"Mature?"
Confusion filled the eyes of those who heard the comment.
For many spectators, the word felt out of place when used to describe a high school pitcher. It sounded more like something reserved for seasoned professionals.
Fujio, wearing a baseball cap, adjusted the brim slightly and spoke like a veteran instructor giving a lecture.
"In high school baseball, maturity is rare. Because of age and environment, most student pitchers rely heavily on passion. That passion is something professional players sometimes lack."
Everyone around him listened attentively.
Especially the tall, long-legged reporter beside him. The young woman looked at Fujio with unconcealed admiration.
After all, not every baseball insider possessed his depth of insight.
"Sometimes weaker teams defeat stronger ones precisely because of that passion," Fujio continued. "But there are exceptions."
He paused.
"Occasionally, among high school pitchers, there are rare individuals who can maintain composure despite that youthful intensity. They know exactly what attitude to adopt and what method to use at every moment of the game."
"That," he said firmly, "is maturity."
The crowd gradually began to understand.
"Earlier in his career, Zhou Hao often pitched with hot blood. He actively chased strikeouts. He wanted to crush opponents outright."
Heads nodded.
No one needed Fujio to explain further.
Now, Zhou Hao was different.
As long as he secured the out, he wouldn't waste an extra ounce of stamina.
That approach carried risk.
Pitching economically meant occasionally allowing contact. If the opponent seized the opportunity, they could punish him.
Even someone as powerful as Zhou Hao couldn't completely avoid that possibility.
Yet he still chose to pitch this way.
Why?
Because he had absolute confidence.
Even if something went wrong, he believed he could suppress it.
That calm assurance—that quiet dominance—was the true meaning of maturity.
"As expected of the nation's number one pitcher…"
"Unbelievable."
Even ordinary spectators could grasp it.
In Seido's dugout, Zhou Hao's teammates beamed with pride.
"As expected of Senior Zhou Hao. He's becoming more relaxed every game."
"One day, we'll stand on this field fighting alongside him."
Bottom of the Second — Seido on Offense
Seido's powerful lineup failed to break through this inning.
Three batters. Three outs.
The game moved to the top of the third.
Top of the Third — Teito's Seventh Batter
Teito's seventh batter stepped into the box.
Their supporters had already formed a pessimistic expectation.
Even the cleanup and fifth batter had been overwhelmed.
If those core sluggers looked like kindergarteners against Zhou Hao…
What hope did the lower order have?
Some fans almost couldn't bear to watch.
But on the mound, Zhou Hao showed no sign of relaxation.
His posture remained serious.
His focus did not waver.
It was as if he were still facing Teito's strongest hitters.
In the stands, Teito's coach clenched his teeth.
"Why can't a heaven-sent talent like this belong to us?"
Zhou Hao's performance was dazzling.
Not just his skill—
His mentality.
Even when holding the upper hand, he never underestimated weaker opponents.
He treated every batter the same.
The seventh batter stared at Zhou Hao, a chill running down his spine.
Though Zhou Hao was only sixteen—a second-year high school student—
The aura around him felt overwhelming.
As if he could swallow everything whole.
"So terrifying…"
Despite being younger, Zhou Hao exuded a presence far beyond them.
It felt like he could crush them like ants if he wished.
The seventh batter shook his head violently.
"No… that's just an illusion."
No matter how dominant Zhou Hao appeared, he was still human.
Two arms. Two legs.
Not some mythical being with three heads and six arms.
"In a head-on fight… I might not lose."
And this was baseball.
Anything could happen.
As long as he continued battling, perhaps an unexpected chance would appear.
Just as that thought crossed his mind—
Zhou Hao moved.
Leg lift.
Stride.
Arm whip.
The motion flowed like it had been rehearsed tens of thousands of times.
Effortless.
Natural.
The baseball left his hand—
Boom!
It wasn't until the baseball left Zhou Hao's hand that Teito's seventh batter truly felt the terror.
The pitch seemed to carry thunder.
In the blink of an eye, it was already in front of him.
"So fast!"
"Spiral ball?"
That was his first instinct.
If it wasn't the legendary Spiral Ball, what else could possibly feel this overwhelming?
But in the next split second, he realized—
The rotation wasn't that heavy.
It wasn't breaking.
It wasn't twisting.
It was simply… straight.
A pure beam of light connecting Zhou Hao's palm to the strike zone.
His eyes widened.
How could a fastball be this beautiful?
Before he could process it—
Snap!
"Strike!!"
A wave of gasps erupted from the stands.
"Oh my God!"
"That's insane!"
Confused, the seventh batter looked up at the electronic scoreboard.
The number glowed clearly:
154.5 km/h
His mind went blank.
Against someone like him—who posed almost no threat—
Why throw that hard?
The crowd shared the same confusion.
Why?
What was the point?
No answer came.
Zhou Hao was already in motion again.
Boom!
Another fastball.
Another blur.
The seventh batter stood frozen, like a puppet with its strings cut.
It was too fast.
He couldn't even begin his swing.
Snap!
"Strike!"
"Strike three!"
"Strikeout!!"
One out. No runners.
Teito's eighth batter stepped in.
Around Fujio, people glanced at him again.
Moments ago, he had spoken of maturity.
But what they were seeing now looked like the reckless storm of a hot-blooded youth.
Where was the composure?
Where was the restraint?
Fujio sighed softly.
He hadn't intended to elaborate further.
But Oowada Akiko stood beside him, eyes filled with doubt.
As her senior—and half a mentor—he had to explain.
"The difference lies in what he wants," Fujio said calmly. "When the objective changes, the aura changes."
He continued:
"This speed storm can erase the remaining batters quickly—and send a warning."
He paused.
"Don't forget. Zhou Hao won't be pitching next inning."
Understanding dawned.
This wasn't recklessness.
It was calculation.
By unleashing pure velocity now—over 150 km/h repeatedly—
He crushed Teito's momentum before handing the mound to a teammate.
Even if the lower-order batters got a hittable pitch, their bodies wouldn't catch up to this speed.
The psychological impact alone would linger.
"He doesn't feel like a high school player anymore…"
A fan murmured, scalp tingling.
On the field, the storm continued.
The eighth batter saw the fastball—
And his mind emptied.
It wasn't about courage.
It wasn't about skill.
The ball was simply too fast.
Even if he guessed correctly, his body wouldn't respond in time.
The first pitch.
Strike.
The second pitch.
Strike.
Pressed into a corner, he finally swung at the third pitch—if only to waste one more throw.
Even missing would at least cost Zhou Hao something.
That thought comforted him.
But—
Snap!
The bat cut through air.
The ball slammed into the mitt.
"Strike three!"
"Strikeout!!"
Two outs. Bases empty.
The stadium was fully conquered now.
"Terrifying…"
"That velocity…"
"He doesn't spare anyone!"
"He gives every pitch his all!"
"This is respect for the opponent!"
The comments overlapped chaotically.
Teito's coach, had he heard clearly, might have coughed blood from anger.
Full effort?
Hardly.
This kind of explosive straight fastball required remarkably little wasted movement.
It was an efficient release of power—natural and repeatable.
Zhou Hao simply made it look overwhelming.
With two outs, Teito made a move.
They sent in a pinch hitter.
A towering figure over 185 centimeters tall—built like a wall.
If they didn't act now, there might be no opportunity left.
The giant stepped into the box.
Zhou Hao set.
Delivered.
Boom!
The ball screamed through the air.
The pinch hitter didn't even flinch in time.
The pitch carved straight through the strike zone.
Snap!
"Strike!!!"
On the giant electronic screen—
The number flashed brightly.
155 km/h
The entire stadium fell into stunned silence.
The straight ball at 155 kilometers per hour.
Not a trick.
Not a breaking pitch.
Just pure, overwhelming speed.
Zhou Hao stood on the mound, calm and expressionless—
As if 155 km/h was simply routine.