Shinjiro sat on the edge of the couch, his hands gripping the fabric so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The TV blared in front of him, the commentator's voice booming through the small living room as the game played out. Beside him, Denji was slumped into the cushions, eyes glued to the screen, a look of frustration and helplessness plastered across his face.

"Come on... just one hit," Shinjiro muttered under his breath, barely aware that he was speaking aloud.

It was the quarterfinals of Koshien, the national high school baseball tournament, the dream stage for every young player in Japan. Nihimon Seimei, their school, had made it further than anyone had expected, battling through nail-biting games to reach this stage. But now, they were up against Teito Gakuen, the powerhouse team from Tokyo—a team known for dominating every opponent they faced with terrifying precision and overwhelming talent.

And the result?

Disaster.

The scoreboard told the story of utter dominance: Teito Gakuen 8, Nihimon Seimei 0. It was only the fifth inning.

"They're getting destroyed out there," Denji muttered, his voice thick with frustration. "I thought Kenji would at least get a hit by now."

Shinjiro's gaze remained locked on the screen, where Kenji Harada, Nihimon Seimei's star batter and their best hope, stepped up to the plate. The camera zoomed in on Kenji's face—his usual calm, determined expression was there, but Shinjiro could see the doubt creeping in around the edges. Teito's pitcher, Arakawa Masaru, was a towering figure on the mound, his eyes cold and focused. He had already racked up ten strikeouts, and the game wasn't even halfway over.

"Arakawa's a monster," Shinjiro said, his voice low. "Look at him—he's not even breaking a sweat."

Teito Gakuen had a reputation that preceded them. They were the giants of Tokyo, a team so polished and disciplined that they seemed to operate like a machine. Their lineup was filled with star players who would undoubtedly go pro, and their pitcher, Arakawa, was already considered one of the best high school pitchers in the country. His fastball was clocked at 150 km/h, and he had a devastating slider that left batters flailing helplessly.

As Kenji stepped into the batter's box, Shinjiro felt his heart race. This was their last chance to make a dent in Teito's overwhelming lead. Kenji had carried them through tough games before, hitting clutch home runs and turning the tide when all seemed lost. But now, against Arakawa, the pressure was unlike anything he'd faced.

The TV showed a close-up of Arakawa as he wound up for the pitch. His delivery was smooth, effortless, but there was a ferocity in the way the ball rocketed toward home plate. It was as if every pitch he threw was a declaration: You don't belong here.

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"Here it comes," Denji said, sitting up straight, his eyes widening in anticipation.

Kenji swung, the bat cutting through the air with a sharp crack.

For a split second, Shinjiro thought he'd connected. The sound wasn't perfect, but it was solid. The ball soared into the air, and for a brief moment, hope flickered.

But then, just as quickly as it had risen, the hope was snuffed out. The camera panned to Teito's center fielder, Kubo Shota, sprinting backward toward the warning track. His movements were graceful, fluid, as if he had anticipated the ball's trajectory long before Kenji had even swung. With a final leap, Kubo stretched his glove high into the air and snagged the ball effortlessly, robbing Kenji of a hit.

"Are you kidding me?" Denji shouted, slamming his fist into the couch. "He's like a damn gazelle out there!"

Shinjiro slumped back in his seat, his heart sinking. Kubo Shota was another of Teito's prodigies—fast, agile, with instincts that made him seem superhuman in the outfield. Every player on Teito's roster was a threat, not just offensively, but defensively. They were a complete team, a juggernaut that crushed everything in its path.

The screen flashed to a shot of Nihimon Seimei's dugout. The players were quiet, their faces pale and drawn. Even their coach, usually a pillar of strength and motivation, looked defeated.

Denji didn't respond, but the look on his face said it all. It wasn't just Kenji, or their pitcher, or their fielders—every player on Nihimon Seimei looked like they were drowning. Teito wasn't just winning; they were suffocating them, draining every ounce of fight they had left.

The sixth inning began, and Teito Gakuen showed no signs of slowing down. Their cleanup hitter, Yamamoto Kaito, stepped up to the plate, a hulking figure with arms that looked more suited to a bodybuilder than a baseball player. He had already driven in three of Teito's runs, and now, with runners on first and second, the threat of more damage loomed.

Nihimon's pitcher, Takashi, was trembling on the mound, his nerves shot. He had done his best to keep them in the game, but Teito's batters were relentless, attacking every pitch with precision. The commentators spoke in low tones, their words heavy with inevitability.

"Yamamoto has been on fire this tournament. He's been crushing every fastball he's seen. You have to wonder how long Nehimon Seimei can hold on," one of them said.

Shinjiro's grip on the couch tightened as Yamamoto swung. The sound of the bat connecting with the ball was like thunder, a booming crack that echoed through the TV speakers. The ball rocketed toward the outfield, a line drive with no chance of being caught. It slammed into the outfield fence with a sickening thud, sending both runners home as Yamamoto strolled into second base with a double.

"Two more runs for Teito Gakuen," the commentator's voice rang out, "and Nehimon Seimei is in deep trouble."

Shinjiro's heart sank even further. Now it was 10-0. A ten-run gap. The mercy rule was looming, and there was little Nihimon Seimei could do to stop it.

Denji let out a long sigh, rubbing his face with his hands. "This is... brutal."

Shinjiro couldn't argue. It was brutal. Nihimon Seimei had fought so hard to reach the quarterfinals, but here, on the grandest stage, they were being completely outclassed by a team that seemed almost invincible.

The seventh inning came, and Teito Gakuen continued their relentless assault. Arakawa struck out two more batters with ease, bringing his total to twelve. Yamamoto crushed another double, bringing in yet another run. By the end of the seventh, the score was 13-0.

And then, in the eighth inning, it was over.

A sharp grounder to third base was fielded cleanly by Teito's infielder, who fired it to first base for the final out. The mercy rule was invoked, and the game ended before Nihimon Seimei even had a chance to bat in the ninth.

"Final score: Teito Gakuen 13, Nihimon Seimei 0. Teito advances to the semifinals in dominant fashion."

Shinjiro stared at the screen, unable to move. The camera panned across Nihimon Seimei's players, their faces a mixture of shock and despair. Kenji stood near the dugout, his head hung low, his bat dangling loosely in his hand.

"That's it..." Denji muttered, his voice hollow. "We're done."

The dream of Koshien, the dream of victory, had ended in crushing defeat. Nehimon Seimei had been dismantled, piece by piece, by a team that seemed untouchable.

But as Shinjiro watched the screen, his heart heavy with disappointment, something stirred inside him. It wasn't just the pain of loss. It was something deeper. A burning desire to grow stronger, to reach the level of players like Arakawa, Yamamoto, and Kubo. He wasn't content with just making it to Koshien anymore. He wanted to win. To stand on the same field as the giants of Teito Gakuen and prove that he belonged there.

"We'll be back," Shinjiro whispered, his eyes narrowing with newfound determination. "Next year... we'll be back."