Tokyo was a city that never truly rested, yet in the quiet corners of its vast expanse, lives unfolded in ways that felt almost untouched by its chaos. On a cold morning, beneath a pale winter sky, Arthur Maxwell was born into such a moment—one that would quietly shape the future of a boy who would one day stand on a mound and command the world before him.
His father, Hiroshi Maxwell, stood beside the hospital window as the first cries filled the room. Outside, the city moved as it always did—indifferent, relentless—but Hiroshi did not move. His gaze lingered on the glass, not truly seeing the buildings or the distant traffic, but something far older.
A field.
A mound.
A catcher's glove waiting in silence.
And the sound—
That unforgettable sound of a baseball striking leather with absolute certainty.
That sound had once defined his life.
Hiroshi had been an ace pitcher in his youth, a name that carried weight in high school baseball circles. At Inashiro Industrial, he had been more than just talented—he had been dominant. His fastball was sharp, explosive, and merciless. Batters struggled to even react, let alone make contact. He was the kind of pitcher who controlled not just the game, but the very atmosphere of the field.
But baseball, as he had learned, was not a world that guaranteed fairness.
In college, when everything should have been falling into place, his shoulder gave out during a game. It wasn't gradual. It wasn't something he could ignore or push through. It was immediate—a tearing pain that shattered everything he had built in a single moment.
That day, his career ended.
No farewell game.
No second chance.
Just silence.
Arthur would grow up hearing fragments of that story—not as a tragedy, but as something quietly accepted. Hiroshi never spoke of it with bitterness. He never cursed fate or complained about what he had lost.
"Regret?" Arthur had once asked him as a child, his curiosity simple and unfiltered.
Hiroshi had looked at him for a long moment before answering.
"I regret that I couldn't keep playing," he said. "But I don't regret that I played."
That answer stayed with Arthur, even if he didn't fully understand it at the time.
Arthur's mother, Aiko Maxwell, brought a different kind of strength into the household. Where Hiroshi was calm and reserved, Aiko was sharp, energetic, and constantly moving. In her younger years, she had been a track and field athlete, known for her speed and discipline. Even after leaving competition behind, that spirit never faded.
She became a physician specializing in sports medicine, dedicating her life to understanding the human body—not just its limits, but how to push beyond them safely.
"You don't stop being an athlete," she would often say. "You just change the way you fight."
Her perspective balanced Hiroshi's silence. Where he carried the weight of experience, she carried the clarity of knowledge.
Despite Hiroshi's deep ties with Inashiro Industrial and the baseball world, the Maxwell household was not one of pressure or expectation. There were no forced paths, no predetermined futures.
"Your life is yours," Hiroshi told Arthur one evening. "Even if you choose something completely different… I won't stop you."
That freedom, however, did not mean absence.
Baseball was always there.
A glove on a shelf.
A bat leaning quietly in the corner.
Late-night games playing on television.
And a father who watched every pitch with an intensity he never explained.
Arthur grew up surrounded by it, yet distant from it. To him, baseball was just something that existed—a background presence that didn't demand his attention.
Until his first year of junior high.
It began with whispers.
"You know who his dad is, right?"
"They say he was an ace."
"Is he going to play too?"
Arthur heard those voices, felt those expectations pressing lightly against him. At first, he ignored them. But curiosity, subtle and persistent, began to take root.
Eventually, almost without thinking too deeply about it, he joined a baseball team.
Not because he loved the sport.
Not yet.
But because something pulled him toward it.
The day everything changed was ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Practice had been routine—throwing, running, basic drills. Arthur was still adjusting, still figuring out where he fit. And then, without warning, it happened.
A surge.
A flood of memories that were not his own—yet undeniably belonged to him.
He collapsed on the field.
Voices shouted around him, but they felt distant, muffled, as if he were sinking beneath water. Images flashed through his mind—games, pitches, victories, defeats—countless moments of baseball played with a passion that burned far brighter than anything he had known in this life.
It was overwhelming.
But also…
Clear.
When Arthur opened his eyes again, the world had changed.
Or perhaps—
He had.
The field seemed sharper, more defined. The sounds of practice—the crack of a bat, the snap of a glove—echoed with a clarity that resonated deep within him.
He looked at his hands.
At his fingers.
And felt something awaken.
"…I remember," he whispered.
From that moment on, baseball was no longer distant.
It became central.
Essential.
Arthur's behavior changed almost immediately. He began waking up early, practicing alone, mimicking pitching motions in front of mirrors, studying his own movements with intense focus.
Hiroshi noticed.
Aiko noticed.
Neither interrupted.
One evening, as they sat at the dinner table, Arthur finally spoke.
"I want to play baseball seriously."
The room fell quiet, but not tense.
Hiroshi placed his chopsticks down slowly, his gaze steady.
"Why?" he asked.
Arthur met his eyes.
"Because I want to pitch," he said. "I want to stand on the mound and throw balls that no one can hit."
There was no hesitation.
No uncertainty.
Aiko smiled softly, while Hiroshi leaned back, studying him.
"…You've already decided," Hiroshi said.
Arthur nodded.
A long silence followed.
Then Hiroshi spoke again.
"Good."
Arthur blinked, surprised by the simplicity of the answer.
"If this is your choice," Hiroshi continued, "then I'm proud of you."
Aiko reached out, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.
"And I'll support you," she added. "But you listen to me when it comes to your body. No reckless training."
Arthur nodded firmly.
"I understand."
Hiroshi tapped the table lightly, as if organizing his thoughts.
"If you're serious… then you shouldn't start just anywhere."
Arthur leaned forward slightly.
"There's a place," Hiroshi said. "Marugame Senior League."
The name carried weight.
Even Arthur, new as he was, could feel it.
"I started there," Hiroshi continued. "It's where I learned what baseball really is. Not just throwing or hitting—but discipline, structure, pressure."
Arthur's grip tightened slightly.
"I want to go there."
Hiroshi smiled faintly.
"I thought you'd say that."
A few days later, Arthur stood in front of the Marugame Senior League field.
The air felt heavier.
The atmosphere sharper.
Players moved with precision, their actions controlled and purposeful. This wasn't casual play. Every movement carried intent. Every voice had authority.
Arthur felt his heart beat faster.
Not from fear.
But from anticipation.
"Don't hesitate now," Hiroshi said quietly.
"I'm not," Arthur replied.
They approached the field, where a coach stood watching practice. His eyes immediately locked onto Hiroshi.
"…You've come back," the coach said.
"Just visiting," Hiroshi replied. "And bringing someone with me."
The coach's gaze shifted to Arthur.
"…Your son?"
Hiroshi nodded.
"He wants to pitch."
The coach looked at Arthur for a long moment.
"Why?" he asked.
Arthur answered without hesitation.
"Because I want to stand on the mound."
The coach exhaled.
"Everyone says that."
Then he turned.
"Follow me."
Arthur stepped onto the field.
And felt it instantly.
This was different.
This was real.
Then he saw him.
Behind the plate, crouched with perfect stillness, was a boy whose presence felt far beyond his age.
Takigawa Chris Yu.
Even in silence, Chris stood out. His movements were precise, efficient, controlled. There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary effort.
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly.
So this was the catcher.
"Chris," the coach called. "Come here."
Chris stood and walked over, his gaze briefly resting on Arthur.
Sharp.
Observant.
"This is Maxwell," the coach said. "He wants to pitch."
Chris nodded slightly.
"Alright."
Arthur stepped forward, his grip tightening around the ball.
"Have you pitched before?" Chris asked.
Arthur paused.
"…Not seriously."
Chris didn't react.
He simply turned and walked toward the plate.
"Then show me something worth catching."
Arthur stepped onto the mound.
Each step felt heavier—not from fear, but from meaning.
He picked up the ball.
The seams pressed into his fingers.
Familiar.
He exhaled slowly.
The world faded.
Memories surged.
Another life.
Another path.
Endless pitches.
Endless determination.
"This time…" Arthur whispered.
"…I won't waste it."
He moved.
His body aligned naturally, his right arm pulling back as his weight shifted forward. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't raw either. There was something hidden in his motion—something waiting to be refined.
Chris crouched behind the plate, raising his glove.
"Come on," he muttered. "Show me."
Arthur stepped forward.
And threw.
The ball cut through the air with surprising speed.
THWACK.
It landed cleanly in Chris's glove.
Silence.
Chris looked at the ball.
Then back at Arthur.
"…Again."
Arthur threw again.
And again.
Each pitch sharper.
Each motion smoother.
Something awakened inside him.
An obsession.
The desire to throw better.
Faster.
Sharper.
Chris adjusted his stance, now fully focused.
"Your control is rough," he said. "But your arm… has life."
Arthur smirked slightly.
"I know."
Chris's lips twitched faintly.
"Confidence."
Arthur shook his head.
"Certainty."
From the sidelines, Hiroshi watched silently.
His eyes… were proud.
"That's my son," he murmured.
After several pitches, the coach raised his hand.
"That's enough."
Arthur lowered his arm, breathing heavily, but his eyes still burned with intensity.
"…You can join," the coach said.
Arthur froze.
Then nodded.
"…Thank you."
Chris tossed the ball back to him.
"If you're going to pitch here," he said, "then don't stay average."
Arthur caught it.
"I won't."
As the sun began to set, Arthur remained on the mound.
Alone.
He looked at the ball in his hand.
Then toward the empty plate.
"This is where it begins."
He raised his arm.
Stepped forward.
And threw.
The sound echoed across the empty field.
Sharp.
Clear.
The first pitch…
Of a journey that would define everything.