The morning air was heavy with humidity, and the sky above Inashiro's old baseball field swirled with summer clouds — the kind that threatened rain but never followed through.
Ayumu Nakahara had always been part of the background. He ran warmups, fetched balls, cleaned bats, and practiced long after everyone else had left. He was the backup outfielder — third string, technically. The kind of player who wore his uniform like armor and silence like a second skin.
Even when others joked or sparred in the dugout, Ayumu sat quietly in the corner, watching. Listening.
Learning.
Today, though, his name had been written in the lineup.
Not because someone was injured.
But because Reina had said:
"He's ready."
And no one argued.
Not Haruto, who sat with his shoulder iced. Not Jun, who usually called fielding positions. Not even Takeshi, who only raised an eyebrow before nodding once in approval.
Because lately, there was something different about Ayumu.
He had begun hitting every pitch in practice — not hard, not flashy, but with unsettling consistency.
His throws from deep right had found strange accuracy, landing perfectly in Jun's glove at second base.
He never asked for attention. Never asked to play.
But the field… had begun to notice him.
And now, it was his turn.
---
The stadium wasn't massive, but it felt like a coliseum to middle schoolers. Crowds had grown. Cameras clicked. A small broadcast team from the prefecture was even present, preparing coverage of potential provincial qualifiers.
🎙️ "An interesting move today from Inashiro's Miracle Nine — Ayumu Nakahara is starting in right field. Not much is known about this player."
🎙️ "Statistically, he's never played a full game. But there are whispers that he's been one of their most consistent performers during training."
🎙️ "Today, we find out."
---
The game started rough.
Inashiro's first inning was blank — three quick outs. Their opponent, Yatsuhama Junior High, came in aggressive. Two runs in the first. The crowd leaned forward.
Haruto sat quietly on the bench, flipping a baseball in his palm. He wasn't going to pitch today.
Jun stood in as captain.
And Ayumu?
He stood in the outfield, expression unreadable, eyes following every twitch of the batter's shoulders.
In the second inning, Yatsuhama sent a rocket toward right field.
The ball arced like a comet.
Ayumu ran.
No wasted steps.
No hesitation.
It wasn't flashy — it was surgical. At the last second, he slid, glove out.
The ball thwacked into leather.
Out.
The crowd gasped.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was precise.
From the dugout, Sōta whistled. "That kid just ghosted a double."
Takeshi grinned. "Silent Thunder."
The name stuck.
---
Third inning. Inashiro was still down 0–2.
Ayumu stepped up to bat.
The pitcher was fast — one of the best fastballs in the district.
Ayumu stood in the box like he'd been there before.
First pitch — ball.
Second — a strike.
Third pitch — a curveball. Sharp and cruel.
Ayumu didn't flinch.
He adjusted.
His bat cut through the air — not a full swing, but a sharp, controlled motion.
Crack.
The ball bounced low and skipped past first base.
Single.
The crowd clapped, polite but unsure.
Then Ayumu stole second.
Clean.
On the next pitch, Takeshi hit a sacrifice fly — Ayumu sprinted to third.
Next batter — grounder to short.
Ayumu ran home like he was chasing destiny itself.
Safe.
Inashiro: 1
Yatsuhama: 2
And the crowd? They were standing now.
Watching him.
Not Haruto.
Not Jun.
Not even Takeshi.
But Ayumu Nakahara.
---
"Where'd this kid come from?" someone whispered in the stands.
"Who is he?"
"He doesn't even speak much."
Reina smiled to herself, flipping through her notebook.
She had been watching him for months. Quiet brilliance didn't need volume — it needed timing.
And his was now.
---
Bottom of the fifth. Yatsuhama was threatening again.
Runner on third. Two outs.
A sharp line drive — right field again.
Ayumu was already moving before the batter even swung.
The ball soared.
Ayumu leapt.
His glove snatched it midair, body twisting sideways.
Out.
The runner never even moved.
The field roared.
And in the commentary box:
🎙️ "Incredible! Nakahara with a game-saving catch!"
🎙️ "He's everywhere at once — like thunder before the storm!"
---
By the final inning, the score was tied 2–2.
Ayumu came up again — last at-bat.
Two outs.
A runner on second.
Jun gave no signs. No commands.
Just nodded once toward the outfield.
"Do your thing," he whispered.
Ayumu gripped the bat.
First pitch — ball.
Second — strike.
Third — inside fastball.
Ayumu stepped forward — a clean, focused swing.
Crack.
The ball shot low between second and short — just enough gap.
The runner rounded third.
Safe.
Inashiro: 3
Yatsuhama: 2
Game.
---
The team rushed the field.
Ayumu didn't raise his arms. Didn't shout.
He just smiled — softly.
For the first time, he had been the reason.
And as the crowd clapped, as Reina wrote "SILENT THUNDER" in capital letters in her notes, Haruto stepped beside him.
"You always had it in you," he said.
Ayumu looked up. "I just needed to believe someone saw it."
Haruto nodded.
"You showed all of us."
And in that moment, under the fading sun and rising cheers, the quietest boy on the Miracle Nine had become a storm of his own.
A storm no one could ignore anymore.