The lights of Minazuki's practice field had just begun to hum to life, casting long shadows across the dirt and grass. The sunset bled softly behind the distant rooftops, dyeing the Tokyo sky in streaks of red and amber. Haruto Aizawa stood by the fence, his glove tucked under his arm, his eyes fixed on the bullpen mound. He hadn't thrown a ball since the trial match the day before, but his body still felt like it was vibrating with tension. It wasn't fatigue. It was something stranger, like the aftershock of being seen for the first time.
Chapter 53 had ended with Kaito Fujiwara—the calm captain with the eyes of a professional—patting him on the shoulder. A silent acknowledgment. It wasn't praise, and it wasn't mentorship. It was something in between.
The day after, Coach Daigo hadn't said much either. But now he stood again near the bullpen mound, arms crossed, sunglasses still on despite the fading light. His silence had a way of amplifying every breath Haruto took.
"Aizawa," he called, not turning his head.
Haruto walked slowly to the mound, boots crunching lightly on the dirt. Sōta was already behind the plate, squatting into position. The catcher's mitt opened like a waiting mouth.
"You get three pitches," the coach said. "No signs. No commentary. Just throw what you feel."
That was it.
Haruto inhaled slowly. His fingers closed around the seams. He blocked out the noise of other players, the slight breeze that rustled through the fence banners, the murmurs from the outfield.
He wound up.
First pitch.
A fastball. Sharp, clean. Not too much heat—but with late tailing movement. It caught the outside edge of the zone. Sōta didn't flinch.
Coach didn't move.
Second pitch.
He adjusted his stance. A change-up this time, released with a flick of the fingers. It dropped more than expected, kissing the dirt just before it reached Sōta's glove. A near-perfect miss.
Still nothing from the coach.
Third pitch.
This one wasn't planned. His grip slipped just slightly—fatigue, maybe, or nerves. The ball cut in awkwardly, spinning differently than intended. It had neither speed nor control. And yet… it danced unpredictably at the last second, causing even Sōta to shift to catch it.
A silence followed.
Coach Daigo turned toward him for the first time.
"That third pitch..." he said slowly. "That wasn't a mistake. That was something."
Haruto blinked. "It wasn't on purpose."
"Even better," the coach muttered, and turned away.
Yusuke Mori, the second-year genius utility fielder, smirked from the dugout. "Looks like the mystery kid just invented a new grip."
Back at the dorm, the air was heavy with quiet chatter and the sound of uniform fabric being scrubbed by hand. The dorm room felt tighter than usual. Haruto sat near the window, trying to replay the pitch in his mind. But it refused to be pinned down. It had moved in a way his fingers hadn't intended. As if his body knew something his brain didn't.
Sōta, on the top bunk, was sketching pitch locations in his notebook. "You're getting weird. Like, in a good way. But weird."
Haruto looked over. "You caught it fine."
"Barely." He grinned. "Keep throwing stuff like that and you'll either be a genius or break my hand."
Yusuke slid his chair back and stood, cracking his neck. "That kind of movement only comes out under pressure. You have to bleed a little to unlock it."
Haruto thought of Riku Hoshino—the icy freshman from Hokkaido. The one who barely spoke but threw 140+ fastballs like it was breathing.
He hadn't seen Riku all evening.
He found him near the vending machine behind the dorms, eyes scanning the can selection as if it were a puzzle.
"Hey," Haruto said.
Riku didn't look at him. "You threw something strange today."
Haruto didn't answer.
"I couldn't throw something like that," Riku added.
"You throw harder."
"Yeah. But yours... your pitch made people think. That scares batters more than speed."
It was the closest thing to respect he'd heard.
Haruto walked back, quiet but pulsing with something new. Not pride. Not confidence.
Possibility.
As lights out was called, he slipped under the sheets. His muscles ached. His mind ached more.
But inside, something stirred again.
A soft hum.
Like the gears of a system coming online.
The Inner Diamond was evolving.