The tension on the field was palpable. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, but for the players on the field, all that filled their senses was the sharp ping of the bat, the rhythm of the pitcher's windup, and the roar of the crowd. Every movement was critical, every decision weighty, as the game between Nehimon Seimei High and Minatogawa High was just beginning.

Daiki Matsuda, Nehimon's catcher and a second-year player, stood at the plate. His grip on the bat was tight, knuckles white, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He had been watching his teammates, particularly Kenji, carrying the team. But he couldn't allow that to continue. "We can't keep depending on Kenji and a first-year to pull us through," he muttered under his breath. The pressure was suffocating, but he was determined to break through it.

Aoki, the ace pitcher of Minatogawa, was calm as ever on the mound, his eyes scanning Nakashima's stance. He could sense the doubt and determination in Kaito's face. With a slight nod to his catcher, Mori, Aoki wound up his arm and sent a fastball hurtling toward the plate.

Daiki was ready, or so he thought. He swung hard—PING!—but the ball only skimmed off the bat, sending it foul. The sharp ping echoed across the field, but it wasn't enough. He clenched his jaw. He had to focus.

The next pitch came in fast. Again, Daiki swung, but the result was the same: another foul. The crowd gasped, watching with bated breath.

"Come on, Daiki! You got this!" someone shouted from the Nehimon Seimei stands, their voices trying to will him to succeed. But the pressure was mounting.

The third pitch came, Aoki grinning inwardly as he delivered a curveball. Daiki adjusted, determined to at least make solid contact this time. His bat sliced through the air—a loud swish—but it missed the ball entirely. Strike three.

"OUT!"

Daiki dropped his bat in frustration, muttering curses under his breath as he trudged back to the dugout. The crowd's roar dimmed to a murmur of disappointment. Kenji Tadeka, Nehimon's captain, sat at the edge of the dugout, a serious expression on his face. He gave Daiki a brief nod, but no words were exchanged. Both knew that in a game of this magnitude, there was no room for mistakes.

It was now Shinjiro Takumi's turn at the plate. He had made his mark earlier in the previous games with a pair of home runs, but they had been off fastballs. Mori, Minatogawa's catcher, was well aware of this fact. He crouched behind the plate, signaling to Aoki as he sized up Takumi.

"He's waiting for a fastball," Mori thought. "Let's throw him off."

With a subtle shift of his glove, Mori called for a curveball. Aoki, ever calm and collected, nodded in agreement. As he began his windup, Shinjiro arrowed his eyes, sensing something different. His heart rate slowed as he zeroed in on the subtle shift in Aoki's body language. "Curveball," he thought, as the ball left Aoki's hand, spinning in a tight arc toward him.

Takumi's bat swung at the perfect moment—PING!—the ball soared high, sailing through the air. The crowd erupted, their cheers building to a crescendo as they tracked the flight of the ball. Nehimon Seimei's fans were already on their feet, believing the ball might carry over the outfield wall for another home run.

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Minatogawa's center fielder sprinted, legs pumping furiously as he tracked the ball's path. His feet thudded against the grass, his eyes locked onto the ball as it hurtled toward the deep center. The ball descended just as the fielder reached the wall, his glove outstretched.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

The fielder jumped, his glove slamming against the wall with a thud, and then, in one smooth motion, he closed his glove around the ball.

"OUT!"

The crowd's roar turned into a collective groan, their hopes dashed. Shinjiro stared in disbelief, hands still gripping the bat. His home run had been robbed. He shook his head, walking back to the dugout as the Minatogawa players clapped and exchanged high-fives with their center fielder.

Nehimon Seimei now had two outs. It was all on Kaito Nakashima, their shortstop, and another second-year. Kaito had been dropped down the batting order after the rise of a first-year player, which had left him with a chip on his shoulder. He was loud, brash, and had a habit of speaking his thoughts out loud—something that sometimes rubbed his teammates the wrong way. But now, standing at the plate, he was desperate to prove himself.

He adjusted his helmet, took a deep breath, and gripped his bat tightly. "Alright, come on! Let's do this!" he shouted, psyching himself up as he stepped into the batter's box. He wanted to silence the doubts, not just from others but from himself as well.

Aoki, standing tall on the mound, exhaled slowly. He could sense the anxiety in Kaito's movements, the way his body was wound too tight. "This will be easy," he thought, winding up for the first pitch.

The ball shot toward the plate, and Kaito swung wildly, the force of his swing throwing him off balance as the bat cut through empty air. Strike one.

"Damn it," Kaito cursed, stepping back and adjusting his grip. The crowd murmured with uncertainty.

Aoki wasted no time, firing another fastball. Kaito swung again, but this time it was a foul ball.

The tension in the stands was mounting. Nehimon Seimei's fans were still on edge, their cheers becoming more nervous now. Aoki smirked inwardly as he prepared for the final pitch. The crowd quieted, sensing the moment.

Kaito's heart raced, the weight of the game pressing down on him. His palms were sweaty, but he couldn't show weakness. "Come on, focus!" he thought, gritting his teeth. He had to prove himself here, to everyone watching.

The final pitch came—a fastball straight down the middle—and Kaito swung as hard as he could. But the bat once again missed the ball entirely.

The Minatogawa crowd exploded into cheers as Aoki walked off the mound, cool and confident, while Nehimon Seimei's dugout sat in stunned silence. Kaito stood there for a moment, staring at the ground in disbelief before slowly walking back to his team, the disappointment heavy in his chest.

As the teams switched sides, the momentum had clearly shifted to Minatogawa. Aoki was in complete control of the game, his confidence skyrocketing after striking out Kaito.

Ryoichi Kuroda, Nehimon Seimei's ace pitcher, stood tall on the mound, his presence commanding every ounce of attention in the stadium. The ball felt familiar in his hand, his fingers gripping it with the kind of precision that came from years of practice. His warm-up throws sliced through the air with ease, each pitch a thunderous crack as it hit the catcher's glove. The sound was sharp and clean, sending a clear message: this was his domain.

The crowd erupted every time he wound up, their roars of anticipation filling the air. From the stands, groups of students waved banners and posters, the name Ryoichi painted in bold letters. Girls from the school's cheer squad shrieked his name at the top of their lungs, their voices high-pitched and full of admiration.

"Ryoichi, we love you!" one shouted, and another followed with, "Strike them out, Ryoichi!"

He barely acknowledged the noise, his focus absolute, his body moving with mechanical precision. But inside, he felt the surge of energy from the crowd—the cheers, the roars, the palpable excitement. He thrived on it, letting it fuel his concentration.

Over in the Minatogawa dugout, tension hung heavy in the air. The players watched Ryoichi warm up, their expressions tight with apprehension, they could feel the weight of his reputation.

Mori, Minatogawa's catcher, sat on the bench, watching Ryoichi intently. He could see the calm in Ryoichi's eyes, the way his movements were deliberate, controlled. Mori swallowed hard, knowing that their team was about to face one of the toughest pitchers in the region. They had to be smart, strategic, and most of all, patient.

"You ready for this?" one of the Minatogawa players asked, adjusting his helmet nervously.

"No choice but to be," Mori muttered, gripping his bat tighter. He had faced tough pitchers before, but Ryoichi was in a league of his own.

As Ryoichi finished his warm-ups, he glanced briefly at the Minatogawa dugout. He could see the tension in their faces, the way they shifted nervously as they prepared to bat. It gave him a grim sense of satisfaction. This was his game, and they knew it. He turned back toward the plate, the crowd roaring in anticipation of the next pitch.

"Let's see what you've got, Minatogawa," he thought, winding up for the first pitch. The game was about to get real.