"With your current pitching skills… you really think you can suppress the batters of 4,000 high school teams across the country on the mound?"
Ushijima Wakatoshi's words were blunt and cutting.
The stadium went silent. Sawamura and Furuya, who had been burning with competitive fire, froze instantly.
"If someone at your level becomes an ace," Ushijima continued, "there are only two possibilities."
"First: the overall level of Japanese baseball is about the same as China's."
"Second: if you act as ace pitchers, you'll just get crushed and make your team lose."
He narrowed his gaze at the two first-years.
"You rookies only throw fastballs and your control is unstable. If you step on the mound now, can you even support the senior players—students who've trained for over two years and have only one last chance at Summer Koshien?"
"Your participation could cost the third-years their only shot this year. And what will you do about that?"
"Apologize? Just say 'I'm sorry'?" Ushijima shook his head.
"Do you think a simple 'sorry' can cover three years of hard work and training from your seniors?"
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"Think about it another way. You've trained for three years. Now you're in third grade. If you were a senior, would you hand over your final Summer Preliminaries to someone at your current level?"
He hit a baseball sharply. The ball shot across the field.
Silence fell. Sawamura and Furuya stared at the ground, humbled.
Ushijima spoke plainly, in vernacular Chinese they could understand perfectly.
With your current skills… would you trust juniors with your last chance at Koshien?
The answer was obvious: no.
"Then… what should we do?" Sawamura asked, unusually humble.
"Simple," Ushijima replied. "You're first-years. Don't rush onto the mound this year."
"Focus on improving yourself."
"In your first year, learn at least three types of pitches. Then master control over each one. Once you can throw three or four pitches reliably…"
"…then you can dominate at least 90% of batters when you finally step on the mound."
"Am I not doing that already?" Sawamura protested. "I can throw four-seamers, two-seamers, and cutters—three types of pitches!"
Ushijima's gaze didn't waver.
"Fine. But this year is special. If Seido enters Koshien, third-years will have no room for mistakes, and second-years can't afford to be reckless either."
"Next year, you'll be second-years. Then you two can unleash everything you've learned, and the third-years will cheer you on."
"Even if you make mistakes next year and lose, it won't matter. You've already been to Koshien this year."
"But this year… the current team doesn't have that luxury. Your talent gives you freedom, but the others can't be reckless."
The coach, silently observing, was shocked.
He hadn't expected Ushijima Wakatoshi—so young, so talented—to think this far ahead.
Ushijima's strength, intelligence, and emotional maturity were far beyond his peers.
"Alright, Chris-senpai. I'll be counting on you," Sawamura said, determination in his eyes.
"Help me create a training plan. I want to achieve what Ushijima just said within a year."
"I'll master three pitches and improve my control," he added, serious and self-aware.
"Even if I rarely get a turn on the mound this year, I might as well study hard."
The resolve in Sawamura surprised Chris, Miyuki, and the others.
Furuya, gripping a baseball tightly, finally made up his mind.
He walked to the pitcher's mound, eyes fixed on Ushijima practicing his hitting.
The assistant coach called out, "Hey, what are you doing?"
Furuya replied calmly, "Excuse me, can I feed him the balls?"
"That bastard Ushijima promised me a duel, but he still hasn't delivered," Furuya muttered, eyes sharp with determination.
Furuya stood on the pitcher's mound, eyes locked on Ushijima Wakatoshi in the batter's box. Confidence radiated from him.
Ushijima, seeing Furuya on the mound, felt a twinge of helplessness—but his competitive spirit quickly flared.
"Furuya," Ushijima said, calm but firm, "if you can strike me out within ten pitches, I'll give you the mound."
"But if you don't strike me out within ten, or if I hit one of your pitches out of bounds for a long hit…" Ushijima's gaze sharpened.
"Then you won't get to play in the Summer Preliminaries—unless the coach says otherwise. Do you dare?"
"Okay!" Furuya shot back immediately, without hesitation.
Miyuki, sensing the intensity of the duel, stepped forward. "Ten balls," he said quietly, patting Furuya's gloves. "Remember your form."
Furuya stretched his shoulders, gripping the baseball with determination. Ushijima adjusted his stance in the batter's box, calm and ready.
Bang!
Furuya stepped forward, twisted his body, and unleashed his first pitch.
The baseball, spinning rapidly, hurtled toward home plate.
Ushijima, analyzing instantly, recognized the details:
Ball type: Four-seam fastball
Speed: 150 km/h
With a controlled swing, Ushijima connected perfectly.
Bang!
The ball rocketed into the infield, landing between Second and Third Base. It bounced rapidly, rolling toward the outfield.
"Infield single between Second and Third," someone murmured, astonished.
On the very first pitch, Ushijima had read Furuya's national-level Four-seam fastball and countered with his own national-level hitting.
Though Furuya's fastball reached 150 km/h, it was not world-class. Ushijima's precision struck perfectly, balancing speed, timing, and psychological pressure.
However, there was a catch: Furuya's control was imperfect. The faster he threw, the harder it became to place tricky pitches. Ushijima anticipated this and chose the perfect spot.
Even though he connected with the first ball, it wasn't a long hit—just an infield single. Furuya's power had been formidable, but Ushijima's skill neutralized it.
The tension was palpable. Both players were national-level, but the true battle was not just about strength—it was a test of nerves, strategy, and mental fortitude.