The afternoon sun had burned itself low enough to spit shadows across the infield, turning the grass into a mixture of gold and emerald. Haruto Aizawa stood on the warning track, towel draped around his neck, watching Riku Hoshino finish his final warm-up throws. Even at a distance, the whip-crack of Riku's fastball sounded like a starting pistol against the net. Freshmen clustered behind him, their chatter a low hum of nervous excitement: today was their first real showcase. Red vs. Blue, the trial match that would determine squad placements.
Sōta Nakamura crept up beside him, munching on a rice ball as though food could mask his tension. "They're already calling it the 'Blood-Blue Battle,'" he whispered, wiping a dribble of sauce from his chin. "Dramatic, huh?"
Haruto offered a small, tight smile. He felt the system stir—an undercurrent in his mind, a quickening near his temples. Two days ago he'd struck out Mizuno Takeru, the hulking senior, with that broken-rhythm pitch. Yesterday he'd fanned three batters in relief, and now all eyes from every corner of Minazuki infield would be on him and Riku when the game began.
Coach Yamazaki's voice cut through the din, calm yet commanding. "First-year pitchers, to the bullpen. Rest for ten minutes, then stretch." The coach's sunglasses glinted in the late sun, hiding the depth of his inscrutable gaze.
In the bullpen, Haruto wiped sweat from his forehead, tracking the steady arc of the infield warm-ups. He wondered what it looked like to the seasoned coaches—the way he shifted his weight, the slight hitch in his release. He was still raw, still learning. But the trial's wild success had bought him respect, and that was something he wouldn't waste.
"Hey, country boy," came Riku's voice from behind. He'd changed from sweats into his crimson Red jersey, the number 18 stamped on its back. Up close, his uniform was immaculate, stitched tight, every fold in place. "You ready to look like a freshman?"
Haruto met his gaze. Riku's eyes were cool, measured. "I plan to hang on."
Riku smirked. "We'll see."
Their exchange was brief, channeling a rivalry neither spoke aloud.
On the dugout steps, Naoki Endō, the third-year catcher and team captain, leaned forward, his power-hitter's build visible even under his catcher's gear. "Aizawa, you go second. Blue's first pitcher throws a slider heavy on the break. Watch for late drop." His voice was low, almost gentle—a single thread of guidance in the chaos.
Haruto nodded. Endō's trust felt like iron forging his backbone.
When the umpire's mask clicked into place and the starter trotted out to the mound, the freshmen took their positions: Sōta behind the plate for Haruto, Riku squaring to lead off in the field. The infield dirt smelled of sun-baked summer, chipped chalk dust rising with each practiced grounder.
Blue took the first at-bat. Haruto watched from the bench as the Blue starter—a second-year reliever with a nasty forkball—worked the strike zone. His first pitch was low; the batter swung and missed. A crisp put-away, and the dugouts erupted with hesitant applause. Already, individual performances were being magnified.
Then it was time. Blue's second inning, bottom half. Haruto climbed the mound with steady steps. Sōta settled into his crouch, signaling the first pitch: fastball outside. Haruto nodded, breathing in the sharp, tangy air of turf and sweat.
He let it fly.
The ball cut through the zone like a dart. Strike one.
Blue's batter shifted, adjusted his stance. On deck, the crowd began to murmur—could this freshman keep up? Mizuno Takeru, the same senior Haruto had challenged, stood in the dugout, arms crossed, boots tapping the bench. His face was unreadable.
Haruto signaled for another fastball. This time he tucked his wrist inward, letting the ball cut even sharper. The batter lunged but couldn't hold his swing. Strike two.
Sliding under the late afternoon glare, Sōta flashed the signs again. Curveball, tight and late. Haruto felt a tingle in his shoulder—his own hesitancy—but watched the System's ghostly prompt light up in his mind: Speed 72%, break 80%, target 3–4 inches above dirt. He released.
The ball dropped off the table, burying itself just below the hitter's knees.
Strike three.
The bench exploded. Riku pushed off the dugout railing, clapping once. Endō gave a curt nod.
Haruto jogged off the mound, exchanging a quick fist bump with Sōta. The System quieted, satisfied. But the real trial had only begun.
After four innings, the score was knotted at two apiece; both Red and Blue squads had traded runs by strategic small-ball: bunt singles, stolen bases, well-placed sacrifice flies. Each play was dissected by the coaching staff and the Student Reporter's Club, whose live comments streamed on dormitory TVs: "The freshman battery looks calm… impressive," they typed.
At the top of the fifth, it was Haruto's turn again. His arm felt heavier, the sun hotter against his back. Riku emerged from the dugout to warm up; for a moment the two stood parallel, separated by the foul line. Two freshmen, each forging their path.
The batter stepped in—a burly second-year slugger known for raw power. The first two pitches were fastballs, taken for balls outside. Haruto's heart thundered; he remembered the counsel of Endō: "You don't always overpower. Make them swing at your confidence." He nodded, locked onto the target, and reached for his signature mix.
He wound his arm, paused mid-motion as Sōta flashed the curve sign, but his System suggested a slight pause—a tempo break, shifting the expected rhythm. Haruto hesitated, then delivered a fastball that looked identical in release, but paused in flight before darting down.
The batter whiffed.
One strike.
A single lined to left barely eluded the fielder's glove.
One down.
Haruto brushed grass from his cap. Sweat dripped behind his ears. One last pitch. A low circle change that sapped the batter's timing. He swung early, fouled it off, but then lunged at a second. Suppressed break, ripped through the zone.
Strike three.
Two strikeouts in the inning, both sealed by his inner tempo break. The dugout roared.
As Haruto jogged in, Endō pulled off his mask, eyes bright. "That was something new," he said quietly. "Your call."
Haruto only shook his head, humility and thrill tangling in his chest. He'd just proven himself in his first high-school showcase—one more step on a road that started on dusty rural fields, and now stretched toward stadium lights and national tournaments.
Later, as the freshmen gathered in the dorm courtyard under lantern-lit eaves, Sōta slapped Haruto hard on the back. "You're a demon, man."
Haruto laughed, fatigue washing through his bones. "I'm just me."
Yusuke nodded sagely. "You're our me. And that's enough to shake this school."
From the top bunk of Room 301, Kaito Fujiwara's shadow flickered at the window. Captain and catcher Endō would soon decide — who started, who warmed up, who watched from the bench. For now, it was enough that the freshman had spoken.
And somewhere between dusk and the first stars, Haruto realized the silent challenge was far from over. His voice had been heard. The world was listening. And he was ready for the next pitch.