Zhou Hao took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.
He hadn't expected Coach Kataoka to be this shameless.
The momentum the first-year rookies had painstakingly built was finally in place. Sawamura Eijun's promotion was practically a done deal, and Kominato Haruichi was right behind him.
Zhou Hao's expectations weren't even that high.
As long as those two secured their spots, he could at least claim some kind of reward.
No matter what that reward turned out to be, Zhou Hao felt the price of admission had already been worth it.
But now it seemed that Coach Kataoka's assessment went far deeper than he'd anticipated.
Whether it was the first-years, the second-years, or the third-years—
even players who were already part of the First String—
Coach Kataoka showed no hesitation in pulling everyone into the crucible.
A single challenge couldn't fully reveal a player's true strength or potential. Form and luck always played a role.
But form and luck were themselves part of a player's ability.
And more importantly—
No player, especially those in the First String, was ever judged by just one test.
There were countless evaluations: daily practices, internal matches, official games.
This welcome match was simply one of them.
Once Coach Kataoka realized that he could use this game to indirectly re-evaluate First String candidates, he acted without hesitation.
It was undeniably unfair to the main players of the Second Team.
But before this—
Coach Kataoka and the rest of the coaching staff had already given those players countless chances.
If their strength still wasn't enough to break into the First String, then it was unrealistic to expect some sudden miracle now.
On the other hand, the first-year players were different.
They still had room to grow.
Digging out their potential—and at the same time testing a few First String substitutes—became Coach Kataoka's next focus.
The opponents had shifted.
From the Second Team's main players
to the First String's substitutes.
On the surface, the change didn't look dramatic.
In reality, it was worlds apart.
Anyone who could enter the First String—and stay there—was no weakling.
Putting those players on the field was a massive challenge for the freshmen.
Coach Kataoka stood behind the plate, wearing full protective gear and dark sunglasses.
From his expression alone, nothing could be read.
Zhou Hao could only sigh inwardly.
Bottom of the first inning.
Freshmen on offense.
The first batter to step into the box was first-year Tojo Hideaki.
Standing on the mound, facing him, was third-year senior Tanba Koichiro.
Tojo tightened his grip on the bat.
Being thrown directly against Tanba-senpai at the very start—
he'd be lying if he said it wasn't nerve-racking.
But strangely enough, fear wasn't what filled his chest.
It was excitement.
For first-years, making a name for themselves and catching the coach's attention was absurdly difficult.
If they wanted to stand out, they had to do something extraordinary.
The three first-year rookies who had already drawn Coach Kataoka's attention all shared one thing in common—
They had capital.
Two had already stepped into the First String.
The last one—if nothing unexpected happened—would soon follow.
Even in the worst case, Sawamura would at least enter the Second Team first.
With an opportunity like this right in front of him, how could Tojo allow himself to waste it?
His focus sharpened completely, eyes locked onto the pitcher.
The moment the baseball left Tanba's hand, he was ready.
Senior Zhou Hao had promised him—
After these three innings, he'd get a chance to pitch.
Could his pitching really surpass Furuya Satoru or Sawamura Eijun?
Tojo wasn't confident.
Which was exactly why—
Right now, the most reliable way to prove himself was through his batting and defense.
If he could perform well in both, he could at least secure a place on the Second Team.
It might be slower progress—
But it would be solid.
And at this stage, Tanba-senpai was his best possible breakthrough.
Standing on the mound, Tanba Koichiro radiated an unapproachable aura.
From this position, he could clearly feel the pressure coming from the batter.
A first-year kid—still green, still inexperienced—
Yet the ambition pouring off him was unmistakable.
As if he believed he could send the ball flying at any moment.
Am I really being underestimated by these little guys?
Sawamura's pitching performance earlier had acted like a stimulant.
He had shown every first-year rookie something undeniable—
That the seniors weren't gods.
They had one head and two hands, just like everyone else.
Which meant—
As long as they performed well enough, the gap could be challenged.
Once that thought took root, it spread uncontrollably.
And now, standing in the batter's box, Tojo displayed striking confidence.
Bat raised high.
Stance firm.
Ready to swing.
"Since you're that confident," Tanba muttered, eyes sharpening,
"I'll give you a chance."
He set, then delivered.
"Whoosh!"
The white baseball screamed through the air.
Behind the plate, third-year catcher Miyauchi reacted instantly.
The moment he saw the pitch, his eyes lit up.
A beautiful pitch!
The ball curved like a falling meteor, slipping past the batter's head before dropping sharply.
Tojo, who had been brimming with confidence, froze.
He could tell—
This pitch wouldn't hit him.
But where would it land?
He couldn't see it.
Bat in hand, mind blank, he didn't know when to swing—or where to aim.
Before he could react, the baseball slammed into the catcher's mitt.
Thwack!
"Strike!"
The First String players watching from the sidelines nearly had their eyes pop out.
How could this be?
How was that even possible?
For a brief moment, no one could accept what they had just witnessed.
How could a white baseball curve that violently?
When had Tanba Koichiro become this strong?
If he had possessed this kind of pitching presence earlier—
Then there would have been no debate at all over Seido's second pitcher.
First-year Furuya would never have been promoted so early.
Even the First String players, who trained day in and day out with Tanba, felt their hearts jolt at the sight of that pitch.
Let alone everyone else.
How could the first-year rookies of Seido High School not be dumbfounded?
"Senpai Tanba's pitch… is it really this strong?"
"As long as he's in good condition, even power hitters are helpless against that high-drop curveball."
The high-drop curveball had always been Tanba Koichiro's signature weapon.
These first-year players had seen it more than once while watching Seido's official matches.
But never—
Never had it felt this terrifying.
So this was the true feeling of standing in the batter's box against him?
Getting a hit now seemed unrealistic.
Even making contact felt like a luxury.
Among all of them, Tojo Hideaki felt it most deeply.
That meteor-like breaking ball had completely exceeded his batting limits.
Even back in junior high, when he'd played in the national tournament, he had never faced such a frightening pitch.
Is this… really a third-year senior?
Is this what high school-level pitching looks like?
Because Seido possessed an absolute Ace, everyone—first-years included—had subconsciously believed that the gap between pitchers couldn't be that large.
But now, standing face-to-face as opponents—
They finally understood.
The difference was enormous.
"I can't let this continue…"
As the freshmen's leadoff batter, Tojo knew exactly what kind of hell awaited them if he collapsed so easily.
Among the first-years, his reputation ranked in the top three.
If even he couldn't touch the ball, the others would fare even worse.
"At the very least… I have to make contact. Even a foul will do."
Just as Tojo steeled his resolve—
Tanba, standing on the mound, decisively delivered his second pitch.
"Whoosh!"
The baseball shot toward the plate like a bullet.
From Tojo's perspective, this straight ball formed a brutal contrast to the previous high-drop curve.
The speed alone was overwhelming.
So much so that even if he wanted to swing, his body couldn't keep up.
"How can it be this fast…?"
"Tanba-senpai… how is this possible?"
Veins bulged on the back of Tojo's hand.
Carrying the responsibility of being the leadoff batter, he desperately wanted to put the ball in play.
But deep down, he was painfully aware—
With his current batting ability, that hope was slim.
Two strikes.
The next pitch would be the finisher.
"Whoosh!"
The baseball screamed in again.
This time, no one among the freshmen even shouted.
Earlier, after Sawamura recorded three outs, they had been brimming with confidence.
Some had even thought—
If they banded together, maybe they could create a miracle.
Now, that illusion was completely shattered.
Reality was far crueler than imagination.
The seniors' strength had already surpassed their understanding.
They weren't just players.
They were monsters.
Especially Tanba, standing tall on the mound—
The oppressive aura pouring off him was utterly unconquerable.
The third pitch arrived.
Tojo finally swung.
But the ball dropped too fast.
His bat couldn't catch up.
Thwack!
"Strike!"
"Strikeout!"
Tojo Hideaki—one of the freshmen's top three batters—was retired cleanly.
He hadn't even had time to gather information before being sent back.
The freshmen collectively sucked in a sharp breath.
At this moment, they understood more clearly than ever—
Just how terrifying the opponent before them truly was.
Too strong.
Overwhelmingly strong.
Second batter—Kominato Haruichi.
Zhou Hao's expression darkened.
To score the first run, he had deliberately stacked the top of the lineup with strong hitters.
Tojo as leadoff.
Kominato Haruichi second.
These two were the pillars of his plan.
Whether Tojo could get a hit wasn't the main point.
Zhou Hao had wanted him to observe.
Even if he was retired, as long as he could read Tanba's pitching and pass that information on—
The strategy would still succeed.
After all, among the freshmen, only Kominato Haruichi had the ability to contend with second- and third-year pitchers.
Whether he reached base would directly decide if they could score.
But with Tanba on the mound—
Tojo hadn't even managed to observe a single pitch.
Sending Kominato up now…
Even with his excellent batting sense, the chances of success were frighteningly low.
Zhou Hao unconsciously clenched his fists.
Tanba, already warmed up and in peak condition, didn't give Kominato any breathing room.
"Whoosh!"
Another high-drop curveball.
The young batter stood motionless in the box, bangs covering his eyes.
No one could tell what he was thinking.
Thwack!
The ball passed cleanly through the strike zone.
"Strike!"
Kataoka, acting as chief umpire, announced calmly.
A ripple of sharp breaths spread through the crowd.
Tanba's current form was simply terrifying.
Who could have imagined—
That in a welcome match, he would throw a near-perfect high-drop curveball?
Forget the first-year rookies.
Even the First String's main players felt their scalps tingle watching from the sidelines.
"If we faced that pitch in a real game…"
"Yeah. Hitting it would be extremely difficult."
If even the First String's core hitters felt pressured—
How could first-year rookies possibly be expected to hit such a pitch?