The morning sun bathed the baseball field in a golden glow, casting long shadows as the teams gathered for the scrimmage. The atmosphere crackled with electricity, a subtle hum of tension coursing through the stands. Reporters and spectators buzzed with anticipation as they whispered about the upcoming clash. Team A, undefeated and dominant, stood confidently on the field, while the B team seemed like underdogs destined to fall under the pressure.

Shinjiro stood in the batter's box, gripping the bat tightly. His heart pounded, but his expression remained calm. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him—teammates, opponents, the crowd. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, but his eyes never left the pitcher. Ryoichi, the ace of Team A, glared back at him from the mound, his expression unreadable. This is it, Shinjiro thought, his focus sharp as a blade. I've got to see it coming. I can't miss this.

From the dugout, Kenji, Team A's stoic captain, watched with folded arms, his brow furrowed. "Shinjiro's good," Kenji muttered to himself, "but can he really touch Ryoichi? This is his proving ground."

In the stands, a reporter adjusted his glasses, scribbling notes furiously. He whispered to a colleague, "Shinjiro Takumi got potential, but Ryoichi has shut down hitters far better than him."

Daiki, the catcher for Team A, crouched behind the plate, signaling Ryoichi with quick, practiced motions. A subtle smirk played on Daiki's lips as he called for a splitter. Let's see if he can handle this. He knew Shinjiro was just a green fisrt year. And everyone had a breaking point, and Daiki was determined to find his.

Ryoichi nodded, gripping the ball. The intensity of the moment settled over him like a heavy cloak. His eyes locked onto Shinjiro's, a silent challenge exchanged. You're not hitting this.

The wind seemed to hold its breath as Ryoichi wound up, his arm whipping forward with ferocious speed. The ball shot toward the plate like a bullet, cutting through the air with deadly precision. Shinjiro's eyes followed it, his mind racing. There it is! Splitter, breaking low... but just outside the zone. He let it go.

He didn't move a muscle as the ball dove sharply, falling out of the strike zone. Strike one! the umpire barked, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

Shinjiro's jaw tightened, his fists gripping the bat. His eyes flicked toward the scoreboard, the strike painfully evident. I should've swung.

Ryoichi readied himself for the next pitch, eyes narrowing. He's watching too closely. Daiki signaled for another splitter, this time even lower. Ryoichi obliged, firing it in with the same brutal speed. Again, Shinjiro tracked it with his foresight, let it go—The ball broke away sharply. Too late.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Strike two!"

Shinjiro blinked. His head tilted downward as he walked back to the dugout, his body tense. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. I can see it... I know what's coming... but I still can't make contact. He clenched his fists as he struck out. Ryoichi's control is unreal.

As he stepped up to bat for his second chance, the tension was palpable. Ryoichi was back on the mound, and the crowd hushed in anticipation. The first pitch was a two-seam fastball. Shinjiro swung too early, fouling it off. He muttered under his breath, "Too hasty."

The second pitch, a changeup, was a ball. Daiki noted Shinjiro's good eye. The third pitch, a fastball down the middle, was Shinjiro's opportunity. He whispered, "Ti-ta-taa," his internal rhythm syncing with the ball's path. He swung with precision, but the ball missed again. Ryoichi, watching with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, thought to himself, "Why does he look so sure he's going to hit?"

In the stands, a murmur swept through the crowd. Reporters exchanged quick glances, their pens scratching across notepads. "Ryoichi is back on the mound!" one reporter said, "I'm sure he's gonna show us something good today."

Back on the field, Team A was racking up runs as the innings passed. Shinjiro could feel the frustration from his teammates building. He could hear Emiko's voice from the dugout, a distant shout. "Come on, Shinjiro! Hit it!"

I'm letting them down. He shook his head. No. Not yet. I can still turn this around.

His third at-bat arrived, and the tension was suffocating. Shinjiro stepped back into the batter's box, his fingers adjusting his grip on the bat. The atmosphere was different now. The whole field was watching. Even Team A seemed to sense something was about to happen. Kenji watched with laser focus from the dugout, his lips tightening. "He's determined... But he can't beat Ryoichi. No one can."

Ryoichi stared down at Shinjiro, his face a mask of calm confidence. He's already beaten. He's not hitting this. Daiki, sensing something in the air, signaled for a fastball low. Ryoichi nodded slightly. "This will put him away for good."

The pitch came—a low, blazing fastball. Shinjiro's eyes locked onto it. Now! His mind raced with a thousand calculations. It's low.

"Ti-ta-taa..." He whispered the rhythm under his breath, his internal clock syncing with the motion of the pitch. Time seemed to slow as he stepped into the swing.

PING!

The sound of the bat connecting with the ball reverberated through the stadium like a cannon blast. Shinjiro's heart raced as he watched the ball soar through the air, climbing higher and higher, until it sailed over the outfield fence and disappeared from sight. For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence.

Then the crowd erupted.

Cheers mixed with gasps of disbelief. Reporters scrambled to record what they had just witnessed. "Incredible! A home run off Ryoichi?!" one shouted, already furiously typing on his tablet. "No way..." another murmured, eyes wide.

In the dugout, Kenji stood up, his eyes narrowing. He did it. He actually hit one.

On the field, Ryoichi stood frozen, the disbelief slowly washing over him. Impossible... how did he...?

Daiki, crouching behind the plate, blinked in astonishment. That shouldn't have happened. Not like that. What the hell just happened?

Shinjiro rounded the bases, his fists clenched in victory. As he touched home plate, his teammates rushed to meet him, their shouts of celebration mixing with the crowd's cheers. Emiko, near tears, jumped up and down in excitement, screaming, "I knew you could do it! I knew it!"

Shinjiro stood there for a moment, catching his breath as the adrenaline surged through him. The crowd's applause was deafening, a thunderous roar of approval that washed over him like a wave. He glanced back at Ryoichi, who still hadn't moved from the mound. For the first time that day, Shinjiro allowed himself to smile.

As Shinjiro touched home plate, he felt a surge of exhilaration. The moment was his, a testament to his resilience and skill. The crowd's applause was a thunderous affirmation of his hard work and determination, and Shinjiro knew.

This wasn't just a hit. This was my mark.