For many ordinary fans, Zhang Han getting a hit off Manaka Kaname felt completely natural.
After all, hadn't Zhang Han already managed to suppress the monster-like Kameshima earlier?
Even though he was only a first-year rookie, his performance so far was in no way inferior to his senior Azuma Kiyokuni or the second-year Yuuki Tetsuya. To the average spectator, this was simply another solid hit—nothing more, nothing less.
But baseball is a sport of details.
And for those who truly understood the game—or Zhang Han—the significance of that at-bat was far greater than it appeared on the surface.
There were countless people in the stadium.
Veteran reporters. Analysts. Former players.
Compared to ordinary fans, these people naturally saw much more. They noticed things that casual spectators either overlooked—or never even realized were happening.
"That was a very smart hit."
"The key point is that he had never faced Manaka before, yet he committed immediately."
"His talent is terrifying, but he's still a little impatient."
"Don't be too harsh—he's only a first-year."
Their evaluations were relatively objective.
However, taken individually, these fragmented comments made it hard for outsiders to grasp just how extraordinary Zhang Han's performance had been.
Some fans couldn't help but scoff.
"Are those reporters crazy? It was just a single. They're reading way too much into it."
"I don't believe that kid was thinking all that much when he was standing in the batter's box."
This kind of reaction represented a large portion of the audience.
It was like the infamous online jokes about reading comprehension in school—how teachers could turn one or two short ancient sentences into a six-hundred-word essay.
Students often sighed, thinking that Confucius probably didn't think that deeply when he was standing on a boat. Otherwise, he would've been exhausted to death.
Nearby, someone knowledgeable shook his head and smiled bitterly.
"It's not that they're thinking too much," he said. "It's that you're thinking too little."
"Oh?" the fan snorted. "Then tell me—what special meaning did that hit have?"
"The most obvious meaning," the man replied calmly, "is that Seido scored another run."
The scoreboard now read 6–4.
Seido High School Baseball Team led by two runs.
Compared to an unstable one-run lead, a two-run advantage was obviously much safer.
"But that alone isn't why those reporters got excited," the man continued. "The more important reason is that they saw the potential of Seido's number six."
"What potential? I didn't see anything."
"If you didn't see it," the man said bluntly, "then you simply weren't paying attention. Think back to when he faced Kameshima…"
Most spectators only understood baseball at a surface level.
At this moment, a young reporter with a protruding belly—clearly from a mobile baseball news outlet—couldn't hold back anymore. Pen in hand, he enthusiastically joined the explanation.
This was less about helping others understand and more about showing off.
If it were those seasoned reporters who had been in the industry for decades, they wouldn't waste their breath like this. They'd rather use the time to draft an article, collect the manuscript fee, buy some ribs, stew them, and enjoy a good meal.
Showing off here gained nothing but attention.
"Although there isn't much publicly available information about Zhang Han," the reporter said, warming up, "a careful analysis shows that he's strongest against fastballs and weakest against breaking balls."
"Kameshima was extremely powerful, but his pitching style happened to be countered by Zhang Han."
"Manaka is the opposite. Not only does he have a sharp fastball, but he also possesses a variety of breaking balls—especially his high-speed curveball. The break is small, but the speed is terrifying, almost like a fastball."
"With that in mind, even if Manaka's overall strength isn't as high as Kameshima's, his threat to Zhang Han might actually be greater."
People around him gradually quieted down.
They were starting to listen.
"And Zhang Han's response is where the real brilliance lies," the reporter continued. "He knew very well that Manaka and Ichidai San would not challenge him with fastballs. Any pitch thrown into the strike zone would almost certainly be a breaking ball."
"But knowing that doesn't automatically mean you can hit it."
"Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. What you can't do—you usually just can't do."
"If Zhang Han had tried to deal with Manaka's breaking balls in a conventional way, the result would've been fifty-fifty at best. He might even have been struck out."
"So what did he do?" someone asked unconsciously.
The reporter's eyes lit up.
"He chose the only viable solution."
"Manaka's high-speed curveball has a small break. That's its strength—but also its weakness."
"Because the break is small, the pitch only fully reveals its movement when it's close to the strike zone."
"And Zhang Han didn't wait for that."
"He stepped forward and hit the ball before the break fully manifested."
Silence fell.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
When the surrounding spectators looked at Zhang Han again, their eyes had changed. That gaze—once reserved only for Azuma Kiyokuni—was now directed at him as well.
At this moment, many fans finally realized how extraordinary Zhang Han truly was.
He wasn't just skilled.
He was sharp.
Quick-witted.
The kind of player people described as "playing baseball with his brain."
And it was often players like that who went the furthest.
Even the casual onlookers were captivated.
Let alone the teammates sitting in the Seido High School Baseball Team's dugout.
Their gazes toward Zhang Han suddenly became complicated.
Many of them had already believed that Zhang Han's ability surpassed most third-year veterans.
But the more they watched, the more they realized—that assessment was still too conservative.
Just in this Summer Tournament alone, Zhang Han's performance had gone far beyond merely surpassing most third-years.
Aside from Azuma Kiyokuni, no one had truly overshadowed him.
Judging purely by performance, Zhang Han was already a core member of Seido High School Baseball Team.
Of course, he still needed time and effort to firmly cement that position.
"A first-year international student becoming a core player at Seido…"
"And with multiple home runs, a batting average over .600…"
"And that's not even everything. He's been a starting player since the very first game and hasn't missed a single inning."
"Whether he can maintain this level into autumn is uncertain, but based on current performance alone, his freshman debut is practically perfect."
As the veteran Seido players discussed this, their gazes unconsciously shifted to Miyuki, who was preparing to step into the batter's box.
What did it mean when people said comparison breeds despair?
Look at Zhang Han.
Look at Miyuki.
Then look at themselves.
Their lives felt like they were playing on hard mode—while those two seemed to have activated a cheat code.
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