Watching the third-year lineup string hits together without even attempting a bunt, it was clear they had no intention of giving Toujou a chance to escape the inning with minimal damage.
To the spectators, Toujou’s situation was exactly what they expected.
“I don’t think the first-years can win at all.
It’s just a question of how badly they’ll be beaten.”
“Yeah, the seniors are way too serious about this, haha.”
In the end, Toujou gave up five runs in the first inning before finally managing to record three outs.
Just when the first-years thought they could finally catch their breath during their turn at bat—
Senior Tanba on the mound shut them down immediately with his signature curveball, striking out the side in just three pitches.
The offense ended in an instant.
There was no time to recover.
Watching Tanba roar from the mound, the spectators laughed.
“Why is Tanba going this hard against the first-years?”
The second inning began.
And just like the first, Toujou continued to struggle against the overwhelming third-year lineup.
By the third inning, the score had already ballooned to 11–0.
On the first-year bench, the atmosphere had grown heavy.
Toujou sat with his head down, wrapped in a towel.
“I can’t believe a pitcher from the junior high top four is getting completely crushed like this…”
Everyone knew there was a gap between themselves and the seniors—but this was something else entirely.
They weren’t just being outplayed.
They were being completely overwhelmed in every aspect of the game.
Confidence began to crumble on the bench, and the air grew tense and suffocating.
This scene did not escape Director Ota’s notice from the lounge.
“I’m still against holding this match,” he said grimly.
“At this rate, the first-years will lose all confidence they built in junior high.”
Beside him, Takashima Rei adjusted her glasses.
“I understand your concern.
However, anyone who cannot perform under overwhelming pressure will never become part of our core strength.”
As she spoke, a sharp intensity seemed to radiate from her—almost like invisible blue flames.
Director Ota had no answer and fell silent, turning his gaze back to the field.
After three innings, Coach Kataoka finally made a change.
Pitchers were swapped, and the outfield was reorganized.
Sawamura was assigned to right field.
On paper, it was the least demanding defensive position.
But Sawamura knew better.
That man in sunglasses would never give them anything easy.
He had to stay sharp.
“Right field!”
The crack of the bat echoed.
The ball shot deep toward the outfield.
The runner on third base immediately broke for home.
Sawamura quickly calculated the trajectory.
No hesitation.
He adjusted his stance, received the ball cleanly, took a single step forward—
And fired.
The throw cut through the air like a laser.
The catcher received it cleanly.
Coach Kataoka, acting as umpire, raised his arm.
“Out!”
“OOOOH!”
A wave of reaction swept through both the field and the stands.
Sawamura raised two fingers toward the pitcher’s mound and shouted:
“Two outs!
Don’t panic!
Take it slow!”
A clean defensive play.
The situation—runners on first and third with no outs—had instantly shifted to two outs with a runner on second.
The crowd began to murmur.
“That right fielder’s got good form… and a cannon for an arm.”
“Looks like there are still some promising first-years after all.”
Sawamura, however, exhaled quietly.
That throw had been close.
Too close.
In truth, it was mostly luck—and a bit of panic control.
Still, he steadied himself.
Because with that play, the inning ended much faster than expected.
After that, Senior Tanba once again used his signature curveball to shut down the inning’s offense in just nine pitches.
The game continued to tilt heavily in favor of the third-years.
The ball never returned to right field again, and the score gap kept widening.
Eventually, after the first-year defense had been completely overwhelmed, Coach Kataoka removed his cap.
“Time out.
Pitching change—Furuya Satoru.”
The moment those words fell, the third-years’ eyes lit up.
They rose one by one, eager to test themselves against the incoming pitcher.
“He’s finally coming in,” someone muttered.
All attention shifted toward the bench.
Furuya Satoru stepped forward.
Facing the sharp, almost aggressive stares from the seniors, his expression did not change at all.
Calmly, he put on his glove and walked toward the mound.
His presence alone was striking—so much so that if there were spectators from the opposite gender, the stands might have erupted.
“Who is that?
I’ve never seen him before.”
“Where did he come from?”
Whispers spread through the field.
Standing at the back, Sawamura watched silently.
He knew better than anyone.
Furuya Satoru had once shocked the entire field with just one pitch.
That single throw had been enough to earn him a direct promotion to the first string.
Compared to that effortless rise…
His own path had been far more chaotic.
Struggling, grinding, and clawing his way forward step by step.
It was hard not to feel a trace of envy.
Furuya raised his glove.
The white ball left his hand.
BOOM!
The sound was like a cannon blast.
Before anyone could fully react, Coach Kataoka’s protective mask was knocked clean off.
The entire field froze.
The sheer speed and weight of that pitch—no one even needed confirmation.
They had heard it.
From outside the field.
“Coach!”
“Are you alright?!”
But Kataoka raised a hand slightly, stopping them.
A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
He looked straight at Furuya.
“You pass.
Starting tomorrow, you will join first-string training.”
“First string…” a pink-haired first-year muttered, gripping his wooden bat tightly.
His eyes were shaking slightly with excitement.
“Pitching change.”
The announcement followed immediately.
One of the third-year batters protested, insisting he could still hit.
But Kataoka’s decision was firm.
There was no need to continue.
Among the first-years present, no one could handle Furuya’s pitching.
There was no point in forcing the matchup further.
From the mound, Furuya turned his gaze slightly toward the field.
Toward Miyuki.
It wasn’t arrogance—but a quiet confidence, as if to say:
No one has touched my pitch.
And indeed, no one had.
Miyuki remained silent, observing everything without expression.
“Tanba, you’re done for today as well.
Go rest.”
Kataoka’s voice softened slightly.
“As long as you recover to your best condition, you still have the ability to lead this team at the national level.”
“Yes.”
Tanba stepped off the field without complaint.
With both Tanba and Furuya removed, the intensity of the game began to fade.
The third-years still held control, but the overwhelming momentum had clearly shifted.
There was no doubt—
Furuya Satoru had changed the atmosphere of the match with just one pitch.
And Kataoka had seen enough to feel a rare sense of satisfaction.
Now only one pitcher remained among the first-years.
Sawamura Eijun.
“Let’s see one more inning,” Kataoka thought.
“He was recruited by Takashima Rei… he should at least have something.”
Bottom of the sixth inning.
The first-years came up to bat.
And this time—
It was Sawamura’s turn.
He adjusted his cap, picked up his bat, and stepped into the batter’s box.
He bowed lightly toward the coach, then settled into his stance.
His expression had changed.
It no longer looked like a struggling freshman.
It looked like the game had only just begun.
On the mound, Kawakami noticed him.
He quietly juggled the rosin bag in his hand.
He remembered this kid.
Last year, during practice with Senior Azuma, he had misunderstood the situation and rushed in like he was protecting someone… only to be completely overpowered by a home run.
Still the same eyes, Kawakami thought.
Still glaring at the seniors like that.
If that’s the case…
Then I’ll end this properly.