The fifth batter of Inashiro Industrial High School stood in the box, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed—
and felt nothing but despair.
The Zhou Hao they had expected—wobbling at the edge of collapse—simply wasn't there.
Instead, standing tall on the mound was a pitcher whose fastball still screamed in at nearly 140 km/h,
who could paint the corners at will,
who made the strike zone feel like a minefield.
It didn't matter how carefully he guarded.
It didn't matter how hard he swung.
That small white ball refused to meet his bat.
Even with the largest metal bats in hand,
even knowing that one solid contact could blast the ball deep into the field—
he still couldn't touch it.
Helpless.
Hopeless.
Strikeout.
The stadium erupted.
It was the same overwhelming display Narumiya Mei had shown earlier—
except this time, it was Seido's mound that radiated dominance.
Not long ago, Inashiro's fans had scoffed, swearing Seido's pitchers could never throw like that.
The result?
Zhou Hao's answer had been a slap to the face delivered at 139 km/h.
The red creeping up the cheeks of Inashiro's supporters said the rest.
Zhou Hao, oblivious to their frustration, just kept attacking.
The sixth batter stepped in, jaw tight, swinging with defiance.
Ping!
Contact!
For a heartbeat, his heart soared. Finally—finally—he had put the bat on the ball!
The joy lasted barely a second.
The grounder rolled straight to short.
Matsumoto gloved it with ease, firing to first.
Out.
From Inashiro's dugout, realization struck like ice water:
"He did that on purpose…"
Zhou Hao had baited them—offering a hittable pitch right where he wanted it, turning their rare contact into an effortless out.
"He's conserving stamina!"
They could almost taste blood in their throats.
They'd been waiting for his fatigue to show, for that one slip to break him.
Instead, he was the one managing the game, draining their chances pitch by pitch.
The seventh batter tried to adapt, refusing to swing at the first borderline pitches.
But Miyuki and Zhou Hao had already read his plan.
They fed him softer, teasing pitches—until impatience cracked his resolve.
He swung hard.
Fastball on the edge.
Miss.
Miss.
Miss.
Strikeout.
Three up, three down. The tenth inning closed with the scoreboard still locked: 3–3.
Eleventh inning, top half.
Second in the order stepped up for Seido.
"Number twenty, pitcher—Zhou Hao!"
The Seido fans roared the moment he emerged from the dugout.
Even after striking out in his previous at-bat, their faith in him hadn't wavered—in fact, it had only grown.
From behind the plate, Harada frowned.
This was dangerous.
The more the crowd adored Zhou Hao, the more crushing the blow would be if they retired him here.
If they could shut him down now, they might break Seido's spirit entirely.
But to do that, they'd have to face him head-on.
"Outfield—back!" Harada signaled.
No tricks. No gimmicks.
Just raw power against power.
Narumiya agreed—Zhou Hao's eyes were too sharp. Any deception would be wasted.
First pitch.
Whoosh!
The location wasn't perfect, but from the batter's view it was hittable.
Zhou Hao read it instantly—and chose not to swing.
Pop!
"Strike!"
Inashiro's section roared.
"The monster rookie is finally cornered!"
"Seido's under pressure now!"
But on the scoreboard screen, a number flashed: 139 km/h.
A hair slower than before.
Second pitch.
Narumiya's arm whipped through, the ball cutting toward the plate.
Zhou Hao's eyes locked on it—reading, timing, committing.
Ping!
The crack of the metal bat was sharp enough to slice the air.
The ball rocketed upward, climbing, climbing—
out toward deep right-center.
Carlos, Inashiro's outfielder, tracked it, backpedaling hard.
Still tracking—
Still backpedaling—
His heels hit the wall.
He looked up.
The ball was still rising.
Over his head.
Over the fence.
Into the stands.
"It's… it's gone!!"
The commentator's voice exploded from the speakers, rattling Jingu Stadium as the Seido crowd erupted.
After ten innings of deadlock, the tie was broken in one swing.
Zhou Hao had just put Seido in the lead.
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