"It went through!!"
The ball shot past the infield like a bolt of white lightning.
Ichidai's players barely reacted before Zhou Hao was already off second base, sprinting for third. He didn't need a coach's signal. He read the play instantly.
By the time he touched third, he never slowed—straight toward home plate.
Yuki's hit hadn't traveled far, but it didn't need to. Unless Ichidai's fielders scooped it up cleanly and fired immediately, they had no chance.
This was Seidou's trademark: not just skill, but awareness. They played smart baseball, every man thinking two steps ahead. It was what made them so respected by professional scouts—even in the years when they fell short of Koshien.
And Zhou Hao, molded by Seidou's system, had absorbed that same sharp baseball sense.
He knew the moment the ball left Yuki's bat—it was enough.
Sure enough, by the time the throw came in, Zhou Hao was already crossing home plate.
9–1!
The lone run Ichidai had fought so hard to scrape back instantly looked like a bad joke. Seidou had widened the gap as if swatting away a fly.
And it wasn't over.
Now, Seidou's cleanup hitter, Azuma Kiyokuni, stepped in.
Manaka, the young pitcher who had once looked so sharp, now dripped cold sweat. His aura of confidence was gone. Everyone could sense it—trouble was coming.
"Manaka's form is good," someone muttered in the stands, "but Seidou adapted way too fast."
No outs, runner on second.
Manaka gritted his teeth and hurled the next pitch.
Whoosh!
Azuma didn't hesitate.
Crack!
The ball rocketed deep into the outfield, bouncing hard against the grass. By the time Ichidai's outfielders relayed it back, Azuma was already standing on third, chest heaving, fists clenched.
Yuki had crossed home plate without breaking stride.
10–1!
The scoreboard burned into Ichidai's eyes. For Seidou, double digits were routine. But for a powerhouse like Ichidai to have managed only one run—it was humiliation.
Worse, the psychological blow was brutal. Every time Ichidai scratched something back, Seidou crushed it twice over.
And Seidou wasn't done.
By the end of the inning, they had tacked on two more runs. Yoshida and Miyuki both connected, Miyuki's clutch swing hammering in another RBI.
The scoreboard read:
12–1.
The lead had ballooned to eleven runs.
Now it was the ninth inning—Ichidai's last chance.
But the result was already sealed. Even against weaker teams, scoring eleven in a single inning was fantasy. Against Seidou? Impossible.
Still, Ichidai's batters refused to quit. Their fifth man stepped in, raised his bat, and swung.
Ping!
A weak grounder rolled forward. Yoshida snatched it calmly and threw to first.
Out!
One down.
The sixth batter followed. Another grounder, this one scooped by Azuma at first.
Out!!
Two down.
Two of their supposed heavy hitters, reduced to routine outs. Despair crept in across Ichidai's dugout. They couldn't touch Yoshida's stuff.
The seventh batter gripped his bat so hard his knuckles whitened. But Yoshida was locked in now, pitching like a man possessed.
I won't let a first-year be the only savior. I still wear number one. I'll prove I'm worthy of it.
He wound up.
"Strike!"
"Strike!!"
"Strike!!!"
The bat never touched leather.
Strikeout.
Game over.
Yoshida lifted a finger skyward, face fierce with pride.
All around him, his teammates mirrored the gesture, pointing to the heavens as one.
"We won!!!"
After four long years, Seidou had finally broken through.
They were champions of West Tokyo once again.
Their ticket to Koshien was stamped.
"Koshien, here we come!!"
"We are the champions!!!"
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