The sun had begun to bite.
Spring was fading, and the dirt of the old school field in Fushimi had grown coarse and cracked, like the back of an overworked hand. It had no name. No grass. Just gravel scattered like broken dreams across a rectangular patch of earth the school barely remembered.
And yet, it had never felt more alive.
"Off with your shoes!" Jun barked. "We're not going soft just because we played Aoyama."
Sōta groaned. "Are you serious? There's literal glass on this field, Jun. This isn't a motivational poster, it's a health hazard."
Jun pointed to his own feet. Bare. Dirt-stained. Bleeding a little. "Pain reminds you to place your feet right. Or did Aoyama's scoreboard teach you nothing?"
From the sidelines, Reina watched quietly, arms folded. Her clipboard had match notes scribbled down, most of which just said "Too slow," "No coordination," and "Why is Takeshi chewing grass?"
She glanced at Haruto. He wasn't laughing like the others. He was already jogging laps — barefoot — as if trying to outpace the past.
> "Failure with dignity," his grandfather had said that night, sipping bitter tea under the shoji lamp.
"Means you don't walk away from the pain. You wear it, and walk forward anyway."
---
Training Begins
The drills were madness.
Rope swings across rice paddies. Weighted bags filled with sand tied to their backs as they sprinted up the hill behind the shrine. Hitting rocks with broken broom handles. Playing catch blindfolded to "trust the soul, not the eye."
They laughed at first.
But three days in, Jun collapsed from heatstroke. Reina rushed in, ice pack in hand, scolding them all.
"You're not soldiers in a war!" she snapped.
Coach Inoue finally returned from his forced silence, clapping once with authority. "Then let's stop acting like we're victims."
Everyone froze.
He stood on the old equipment crate and faced them all.
"We're not Aoyama. We're not Meiwa. And that's fine. But we won't become anyone at all if we keep apologizing for what we lack."
He looked directly at Haruto.
"You're the captain. So lead. Not with silence. With intent."
Haruto bowed slightly.
Then took the bat.
---
Later That Week
Word spread.
A farmer passing by noticed boys carrying sacks like monks in training.
A local grandma stopped to give Reina her late husband's baseball shoes, "just in case someone's size 9."
Someone else donated tattered gloves, and someone else a near-dead pitching machine that still worked if you kicked it just right.
It became a rumor, then a story.
"The kids who trained barefoot."
"The ghost team of Fushimi."
"The Miracle Nine."
---
One Evening, On the Mound
The sun had turned golden. Shadows stretched like stories across the field.
Haruto stood on the mound, throwing into the tire suspended by ropes. He missed. Again. Then again.
The others had gone home. Only Reina remained, sitting on the dugout bench, sketching something in her notebook.
"I was thinking," she said, "if we somehow get to the regionals... we'll need a better warm-up routine. I read that joint flexibility increases arm acceleration if you—"
"I'm not fast," Haruto interrupted, breathing heavy. "My curve... it's nothing like Aoyama's pitchers."
She looked at him.
"No, it's not," she said. "It's more dangerous. Because no one can read what you see before you throw."
Haruto didn't respond. But his breath slowed.
He stepped back, narrowed his eyes at the tire, and threw again.
Thwack.
Straight through the middle.
---
Flash Cut: Elsewhere, Meiwa High Scout Office
In a quiet meeting room stacked with folders, Rin Katsuragi replayed the tape.
Haruto's final strikeout pitch.
Frame by frame.
"I don't get it," her senior muttered. "His form is textbook-bad. His elbow lags. His drive foot is weak. And yet…"
"And yet," Rin echoed, eyes fixed, "he never blinks when he throws."
She scribbled on her notepad:
> "Visual pre-lock sequence?"
"Hand-eye override timing?"
"Instinctual sync?"
She didn't know yet that what she saw… was not learned.
It was sleeping.
Waiting.
---
Meanwhile, In Haruto's Dream…
He stood in the middle of an empty diamond.
Night above. No stars.
Only voices — faint, echoing.
> [SYSTEM_RESONANCE: 0.06%]
[DELAYED MODE: AWAITING TRIGGER]
[PITCHER'S CODE: Locked]
[USER STATUS: Pre-Awakening Phase]
Haruto looked down at his hands. Glowing faintly.
But then the vision faded — replaced by the sound of a distant train.
He opened his eyes to find himself sweating in bed. His fingers still tingled.
---
Closing Scene: The Return of the Ball
Two weeks had passed.
They were bruised, scuffed, blistered—and hungry for more.
Coach Inoue called for a mock game. They played against the local old boys' team—retired players in their forties who still swung with pride.
It was messy. They dropped pop flies. Missed signs. But in the final inning, with two outs and a tie score, Haruto stepped up.
Everyone fell silent.
One of the old men chuckled from the mound. "Alright, Miracle Boy. Show me what you've got."
Haruto smiled.
He didn't blink.
---
CRACK.
The bat connected. The ball flew—not far, not high—but enough.
The runner at third dashed home.
"SAFE!"
They exploded with joy. Not because they beat veterans.
But because, finally, they believed.
The miracle had not arrived yet.
But the soil had begun to burn.
---
Chapter 27: END