The score stood at 6–4, with Seido High School Baseball Team leading by two runs.
And yet, Seido's offense was still not over.
Isashiki Jun was the next to step into the batter's box. Watching Zhang Han standing on second base, his blood surged. He clenched his bat tightly, silently vowing to push himself harder and bring Zhang Han home to further expand the lead.
Unfortunately, luck was not on his side.
Isashiki had tried to imitate Zhang Han's approach—swinging early to cut off Manaka's curveball before its movement fully unfolded.
But Ichidai Third High School was not a fool.
How could they stumble over the same stone twice?
Almost immediately after Zhang Han's hit, Ichidai San adjusted their strategy. Without hesitation, they abandoned the breaking-ball-heavy approach and began relying more on fastballs.
At this point, they had already realized something painfully clear.
Relying solely on Manaka's pitching to suppress Seido's terrifying batting lineup was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Manaka Kaname's performance this year had indeed been excellent. Many people believed he was the undisputed successor to become Ichidai Third High School's next ace.
But "excellent" did not mean "invincible."
He was not Kameshima.
Against ordinary teams, Manaka's strength might have been more than enough. But against Seido—a lineup stacked with monsters—it was simply unrealistic to expect him to carry the burden alone.
Under these circumstances, Ichidai San had no choice but to change tactics. They would fight Seido with the strength of the entire team.
After all, defense was never just the pitcher's responsibility—it was the collective effort of all nine players on the field.
Isashiki Jun failed to adjust in time.
Caught off guard by the sudden switch to fastballs, his swing became rushed.
"Ping!"
The ball was struck, skipping along the infield grass.
Ichidai Third High School's shortstop reacted instantly, charging forward, fielding the ball cleanly, and firing it to first base in one smooth motion.
Because of the play's positioning, Zhang Han could only remain at second base, not daring to advance even a single step.
"Pop!"
"Out!!"
Two outs.
Runner on second base.
With the second out secured, Ichidai Third High School's momentum shifted noticeably.
The score difference was two runs—6 to 4.
In today's game, this gap felt significant. But honestly speaking, it wasn't as large as it appeared.
Especially when the teams involved were powerhouses like Seido and Ichidai San.
Given a single opportunity, scoring two or even three runs was completely normal for hitters of this level.
Hadn't Seido just scored three runs in this very inning to flip the game around?
Ichidai San was no different. As long as they were given a chance, they were confident they could catch up. Of course, before that could happen, there was one major obstacle they still had to overcome.
That obstacle was Miyuki Kazuya.
Miyuki's performance wasn't as visually explosive as Azuma Kiyokuni's home run, nor as consistently terrifying as Yuuki or Zhang Han.
But the number of RBIs he had accumulated throughout this tournament was anything but small.
And he possessed one particularly irritating trait. Once there was an opportunity—once a runner reached scoring position—his batting ability seemed to multiply.
When someone stood on second or third base, Miyuki's eyes would light up, his concentration sharpen, and his swings would become deadly precise.
Put politely, this was called clutch performance.
Put bluntly, he was a "crowd pleaser."
But make no mistake—this was not a flaw.
For a powerful hitter, sending runners home when the team needed it most was not just a skill; it was an obligation.
From this perspective, Miyuki was an extremely dangerous opponent in the current situation.
If Ichidai Third High School couldn't deal with him here, the rest of the game would become even more painful.
They were already struggling—if Miyuki struck again, it wouldn't just be adding frost to snow.
It would be adding hail.
He had to be stopped.
Manaka Kaname, who clearly understood this, silently gritted his teeth. In the past, Manaka had always believed his strength was quite good. For a time, he had even felt that he was beginning to glimpse Kameshima's back. That feeling had filled him with pride.
But today's game slapped him hard across the face.
Reality was cruel—and unmistakable.
The gap between him and Kameshima wasn't small.
It was a chasm.
As a proud star player, Manaka initially struggled to accept this truth. But after forcing himself to reflect, he finally came to terms with it.
He understood his current position. He understood his limitations.
Compared to the monsters on both sides of the field, he was still far behind. However, that did not mean he intended to give up.
True geniuses knew when to hibernate—only to soar higher later.
Right now, facing the exceptional catcher Miyuki, Manaka poured every ounce of his skill into this confrontation.
Relying on his most decisive weapon—the high-speed curveball—he executed the pitch perfectly.
Miyuki swung.
But this time, Manaka won.
"Pop!"
"Out!"
Three outs.
Offense and defense switched.
When the result was announced, many spectators were visibly surprised. They had not expected Miyuki to be retired so cleanly in that situation. With this outcome, the game—once seemingly tilted—suddenly regained its uncertainty.
Despite falling behind by two runs, Ichidai Third High School did not collapse.
They fought until the very end.
In Seido's dugout, no one blamed Miyuki Kazuya for being retired. On the contrary, everyone believed his performance today had already exceeded expectations.
If any of them had been standing in the batter's box, there was no guarantee they could have done better.
From an outsider's perspective, Miyuki's performance as a rookie was already remarkable.
As for Zhang Han—
He was simply an anomaly.
A phenomenon that could not be analyzed using data or logic.
When Miyuki returned to the dugout, Zhang Han walked up to him with a faint smile.
"As expected," Zhang Han said casually, "without big data, your hitting level drops quite a bit."
Most people believed Miyuki was a passion-driven player—someone who rose to the occasion purely through emotion. But Zhang Han knew better.
Miyuki possessed a brain comparable to a supercomputer.
A large part of his excellence in the batter's box came from pitch prediction.
And unlike Zhang Han, who relied on instinct, Miyuki's guesses were rooted in data analysis.
He analyzed tendencies, interpreted game situations, calculated probabilities—and then chose the optimal swing. It sounded unreliable. Yet somehow, he guessed correctly again and again.
Of course, this method had its flaws.
Overreliance on data.
Difficulty dealing with pitchers who lacked control.
After all, what if you guessed the pitch correctly—but the pitcher couldn't even throw it there?
That would be maddening.
The score remained 6–4. The game entered the ninth inning.
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