Kyousuke had only taken a little warm-up swing, yet it was enough to send the baseball club's confidence soaring higher than ever.
A glorious future suddenly felt within reach.
If Soubu High hadn't already been eliminated from the Tokyo Spring Tournament, Ryouta Tsuchiya would've hoisted Hojou-sensei on his shoulders right then and there.
After explaining the rules of the game, things quickly shifted into monotonous practice. And, inevitably, Hojou Kyousuke began his usual "showing off" routine.
No runs, no points—just batting practice.
They started off easy.
Pitcher Masatake Fujikawa stood barely two meters away, lobbing the ball at the sweetest spot he could.
'Crack!Whizz—'
The ball shot straight ahead.
Thankfully they were at the baseball field, where safety didn't need explaining.
"Whoaaa!!"
The crowd of players gasped, even though the ball's height and curve were nothing special.
"What the hell are you all standing around for? Get back to training! You want a beating?!" Ryouta Tsuchiya barked, veins bulging on his forehead.
But guys like Nekota Toake refused to move.
Their eyes stayed locked on Hojou.
'Scatter? Are you kidding?'
'If we leave, those jerks from the kendo club will swoop in and steal him!'
'Weren't you the one who told us to guard Hojou-kun just now?'
'Besides, you're not the only one who wants to watch him swing—we do too!'
As Kyousuke grew comfortable at that distance, Fujikawa stepped back a few more paces and tossed another ball.
'Crack!Whizz—'
"Whoaaa!!"
The bat connected again, the ball sailing further. Necks craned, mouths hung open, and the chorus of "whoas" grew longer each time.
Step back. Pitch.
'Crack!Whizz—'
"Whoaaa!!"
It turned into a rhythm—flying balls, synchronized gasps, and a row of players with duck-like necks stretching to follow the arc.
Tsuchiya tried yelling at them again, but it was pointless.
Everyone had made up their mind: they weren't letting Kyousuke out of their sight.
The club's top batter, Nekota Toake, wasn't just gawking though.
He offered Kyousuke tips and small tricks he'd learned.
Kyousuke nodded his thanks.
For him, swinging a sword was second nature, burned into his bones.
How to rotate the hips, when to straighten or bend the arms, which part of the blade delivered what kind of strike, the angles of the swing… all that muscle memory was now feeding into his baseball swing, letting his skills skyrocket at frightening speed.
Of course, baseball wasn't kendo, so he still needed seniors like Nekota to help him adapt.
The further Fujikawa retreated toward the mound, the faster his pitches came, and the louder the team's awe became.
They'd already seen miracles—Kyousuke stealing first, then stealing home—but this kind of visible, moment-by-moment progress still left them stunned.
"Hojou-kun's evolving faster than the speed of light."
"Totally."
Tsuchiya nodded in agreement.
With every swing, Kyousuke erased a flaw.
With every swing, he grew closer to perfection.
Even without mentioning that terrifying growth rate, the very trajectory of his progress was art in itself—beautiful, mesmerizing, leaving everyone breathless for his next swing.
How far could he go? How many home runs would he hit at Koshien?
Wait—what?
Tsuchiya snapped his head around.
The one who'd just spoken was none other than his sworn enemy: Aonobu Tamaki, the vice-captain of the kendo club.
"You bastard, what are you doing here? Spying on us?!"
"Pfft." Tamaki sneered openly. "Why would anyone bother spying on a team that can't even survive the second round of the Spring Tournament? You're just a pack of weaklings from some third-rate school."
"Damn you…!"
Tsuchiya clenched his fists, but he had no comeback.
"Just wait and see! With Hojou-kun on our side, we'll make it to Koshien!"
"Wrong." Tamaki's smile didn't falter. "With Hojou-kun here, the goal is nothing less than dominating the nation."
"Damn you!!"
Grinding his teeth so hard it nearly cracked enamel, Tsuchiya gave up arguing with this annoying pest and turned back to organizing Kyousuke's next drill.
"…Pitching?" Kyousuke blinked.
He hadn't even mastered batting yet.
Why pitching already? Did Tsuchiya think his hitting talent wasn't good enough?
"Of course. Batting can wait—pitching's the heart of baseball!" Tsuchiya said firmly.
"Yeah, let's see you pitch first. If you can hit that far on your first day, I can't wait to see what you'll do on the mound!" Fujikawa added.
"Fujikawa, looks like your ace pitcher spot at Soubu High is in danger," someone teased.
"Haha, don't say stuff like that. People will laugh their heads off if they hear it," Fujikawa scratched his head sheepishly. Among the short, he was only the tallest.
Kyousuke looked around. Even the team's cleanup hitter seemed to take it for granted that pitching mattered far more than batting.
That was when Kisaki Tetta stepped forward.
As Hojou's most loyal underling—the guy who always knew what his "Boss" was thinking—he immediately sensed Kyousuke's confusion.
The others might not know, but he did: his boss hated defense.
Even last time, when Kosaka Akane picked a fight, Kyousuke hadn't thought of talking first—he'd gone straight for the punch.
Negotiations came later, but only after scaring the other side half to death.
Attack first. Then attack again. Offense was the best defense.
The baseball club members wanted to shoo Kisaki away, but the captain stopped them.
He and Kisaki had a shady deal:
Tsuchiya wanted to strengthen the baseball club, Kisaki wanted his boss to pick a sport with more influence than kendo.
The two had clicked immediately.
So Tsuchiya knew Kisaki wasn't just the kendo club's manager—he was also Kyousuke's personal fixer, handling everything from school to daily life to "business."
"Pitching over batting? In high school baseball and even pro, pitchers always dominate hitters? And every baseball manga protagonist is some genius pitcher?"
The more Kyousuke listened, the more baffled he became.
He'd thought pitchers were popular because they scored runs.
But no—it turned out their real job was to make sure the other side never wins.
Kisaki raised his voice, making sure everyone heard:
"Everyone loves a hero. A batter only gets remembered if he smashes a home run—otherwise he's just pushing someone along the bases. But a great pitcher? He can drag the other team into despair.
One man holding the line, shutting them down, inning after inning. As long as I'm on that mound, victory is out of their reach."
"Exactly!"
"Hell yeah! My favorite, Kouji Uehara, struck out over a hundred guys in a single season. He's a god!"
"Hojou-kun, didn't you know? This is a pitcher's league!"
"My idol once said, 'As long as I'm alive, I'll keep pitching!'"
"Yeah, pitching until even the commentators fall asleep!"
Amid the lively chatter, Hojou Kyousuke finally understood.
This is the Classic Dilemma: Hero or Team
Once again, it was that old clash between individual heroism and collective effort.
A skilled batter could help the team win, but a skilled pitcher could help the team avoid losing.
One chased victory.
The other prevented defeat.
By logic, you'd think the former would be more celebrated. But this was Japan.
Here, the aesthetics of mono no aware, wabi-sabi, and yūgen ruled hearts.
The culture leaned toward tragic heroism, toward stories where noble sacrifices left deeper marks than outright triumph.
A complete game. A shutout.
A pitcher throwing until his hands cramped, until his body broke down, still refusing to leave the mound.
He gave everything, inning after inning, denying the other team even a single run.
And yet, if the team lost, he would still bow and apologize—despite the loss having nothing to do with him.
That kind of tragic hero moved people far more than glory ever could.
That's why so many tears soaked the black dirt of Koshien.
"What kind of nonsense is this?!"
Kyousuke scowled, twirling the bat effortlessly in his wrist until it traced a smooth circle through the air.
"So what if the other side scores? I'll just score more. That solves it."
Kisaki smiled faintly and stepped back.
The baseball club members froze, staring at each other.
"B-but, Hojou-kun… you're just one person," Ryouta Tsuchiya stammered, cheeks flushing crimson.
(Though honestly, his face was always red, so no one noticed.)
"Even if you hit a home run, that's only one point. Sure, in theory we could load the bases and set you up for a grand slam, but… we can't exactly guarantee every batter before you makes it to base."
Baseball wasn't called a team sport for nothing. You couldn't rely on just one superstar.
A solo home run gave a single point, but the more reliable strategy was steady "hits"—singles that put runners on base.
Each batter advanced the runners one base at a time until someone finally crossed home plate.
That "grand slam" Tsuchiya mentioned? That was when the bases were fully loaded, and Hojou smashed one out of reach.
He and all three runners could come home, racking up four points in one swing.
But dreams were easy. Reality was cruel.
Even hitting a single wasn't simple—let alone a home run.
That was exactly why top-tier pitchers were worshipped.
Scoring was hard. Stopping someone else from scoring? Much easier.
"…This isn't what you told me before, Captain." Kyousuke narrowed his eyes. "So the whole plan is just to take hits and wait for me to carry everything? Sounds like playing defense to me."
His voice turned cold.
Tsuchiya's stomach dropped.
He wanted to cry.
'If we weren't so damn weak, do you think we'd be clinging to you like this…?'
"A-ah… we'll work hard on improving the batting lineup!" he said, voice quivering.
"How?" Kyousuke shot back immediately.
"W-well… maybe, uh… an extra hour of batting practice every day? With enough practice, it'll get better."
"You believe that yourself? If effort alone fixed things, would your lineup still be this weak?"
He paused, then glanced at Nekota beside him with an apologetic look.
"Sorry, Nekota. I don't mean you."
Nekota waved his hands frantically, bowing with a pained expression.
"No, no—you're right. I should be the one apologizing. I'll work harder from now on!"
'Sigh…' Kyousuke sighed inwardly. 'He doesn't even get mad at this? No wonder his swings lack bite.'
"Uh, well…"
Tsuchiya was out of words.
The whole strategy they'd built in their heads was simple: mold Kyousuke into the ace pitcher.
He'd shut out the opposing team, complete game after complete game, and all they'd need was a single run to secure victory.
It sounded beautiful in theory. And it even sounded beautiful in practice—except that it dumped every ounce of responsibility on Kyousuke alone.
"…Maybe… maybe we could pull in some guys from the kendo club too? I mean, if Hojou-kun improved at batting that fast, surely the others could as well?"
His voice was weak at first, but as he spoke his eyes began to shine with hope.
"Over my dead body, you idiot!"
Aonobu Tamaki, the kendo vice-captain, had been happily spectating from the sidelines—until suddenly he was dragged into this.
He stormed over and hooked an arm around Tsuchiya's neck.
"We barely have enough time for our own training! You think we can spare it for baseball? You think kendo matches work like this—where we just dump everything on Hojou-kun? We fight best of five! Every one of us has to give it our all!"
Even as he said it, Tamaki couldn't help but feel a sting of regret.
'Why didn't I end up in the same middle school as Hojou?'
'If he'd been with us then, we could've crushed the national kendo tournament without breaking a sweat.'
'Back then, it was a knockout system. A single monster could wipe out five opponents in a row…'
"Not that I think those scrubs got much stronger after entering high school," Tamaki admitted grudgingly, "but yeah—we really don't have the time to learn baseball."
"When did you sneak up here?" muttered Gorou, who'd somehow joined the group without anyone noticing.
He nodded along. "Anyone who's gonna matter in high school kendo already made their mark in middle school.
I followed boss to nationals then, and I'll follow him to victory now. Of course… I've gotta put in the effort too. If we lose because of me, none of us could forgive ourselves."
The light in Tsuchiya's eyes went out.
Looking around at the kendo club members, all he could see was disaster.
'Not tickets to Koshien… tickets to Takemichi's dojo.'
"Hey—aren't you guys underestimating Kyousuke a little too much?"
The sharp, clear voice of a girl suddenly cut through the tension.