What would the Boos do?
Kick Nekota flying with a single strike? Leap clean over his head? Or unleash that fearsome blade technique that once shook all of Tokyo?
The Kendo Club members were brimming with anticipation.
They knew full well that the Boos would never be stopped by someone like Nekota—but how he would deal with him was impossible to guess.
Kyousuke had far too many ways of handling this situation.
Even the Soccer Club and Track Club, hanging around nearby, perked up when Kisaki spoke.
One by one, they widened their eyes and stared, breath held, at the face-off between Kyousuke and Nekota Toake.
What kind of clash was about to unfold?
Would the upperclassman defend his pride, or would the genius crush him with ease?
Nekota himself clearly felt the weight of the Baseball Club's honor resting on his shoulders.
His eyes burned, reflecting nothing but Kyousuke—his steps, his hands, his gaze, all etched perfectly in Nekota's vision.
He stretched out his right hand, gripping the baseball tightly. Against a runner charging the base, the only way to tag him out was to touch him directly with the ball in hand.
At over 180 cm tall, with an arm span to match, Nekota believed it was impossible for Kyousuke to escape. The target was right in front of him, close enough to touch.
"Got him!" Nekota shouted in triumph, while the onlookers nearly forgot to breathe.
But—!!
In the blink of an eye, Kyousuke's image vanished from Nekota's pupils.
No—it wasn't just a blink.
That instant stretched impossibly long, twenty thoughts' worth of time!
And yet, it was nothing more than a momentary lapse, a single beat of time!
Nekota felt his hand brush against Kyousuke's uniform, swore he had him—yet his mind was still stuck on the thought of victory.
The tall figure before him was already gone!
'What?!'
The "endless" instant snapped, and Nekota's mind shifted from I got him! to What just happened?
His outstretched arm, finding nothing, threw him off balance.
His whole body lurched forward, about to topple face-first.
What on earth just happened?!
It wasn't only Nekota who didn't understand.
The crowd surrounding the field was equally dumbfounded.
From behind, it looked like this: when Nekota met Kyousuke head-on, his large frame blocked everyone's view.
Then, in a single heartbeat, Nekota seemed to become air itself.
Kyousuke passed right through him without the slightest obstruction, instantly appearing behind him.
Kyousuke's face never changed, his pace never faltered.
As he rounded third base and charged toward home, it was as though Nekota truly was nothing but empty air.
From the front, the witnesses saw even more.
They clearly caught the smug, triumphant look on Nekota's face.
Kyousuke's shadow loomed over him like a vast canopy, swallowing him into darkness.
And then—suddenly—the darkness spat Nekota back out, his self-satisfied grin unchanged.
The poor guy was still frozen in triumph even after Kyousuke had already taken two full strides toward home plate.
"W-what the hell was that!?" Hayama Hayato from the Soccer Club blurted, stammering in shock.
Kyousuke was the Baseball Club's ticket to Koshien.
But Hayama wasn't a pushover either.
He'd been drafted to the varsity team as a first-year, a school soccer star since middle school.
He'd mastered countless dribbling tricks—the rainbow flick, Marseille roulette, stepovers, even feints splitting ball and body—and occasionally pulled them off in real matches.
They called him the magician on the field.
Fans claimed his moves weren't just tricks, but sorcery itself.
Not only the defenders, but even the spectators often had to replay the moment in their minds to understand what happened.
But this? What in the world had Hojou just done?!
Was that… phasing through walls? How could he just run straight through Nekota's body like that?
At that speed, there was no room to sidestep.
Even if he tried, Nekota's reach made it impossible.
The only option was a slide—no, a headlong dive! He could've slid straight for the base, letting momentum carry him to safety.
Hayama thought that was Kyousuke's only chance.
But the risk was high. Nekota had already lowered his body, poised to pounce.
If Kyousuke slid, Nekota would've gone for the kill.
"So how… how did he do it?"
"I swear I saw Hojou-kun use some kind of wall-phasing technique, just went right through Nekota!
You guys ever hear those old ghost stories about witches walking through walls? Exactly like that—except it wasn't a wall, it was a person!"
someone from the Track Club shouted, practically trembling.
"Wall-phasing? That's useless. I've only ever heard of School Hypnosis.
Walking through walls is pointless. Only virgins dream about using that to sneak into the girls' changing room."
"Idiot, you sound like the virgin here! If you actually made it inside, you'd still just think about peeking?"
"You mean…?"
"You two pervs! Shut up already—you're ruining the Soccer Club's reputation! If I had wall-phasing powers, I'd rob a bank! Haven't you seen Jumper?"
The chatter exploded.
Whether it was pervy fantasies or get-rich-quick schemes, everyone's eyes shone as they watched Kyousuke charge home.
One by one, they secretly thought about quitting their clubs to join baseball—just to learn this so-called "technique."
"I've got it!"
"It's shadow displacement!"
The sudden shout snapped everyone out of their fantasies.
They turned and found, of course, another member of the Kendo Club.
What was with these guys? This was baseball practice! Why were the Kendo Club stealing all the spotlight?
The speaker wasn't Kisaki Tetta or Hatake Gorou, but Hikigaya Hachiman.
Under the pack of hungry wolf-like stares, he instinctively shrank his neck.
'Don't look at me like that. I'll actually believe I'm the center of attention.'
'And if I start enjoying this spotlight, losing it later will just crush me harder.'
Hachiman groaned inwardly. Still, his teenage nature made his blood stir.
This feeling of "seeing the truth while the world sleeps"—for a chuuni like him, it was intoxicating.
So even though he felt like he was wrapped head to toe in burlap, he still forced himself to raise his head and speak. He had no choice.
Forget Hayama and the other "weaklings"—even his own club's strategist and Gorou were staring him down.
If he slipped up now, it'd mean an extra three hours of kendo drills this afternoon.
After pulling an all-nighter gaming yesterday, another three hours would kill him.
And with that, his dream of being a stay-at-home househusband would vanish forever.
'Wait!'
A sudden flash of lightning struck through Hikigaya Hachiman's mind.
Sure, if he dropped dead from overwork, he wouldn't get to finish the latest anime or catch up on unfinished novels—but that was a problem for the living me.
The dead me wouldn't care at all.
Cardiac arrest wasn't like hanging, overdosing, or jumping into a river.
It was sudden, painless, with no awareness at all. Until the very last instant, it was nothing but bliss.
Honestly, the most beautiful way to die.
In that case, even if he couldn't fulfill his dream of becoming a stay-at-home husband, at least he wouldn't have to slog through the daily grind anymore, or endure the—
"Hachiman!"
A sharp voice yanked him out of his fantasy.
The corners of his mouth were still curved in a strange smile, as if he really might keel over any second now and achieve that "perfect death."
"O-Oh! I'll say it right away!"
Hachiman swallowed hard.
So much for a beautiful death.
He'd failed again.
The living me would still have to shoulder all the pain of reality, unable to dump it on the dead me.
"Shadow Displacement!"
He spoke with solemn conviction:
"Captain Hojou just used Shadow Displacement!"
"Shadow Displacement?" Kisaki echoed, then turned to Hatake Gorou with a questioning look.
Among all of Hojou's underlings—aside from Higashi and the graduated upperclassmen—Gorou had the deepest arsenal of techniques.
But Gorou shook his head. He had no idea either.
"It's the secret iaijutsu of Master Yoshinori Kono."
Seeing even the "strategist" and Gorou at a loss, Hachiman's face lit up, excitement pushing his explanation forward.
Kisaki rifled through his vast mental archive of kendo knowledge.
Nothing. No ancient ryūha, no official federation techniques bore that name.
He might not be good at fighting, but Kisaki prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of sword arts.
His role was to be the hype man whenever the "Boss" displayed his overwhelming might—to explain to the ignorant masses just how incredible Hojou Kyousuke truly was.
It was Kisaki, after all, who spread the legends of Kyousuke thrashing biker gangs on Mount Haruna, and single-handedly dismantling the Yamazakura yakuza syndicate in Katsushika.
The Boss was perfect—except far too humble.
Such power should be known worldwide! Fame was strength too.
With that kind of reputation, anything would become easier.
Publishing a book? Even non-readers who only knew Kyousuke as a legendary biker would buy a copy out of curiosity.
Serializing a fighting manga? Readers would be convinced it was based on true events.
Recruiting for a company?
Before turning down his offer, people would have to wonder: Wait, didn't this guy wipe out an entire yakuza group in one night? Can I really afford to refuse him?
Yes… yes! If only the Boss had fame!
'Damn it, Kisaki, you're failing as his right-hand man.'
'How can you call yourself his number one follower like this? Even Momotarou shouting random nonsense is more useful than you!'
Unaware of the strategist's growing irritation, Hachiman basked in the hungry curiosity in Hayama Hayato's eyes.
For one fleeting moment, his vanity was fully satisfied.
"Yoshinori Kono—a kendo master who trained in the Kashima-Shinryū and Negishi styles. He combined ancient swordsmanship with modern human body science to create a new generation of real combat techniques…"
"Oh, right! I remember now!" Hatake Gorou suddenly shouted. "That flashy guy—Kono Yoshinori!"
"What do you mean flashy? Those are ultimate techniques! Stylish and powerful! Like sword skills straight out of anime brought into the real world! Whether it's Shadow Displacement, Mist Displacement, or Triple-Cut—they're invincible!"
As a true believer of Master Kono, Hachiman immediately rose to defend his faith. Even Zaimokuza Yoshiteru drifted over to join the chorus.
Kisaki's mind cleared.
Anything that could hook chuuni like Hachiman and Zaimokuza so completely had to fall into one of two categories: either it was truly transcendent—like the Boss's strength that shattered dimensions—or it was pseudoscience.
Honestly, Kisaki wouldn't even be surprised if one day Hachiman announced he'd had gain superpower.
And if the Boss said the same? Kisaki would believe it without a second thought.
While the sidelines argued, Kyousuke had already finished his "magic trick" of passing through Nekota.
He barreled toward home plate without hesitation, his speed only increasing—as though victory itself was pulling him forward.
Everything so far was unfolding exactly as he'd envisioned.
As if his thoughts had overwritten reality itself.
So why should his stride hesitate? His speed should only grow faster.
This was his world, after all.
"Nekota! Throw it!"
The shout snapped Nekota out of his stumble.
Off balance, falling forward, he still twisted his body with the instinct of an S-class batter and whipped his arm to hurl the ball toward catcher Tsuchiya Ryouta.
As Kyousuke sprinted, a sharp gust brushed past his ear.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the white blur—a baseball traveling at over 120 km/h.
His hand twitched with the urge to intercept it, but rationality held him back.
His job was to dodge, not block.
His super-brain calculated instantly.
The ball would reach home before him.
Even factoring in the catcher's time to adjust, it was enough.
Ryouta would have the ball in hand, perfectly positioned to tag him out.
Tag out, huh? Even the name makes my blood boil.
Kyousuke was already itching for the next practice.
Next time, he wouldn't be batter or pitcher—he wanted to guard the base, the dragon waiting at the gate.
If he was feared by Tokyo's delinquents as a demon, then he should embrace it fully.
Nekota was too weak.
If it were him, no one would ever escape his grasp.
Anyone trying to break through would be flattened with a single strike.
But—
That was them.
He was Hojou Kyousuke.
The ticket to Koshien.
The "Ticket-kun" of Soubu High's baseball club.
There was no way he would ever be tagged out.
The only thing that could defeat him was an incompetent teammate—not a worthy opponent.
Locking his eyes on home plate, where Tsuchiya Ryouta crouched low like a sumo wrestler in full catcher's gear, Kyousuke's face stayed unreadable.
His pace only quickened.
He knew. Humanity had survived not just through luck, but by instinctive reverence.
When they saw him charge like this, any sane person would feel fear.
Already, their minds would be filling with images of being crushed flat beneath his charge.
The untrained would flinch away.
But this was the field. Ryouta bore the duty of guarding home plate.
He couldn't back down.
He wouldn't back down.
He'd plant his strength in his stance, bracing for impact.
And that—was Kyousuke's opening.
Like a scene already painted, the canvas of the future unfolded in his mind, waiting only for his legs to carry it into reality.