Miyuki covered his mouth with his glove and said,
“In today’s game, you’ve given up six hits but eleven runs.
Most of those runs came from your walks, yet the upperclassmen behind you haven’t said a word.
Do you know why?”
Furuya shook his head immediately.
He couldn’t understand the question at all.
“That means they trust you,” Miyuki continued.
“They trust you won’t just walk off the pitcher’s mound like this.
So start trusting them too.”
For Furuya, who had always played baseball alone, those words struck deeper than expected.
He looked up slightly, then adjusted the brim of his cap.
“Trust… huh.
Yeah.
I’ve got reliable upperclassmen behind me.
This place is different.”
The confusion in his eyes faded, replaced by a quiet, burning resolve.
Miyuki studied him for a moment, then nodded.
“The game’s only just begun.
Focus on my glove and pitch properly.”
As Furuya’s mindset shifted, so did his pitches.
The raw, violent velocity returned, forcing batters into hurried swings.
One hitter sent a weak fly ball to the outfield.
Shortly after, a clean relay from Jun completed the double play.
“Out!
Three outs, switch sides!”
Jun jogged past Furuya and lightly punched him in the chest.
“Idiot.
Baseball isn’t something you play alone.”
In the bottom of the fourth inning, Kiryu’s ace once again shut down Seido’s lineup in order, giving them no room to breathe.
By the fifth inning, Kiryu’s first batter was their ace and cleanup hitter—Tachi Hiromi.
Miyuki’s gaze sharpened as he looked at him.
He’s their pillar.
If we want to turn this game around, we have to break through him.
Furuya’s first pitch was a weak changeup.
The ball drifted slowly into Miyuki’s mitt.
Tachi scoffed.
“No matter how badly you miss the zone, you don’t need to throw something like that.”
Miyuki ignored him and instead smirked.
“You won’t swing anyway until there are two strikes.”
That remark immediately twisted Tachi Hiromi’s expression with irritation.
He turned toward the dugout.
Coach Kiryu didn’t hesitate.
“Then crush him completely.”
Reassured, Tachi reset his stance, now fully ready to swing.
Miyuki signaled to Furuya—use the grip they had practiced a few days ago.
Furuya nodded without hesitation and adjusted his grip inside the glove.
The ball left his hand.
At first, it rose cleanly—too cleanly.
Miyuki’s eyes widened slightly.
Tachi Hiromi smiled, waiting for exactly this kind of pitch.
Got it.
This is the one.
He swung with full force.
And in that instant—the ball plummeted sharply.
A sudden, violent drop shattered his timing.
Both teams froze for a moment.
Miyuki exhaled softly, a faint smile forming.
“I see… he was probably afraid it wouldn’t break, so he didn’t fully commit to the grip.
But it still worked.”
The batter stepped back, stunned.
The dugouts buzzed with disbelief.
“That’s not just a forkball… it’s closer to a splitter.”
Miyuki reset his glove.
“Now they’re shaken.
Finish this.”
Furuya nodded.
The next pitch sailed high and outside—Tachi swung anyway.
Strike three.
One after another, Furuya struck out the next two batters.
Three up, three down.
Tanba, watching from the dugout, felt a twinge of frustration after seeing Furuya’s sharp splitter.
At the same time, an invisible pressure seemed to settle on his shoulders.
His own forkball didn’t break nearly as sharply.
Miyauchi, standing nearby, noticed his expression and spoke quietly to reassure him.
“You’re still our ace.
As long as you prove it tomorrow, that’s enough.”
On the field, Coach Kiryu crossed his arms after seeing Furuya strike out three batters in a row.
“So that’s his real strength,” he murmured.
“He’s like a completely different pitcher compared to the first inning.”
Sawamura, watching from the dugout, felt a sting of envy.
If Furuya could refine his fastball control and fully master that splitter, he would become nearly untouchable in high school baseball.
Just as he was thinking that, a voice cut through his thoughts.
“Sawamura.
After Furuya’s at-bat, you’re going in.
Are you ready?”
“Yes!” he answered without hesitation.
Clang!
The crack of the bat echoed sharply.
Furuya, now stepping in as a hitter, stunned everyone by launching the ball deep over the outfield fence.
“Is that… going out that far?!”
“This guy is ridiculous… he can both pitch and hit!”
Sawamura’s envy deepened.
A powerful arm and this kind of batting strength—it was almost unfair.
Even the Kiryu ace stood frozen for a moment, unable to react to the sudden turn.
Coach Kiryu’s voice rang out sharply from the dugout.
“Hiromi!
This is national-level baseball.
How is it?
Exciting, right?”
“…Yeah,” Tachi Hiromi replied, his expression slowly returning.
“This is the baseball we wanted to play.”
“Don’t overthink it.
Just pitch your game,” his teammates added, encouraging him.
The tension in Tachi’s face eased.
Slowly, a bright, almost innocent smile returned.
“Yes… that’s right.”
“That’s the smile!
Go take them down!”
“Tachi-senpai, that’s your best face!”
With his mindset restored, the fifth inning came to a close quickly.
The sixth inning began.
“Substitution,” Coach Kataoka announced.
“Furuya, you’re done pitching.
Sawamura, you’re up.”
Coach Kiryu frowned slightly.
It was unexpected—just as Furuya had found his rhythm, he was being pulled out.
It almost felt like Seido was sharpening their blade through this game.
On the field, Sawamura took the mound, while Furuya was moved to left field instead of leaving the game entirely.
Miyuki walked up to Sawamura.
“Until now, we’ve been holding back a lot of our pitches.
But Kiryu’s lineup is basically your natural matchup.
Try not to get destroyed out there.”
“I’m not getting crushed,” Sawamura shot back immediately.
On the mound, Sawamura went through his usual routine.
“Alright!
I’ll throw it so you can hit it.
Defense, I’m counting on you!”
Miyuki set his glove.
The first pitch came in low and outside.
Whether it was a strike or not didn’t matter—this was about Sawamura’s condition.
The batter swung and missed completely.
“Strike!” Miyuki called, eyes fixed on the mitt.
Not bad.
Control’s still there.
Velocity’s dipped slightly, though.
The next pitch came inside and low.
This time, the batter managed only a weak grounder—easily converted into an out at third.
Miyuki shifted his glove from corner to corner, testing Sawamura’s command.
Each pitch responded cleanly.
A faint smile appeared on Miyuki’s face.
He really is the type I like.
Unlike Furuya’s raw, unpredictable power, Sawamura’s precision allowed a catcher’s strategy to shine fully.
As a catcher, this was the kind of pitcher who brought out the best in him.
In truth, most catchers preferred this kind of pitcher.
It wasn’t about talent alone—it was about control, trust, and rhythm.
And Sawamura gave him exactly that.