No matter whether it was a Red-and-White Game or an official match—no matter who the opponent was—the place where I stand right now is the battlefield!
And if this is the battlefield, then there is only one thing to do—defeat the opponent in front of me!
Get on base!
I must get on base!
Kanzaki Yuto clenched his fists tightly, biting down on his lips, his expression resolute.
He did not want to lose.
He refused to admit defeat.
Even if the chance was only one in ten thousand, he would still seize that tiny thread of possibility with everything he had.
If the protagonists he once watched in his previous life had moved him deeply, then the greatest inspiration they gave him was this very spirit—never giving up, no matter how desperate the struggle.
This place was their battlefield.
A place where losers were decided.
A place where only the victor could stand as king.
“This kid…” Miyuki Kazuya murmured softly, his sharp eyes fixed on Kanzaki Yuto’s stance and aura.
If he had merely been surprised before, then now—he was truly shaken.
It was an attitude forged through suffering, a fearless resolve born from enduring pain.
A charge forward with no path of retreat.
Was this ignorance-driven recklessness?
Or unwavering, fearless conviction?
Why did the second- and third-years fight so fiercely and seriously?
Wasn’t it because they had already experienced the cruelty of high school baseball?
They understood better than anyone—there is no such thing as a next time in high school baseball.
Then why—why would this boy, who hadn’t even played in an official junior high match, display such an overwhelming presence?
No… much as they hated to admit it, the aura coming from this boy felt even more intense than theirs.
“Because… there is no next game,” Kanzaki Yuto muttered softly.
Miyauchi and Coach Kataoka felt as if they had been struck by lightning.
Their bodies trembled violently.
Even Kataoka’s usually expressionless face showed the faintest stir of emotion as he glanced at Kanzaki Yuto, as though seeing the transfer student anew—trying to understand what kind of existence he truly was.
“Foul!” “Foul!” Kanzaki Yuto stubbornly clung to Tanba’s pitches.
Every swing, every motion—he poured all of his strength into it.
To the first-years and outside observers, it looked as though Kanzaki Yuto was gradually keeping up with Tanba’s pitches.
The entire group of first-years cheered loudly, shouting encouragement.
But in the eyes of Coach Kataoka—and those perceptive second- and third-years—Kanzaki Yuto knew the truth better than anyone else.
Just keeping up is already exhausting.
Some of these fouls were barely managed through guesswork alone.
A clean hit?
Not swinging and missing was already his absolute limit.
As for getting a hit—right now, that was nothing but a delusion.
And he was already nearing his limit.
Yes, the upperclassmen were taking the Red-and-White Game seriously—but seriousness did not equal full strength.
Against rookie first-years, they didn’t need to go all out.
Even their pitch selection proved it.
Miyauchi and Tanba hadn’t bothered with elaborate sequences—just fastballs down the middle, with the occasional curveball, and that alone was already overwhelming the freshmen.
But now, because of Kanzaki Yuto’s performance, Tanba has decided to unleash his true strength.
Miyauchi had begun carefully constructing pitches.
Which meant—two or three pitches from now, being struck out was inevitable.
Then I can only gamble!
Kanzaki Yuto thought through clenched teeth.
I’ll bet that the next pitch is inside!
It wasn’t that he believed the inside pitch was guaranteed—though recent pitch selection did favor it.
The real reason was simpler.
If it was an inside pitch, and he timed it right—even with his half-baked skill—he could at least punch it through between first and second base.
And if luck smiled on him… a long hit to center field wasn’t impossible.
A flash of resolve crossed Kanzaki Yuto’s eyes as he locked his gaze onto Tanba on the mound.
His muscles tensed throughout his body.
At the same time, Miyauchi and Tanba finalized their signals.
Their aura made it clear—they intended to end this on the next pitch.
Strangely enough, all three shared the same thought at that moment: This pitch decides everything.
“Hoo…” Tanba turned sideways on the mound, exhaling softly.
Inside his glove, his fingers tightened around the baseball as his cold gaze fixed on Kanzaki Yuto in the batter’s box.
From there, Tanba could feel it clearly—Kanzaki Yuto’s will, his determination to hit this pitch no matter what.
From this moment on, Tanba finally regarded Kanzaki Yuto as a true opponent.
And for a worthy opponent, he would respond with his full strength.
That was respect—pitcher to batter.
His arm swung forward.
An unspoken sense filled the stadium: this pitch would decide the duel.
The instant the ball left Tanba’s hand, Kanzaki Yuto’s excellent dynamic vision captured its trajectory.
Good!
Inside pitch!
Joy flickered across Kanzaki Yuto’s face.
Unlike before, he had already prepared for an inside pitch even before confirming its path.
He had even roughly predicted its height.
Once his peripheral vision confirmed the trajectory, his swing flowed naturally—without hesitation.
But at the moment of contact… There was no satisfying metallic crack.
Kanzaki Yuto froze, still holding his follow-through stance.
The crisp sound of the ball landing cleanly in the catcher’s mitt.
A curveball.
An inside curveball.
A wave of frustration surged through Kanzaki Yuto.
How stupid do I have to be to guess fastball only!?
Tanba’s finishing pitch was obviously a curveball!
He had selfishly assumed Tanba would keep throwing fastballs.
Of course, the real reason was simple—Miyauchi had called only fastballs over the last few pitches, causing Kanzaki Yuto to unconsciously dismiss the possibility of a curveball entirely.
Seriously… how dumb can I be?
Kanzaki Yuto shook his head helplessly.
Still not enough experience.
He stared blankly at his bat, emotions tangled beyond words.
“Strike!
Batter out!” Coach Kataoka’s voice rang out as calm and flat as ever.
Kanzaki Yuto let out a quiet sigh and walked off with his bat.
Once again, the inning ended with the first-years scoreless and hitless.
Kanzaki Yuto’s strikeout deflated the first-years who had been brimming with excitement just moments earlier—like balloons losing all their air.
Discouragement spread across their faces.
Kanzaki Yuto steadied himself, suppressing the faint disappointment on his face.
The game’s only just begun.
Even following the original storyline, he would still get another chance at bat—as long as he wasn’t substituted out.
He stepped off the batter’s box and headed to prepare for defense.
Unbeknownst to him, Coach Kataoka was watching his back with faint approval.
As far as the coach was concerned, this exchange student was—overall—a seedling worth cultivating.
Of course, Kataoka would never voice such praise aloud.
But Kanzaki Yuto’s name had already quietly lodged itself in his memory.