"Strike three. Game over."
The umpire's voice rang out over the quiet field, but no cheers followed. No dramatic gasps. Just the dead silence of a result everyone had already accepted.
On the mound stood Ryoma Kenzaki.
He didn't pump his fist. He didn't yell. He didn't even smile.
Another perfect game. Twenty-one batters up. Twenty-one batters down. Not a single hit allowed. Again.
The opposing team slumped in defeat. Some hung their heads. Others looked almost... relieved.
The last batter walked back to the dugout like a man released from a nightmare.
Ryoma stared down at the baseball in his hand. Still warm.
He exhaled.
"...Boring."
His teammates rushed toward him, shouting with joy, full of admiration and disbelief.
"Ryoma, you're insane! Did you even break a sweat?"
"That last curveball—I didn't even see it break!"
"He's not human..."
Ryoma walked past them all, sat down at the bench, and stared at the sky.
Same as always. Bright. Clear. Predictable.
Just like every game he played.
A deep part of him ached—not from exhaustion, but from absence. The absence of fear. The absence of resistance. The absence of anyone who could push him to the edge.
Is there really no one out there?
He closed his eyes.
There has to be someone. Somewhere.
Someone worth facing.
Someone who'll finally make me feel alive.
Someone who can beat me.
He opened his eyes.
Until then... maybe it's time to start over.
One month later.
Kurosaki High School.
The train screeched to a halt, and Ryoma stepped off with a single duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His glove hung from the strap, worn from use, but still pristine.
He glanced up at the building in front of him.
A cracked gate. Three floors. Faded banners that hadn't been replaced in years. The kind of place people walked past without ever noticing.
No legacy. No spotlight. No expectations.
Perfect.
Inside the office, a clerk looked over his papers and blinked at his name.
"Kenzaki Ryoma...? As in the Kenzaki Ryoma? You were scouted by Seidou, Inashiro, Teito..."
Ryoma shrugged.
"They're strong. I already know how their stories end."
The clerk tilted her head. "And this school?"
Ryoma smiled faintly.
"This one hasn't started yet."
Later that day.
The baseball clubroom was a joke.
Dust layered every surface. Broken bats leaned in the corner like abandoned weapons. A practice schedule from last year clung to the corkboard with one lonely thumbtack.
Ryoma pushed open the door and stepped inside.
So this was it.
His new battlefield.
A place where nothing had been built.
A place where he could build everything.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"You the new guy?"
Ryoma turned around.
A boy stood at the doorway. Sharp eyes. Messy hair. A bandage on his cheek. His uniform wasn't even buttoned properly.
He looked like someone who had given up winning a long time ago.
"Takumi Hayato. Catcher. Sort of. We don't really have a team anymore."
Ryoma tilted his head.
"No coach?"
"Nope."
"Facilities?"
"Trash."
"Teammates?"
Takumi chuckled. "A bunch of quitters. Some still show up for the snacks."
Ryoma smirked.
"Sounds perfect."
He extended his hand.
"Kenzaki Ryoma. Pitcher. Looking to start something new."
Takumi stared at the hand. Then he grinned and took it.
"Well then, 'Ace.' Let's see if you can actually throw."
Ryoma's eyes flashed with something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Excitement.
"You'll see soon enough."