off the expected path. A subtle, cutting movement.

Pop! Chris’s mitt swallowed it clean.

“Strike!” the umpire barked.

Zaizen blinked, stunned. “What the—?!” His swing had been perfect. The ball should’ve connected square. Yet it slipped past, unseen until it snapped into the catcher’s glove. He hadn’t even heard the seam’s whistle.

A murmur spread through Kukushikan’s dugout. Players leaned forward. Even the head coach fixed his eyes on the mound, the first pitch had come clean, and their reliable cleanup hadn’t been able to touch it.

Zaizen’s lips curved slowly into a grin, intrigue gleaming in his eyes. Interesting. Very interesting.

He reset his stance, bat pointed directly at Sawamura. “Bring it on, kid. Show me what else you’ve got.”

The Kukushikan bench roared encouragement, but doubt lingered beneath their voices. To them, it felt like a glimpse of the old Zaizen, the confident slugger who’d once carried their lineup was being dragged back into place. But by whose hand?

Chris smirked behind his mask, eyes never leaving Eijun. Nice one.

Eijun grinned back, raising his left hand high and calling loudly, " Yosh! "  His voice rang across the diamond, brimming with fire. From third base, Kanemaru barked, " That was only your first pitch, don’t celebrate so early!"

Zaizen narrowed his eyes, studying the boy on the mound. Beating one pitch meant nothing consistency defined a pitcher. " I need to see more, "  he muttered, his voice edged with steel.

Second pitch—fastball again, outside. Zaizen swung harder this time, expecting the same trail. But once more, the ball bent off course, snapping into Chris’s mitt before his barrel could touch it.

“Strike two!”

Zaizen’s jaw tightened, but his grin widened. So that’s the game, huh? You move the ball like that, Kid?

Chris adjusted his mask, giving a subtle nod. “You’ve got him on the ropes.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Eijun muttered under his breath, bouncing lightly on his feet. But his grin betrayed the rush he felt. This was what he lived for, standing here, facing the strongest, daring them to swing.

Third pitch. This time, Chris called for a fastball down the middle. A test.

Zaizen tracked it carefully, saw the late movement, and lashed his bat. The crack of contact echoed but the ball shot foul to right field.

“Foul!”

Zaizen exhaled sharply. Got it that time. But it’s slippery. The ball doesn’t stay true.

Fourth pitch—two-seam. He connected again, but once more it sailed foul.

The count was two strikes, two fouls. Pressure boiling.

Eijun’s eyes widened. He fouled my two-seam? For a moment, shock flickered into amazement. That's amazing 

Zaizen dug in, sweat sliding down his temple. A runner waited on third, but Zaizen barely spared it a thought. All that mattered was the boy on the mound. The weight on his shoulders shifted into something sharper, excitement. He hadn’t felt this alive at the plate in years.

On the mound, Eijun’s chest thumped like a drum. This was it, the game he wanted, the stage he craved. He looked to Chris for the next call.

But instead of a signal, Chris raised an open hand. No fingers. Just a gesture. And a smile.

Eijun blinked, startled. Eh? That smile —it was unsettling, far scarier than Chris’s usual unreadable mask.

The gesture said it all: It’s up to you. Pitch what you want. Show me what you’ve got.

The air tightened around them.

Eijun’s grin sharpened. He shifted his stance, instinct guiding him to the pitch he knew best—the Crossfire. The angle he was proud of. But his adrenaline spiked, power surging without his awareness. His release came harder, sharper than ever before.

Zaizen’s eyes tracked the ball. Straight down the middle? No—wait—!

The pitch cut violently across the plate, tailing inside toward his legs. He swung, but the timing shattered. The ball ripped past the barrel and slammed into Chris’s mitt with a crack that rang through the field.

“STRIKE THREE!”

The umpire’s voice boomed.

Zaizen froze mid-swing, breath caught, bat hovering in disbelief. The ball had vanished from his zone, bending at the last second like a ghost.

Chris’s own eyes widened, he hadn’t expected that kind of force either.

On the mound, Eijun scratched his neck sheepishly, a lollipop clamped between his teeth at a crooked angle. Then he flicked up a casual peace sign, grin stretching wide—more cheeky dare than apology.

The field buzzed in shock, a low ripple spreading through players and spectators alike. Kukushikan’s dugout erupted, voices overlapping in disbelief. Their cleanup, their trusted third-year, had just been struck out, by a first-year who stood on the mound with a lollipop tucked between his teeth, grinning as if the pressure meant nothing at all.

“What was that speed?” one of their reserves gasped, half rising from the bench. “The ball just—vanished!”

On the sidelines, Miyuki leaned forward, eyes narrowing. He had tracked the motion from the very first throw, calculating every seam and path. But that last pitch—no, that crossfire, it didn’t add up. The angle was sharp, the ball came late, and yet, the trajectory bent and accelerated at the same time. His lips twisted into a rare frown. What the hell was that? A crossfire shouldn’t gain that kind of force..

Behind the plate, Chris’s glove still stung from the impact, his heartbeat loud in his ears. For all his preparation, all his expectations, even he hadn’t been ready. That pitch,  it wasn’t just fast. Sawamura had driven through the crossfire with everything he had, forcing his moving fastball to explode across the zone. The result was terrifying.

In the batter’s box, Zaizen’s confident smirk had finally shattered, replaced with a simmering glare. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the bat, lowering it slowly, his eyes locked on the boy standing tall at the mound. So that’s the kind of monster you are, huh?

And at the center of Field A, Sawamura Eijun only grinned wider, fearless, reckless, utterly unshaken.

Zaizen, kukushikan’s cleanup, had gone down on strikes. The count now stood at one out. The next two batters followed quickly after, struck out by nothing more than Eijun’s fastballs, inside, outside, middle of the plate, painted across the strike zone with no mercy. Three up, three down.

Now it was Seidou’s turn to go on offense.

The atmosphere had shifted. In the Kukushikan dugout, tension thickened. Their voices no longer carried the same confident ring as before; instead, frustration and disbelief swirled in the air. That first-year pitcher had changed everything.

Meanwhile, in Seidou’s dugout, it was the complete opposite. Praises flew toward Eijun, especially from the third-years in the second string who could hardly contain their excitement. Haruichi and the others came forward, grabbing their gear, preparing for their turn at bat.

Rei Takashima, standing quietly on the sidelines, didn’t shout like the others. But the faint smile curving her lips said everything. She was proud of her recruit.

Even Kataoka gave a rare, approving nod. ‘Good job out there,’ he said firmly, praise woven into his usual stern tone. ‘Now carry that momentum and score.’

Bottom of the seventh inning. Seidou’s offense began.

Leading off at the bottom of the lineup was Chris, with a second-year outfielder waiting on deck. Chris had been watching closely, studying Kukushikan’s battery. He already knew the pattern. So when the pitcher opened with a fastball, just as he predicted. Chris didn’t hesitate. His swing was sharp, clean, decisive. The crack of the bat sent the ball skimming on a line into left field, a clean single.

The ball shot into play before it even touched the ground, Chris sprinting hard to first base. Safe.

The next batter stepped up with orders to bunt, but the attempt failed, snuffed out quickly.

Then came Kominato Haruichi, gripping his usual wooden bat. His role was simple, move the runner forward. He didn’t waste the opportunity.

The Kukushikan battery, remembering his previous contact, pitched carefully, aiming for spots inside, close to his hands, where the swing would be jammed and weakened. Twice, Haruichi made soft contact, fouling the ball away. On the third attempt, however, he adjusted, his bat finding the ball just right. Not a powerful hit, but enough to reach first safely while Chris advanced to second.

Runner on first and second base, one out.

The next batter was none other than Sawamura Eijun.

Unlike the others, Kukushikan’s battery had no data on him. He hadn’t batted earlier in the game, leaving them blind. A pitcher was rarely much of a threat at the plate, so they assumed his skill was average at best. They played it safe, choosing to test him first.

But ‘safe’ was the last word they should not have chosen because against Eijun, there was no such thing as safe. They just didn’t know it yet.

Eijun, now with a fresh lollipop tucked into his cheek, a different flavor than before since the last was already gone, stood tall in the batter’s box, grin tugging at his lips.

The first pitch came.

The catcher prepared for a routine reception—until Eijun swung.

Crack—!

The ball soared, climbing higher, higher, until it disappeared over the outfield fence. A clean home run.

The dugout exploded. Chris raced home, Haruichi right behind him, and Eijun followed, grinning the whole way as he rounded the bases. When he finally stepped on home plate, Chris reached out and tapped his hair with a rare show of approval.

The Seidou dugout roared with cheers, players nearly spilling onto the field. From the stands, the noise doubled, some stunned, some ecstatic. And through it all, Eijun could clearly hear Jun-senpai loud, unrestrained curse hurled at the opposing team.

And with that, Seidou had seized control of the game.

Time had shifted to the indoor training ground, where a few first-years swung their bats slowly, replaying the game in their minds with every motion. The excitement from earlier still buzzed through their veins, and they were practically vibrating with inspiration. Just a glimpse of what the second-string players, especially Sawamura, had done was enough to make them feel like anything was possible. They had seen the first-years of Seidou, now stepping into the second string, handle such a high-pressure game with skill and poise, it was beyond anything they imagined for someone their age.

One of the first-years, a non-regular and in the same class as  Kominato Haruichi, couldn’t stop talking. He gestured wildly with his bat, excitement spilling out of every word. “Did you see that home run? That gave Seidou the lead against Kukushikan! And the way Sawamura-kun struck out three batters on top of the seventh inning, just like that—three pitches, each perfectly placed! It was insane!”

His friend nodded, still swinging lightly, eyes wide. “Yeah, and did you notice the Kukushikan cleanup hitter? Third-year, in the seventh inning! Normally, you’d expect him to intimidate the pitcher, but Sawamura, he just made it look like he was having even more fun. I don’t even care why he was up there, I just— wow.”

Their conversation bounced to the bottom of the eighth inning. “They were amazing, right? Even though they were leading, every batter tried to push the score higher and keep the momentum going. That wild pitch from the Kukushikan pitcher? Maezono-senpai swung like crazy, and he ran to second base without hesitation! The timing, the pressure—they still managed to pull it off!”

Another first-year chimed in, awe dripping from his voice. “And how about Sawamura-kun pitching in the last inning? Like it was nothing to him. He moved like it was just a casual practice, but every batter was in trouble. The precision, the speed, I’ve never seen anything like that. And the way the catcher handled every pitch, smiling, confident, it’s like they were having fun while dominating the game. Honestly, Sawamura’s fastball reminded me a bit of a first-string Furuya, sharp, relentless but there’s something different about him, more unpredictable, more daring. You can feel the energy just bursting off the mound."

They paused for a moment, taking in their own words, imagining themselves one day in those positions, feeling the same thrill, the same pressure, the same joy. The synergy between the pitcher and catcher, the way the team seized every opportunity, made a lasting impression.

“By the time the game ended, Seidou had pulled off a 3-2 victory against Kukushikan,” one of the first-years said, eyes wide as he replayed the moments in his mind. “That seventh inning, it sparked everything. The momentum just carried through the rest of the game, and even from here in the indoor ground, you could feel it. The intensity, the emotion, the skill they were on a whole other level. It was like a lesson in baseball we’ll never forget.”

“This time,” Kaneda chimed in, shaking his head with a grin, “I feel like watching the second-string game is almost like watching the main team. Sure, the first-string intensity is different, but the more I watched the second-string team, the more I realized how much solidarity they have. How hard they’re pushing, how every player is working toward earning their place to the main team. You know, that’s amazing, right?”

He paused, eyes bright as he glanced toward the indoor field, still imagining the mound. “And Sawamura-kun—just his presence out there, it’s like he carries the team with him. Not in a show-off way, but like he’s telling everyone, ‘We can do this. Trust each other.’ Every pitch, every swing, you can feel the energy spreading. It’s inspiring, makes you want to push yourself even harder.”

The others nodded, swinging their bats more deliberately, imagining the game, imagining themselves out there with that kind of drive and confidence. Each hit, each pitch replayed vividly in their minds. They were determined, inspired, and a little awed, ready to chase the example set by the older players. Every motion, every shout, every strategic play from the every innings lingered in their thoughts, fueling their desire to grow, to push harder, and to one day step onto the field with that same intensity and courage.