"Hey… that pitch was even faster than the first one, wasn't it?"
"Yeah! It looked quicker!"
"Damn it, how fast was that? This stadium doesn't even have electronic speed measurement!"
"It's torture not knowing the exact number!"
"Can someone give me a proper speed already?!"
"Hey! I heard Seido's staff say their pitcher tops out at 155!"
"What?! 155?!"
"Judging from that last pitch… it might actually be!"
"Is that the fastest pitch in this year's tournament?"
The stands erupted into chaos.
Once the crowd realized the ball might have hit 155 km/h, the entire stadium buzzed with excitement.
But on the field—
Three people were anything but impressed.
"Hmph. I'd rather die than praise that brat."
"He mocked us earlier, didn't he?"
In center field, Isashiki crossed his arms, looking like a storm cloud ready to burst.
He knew Ushijima would dominate these hitters.
Under normal circumstances, he would've shouted, "Nice pitch!"
But after that earlier barrage of taunts?
Absolutely not.
Nearby, two others shared the same stubborn pride.
"Pssh. I'm not encouraging him either."
Kuramochi puffed out his cheeks and stood arrogantly, arms folded.
At second base, Kominato Ryosuke smiled brightly—far too brightly—and placed his hands on his hips.
The three of them acted like nothing had happened.
As if the strikeout didn't exist.
"Nice pitch! Let's get one more!"
Behind the plate, Chris returned the ball with steady confidence.
Ushijima didn't hesitate.
Another four-seam fastball.
150 km/h.
The batter swung instinctively—
Missed.
Even though the last two pitches had barely grazed the zone, they had forced swings.
And in baseball, if you make the batter swing and miss—it's a good pitch.
The first strike, clocked at around 149 km/h, had sliced perfectly into the corner of the zone.
The sheer speed alone had startled the umpire.
When a pitch is that fast and that close, even the umpire can't help but admire it.
Once you earn that subtle favor…
Borderline pitches start looking better.
That was the quiet understanding between Ushijima and Chris.
"Bang!"
"Strike three!"
The umpire's arm shot up.
"One out!"
Chris tossed the ball back.
"Nice pitch! Keep it up!"
At first base, Yuki stood calmly, barely reacting.
At third, Masuko shouted, "Great pitch!"
"One out!" Shirasu called from right field.
In left field, Furuya stared blankly, expressionless as ever.
On the mound, Ushijima slowly turned his head toward second base.
"Where's my praise?"
He pointed.
"You two. Why aren't you cheering?"
The response?
"Hmph."
"Hmph!"
Kuramochi and Kominato turned their heads away in perfect synchronization.
Sulking.
Ushijima's eyebrow twitched.
"You two idiots…"
"And you, Pomeranian in center field!"
"What did you say?! Who are you calling a Pomeranian?!" Isashiki exploded.
"You got caught out earlier and you're still mad?"
"…Damn it!"
"And you two—one nearly struck out, the other got tagged at third. You're still acting proud?"
Kuramochi and Kominato flushed red.
The rest of the field laughed.
Arguing mid-game? Only Seido could pull that off.
The second batter stepped up.
Ushijima glanced toward Chris.
Chris adjusted his mask.
The coach had given specific instructions.
This game was about testing Ushijima's sinker.
"Fielders, stay sharp!" Chris called.
Everyone straightened immediately.
They knew what was coming.
During practice, Ushijima's sinker sat around 140 km/h—slower than his four-seam—but it drifted subtly right and dropped late.
It wasn't overwhelming.
It was tricky.
And that meant the infield had to be ready.
Chris flashed the sign.
Sinker.
On the mound, Ushijima adjusted his grip.
Index finger near the seam.
Middle finger aligned carefully.
Thumb slightly off-center.
Palm relaxed—never gripping too tightly.
At release, the fingers would rotate over the top, pulling the ball downward.
He exhaled.
"Ora!"
His arm whipped forward.
The ball shot toward home plate on what looked like a straight fastball trajectory.
The batter's eyes lit up.
"Not that fast! It's a fastball—hit it!"
He swung confidently.
But just before contact—
The ball dipped.
Drifted inward.
"Clang!"
The bat caught the top half of the ball.
A weak grounder rolled toward shortstop.
"Ah! Damn it—it's a sinker!"
Kuramochi reacted instantly.
Charging forward, he scooped the ball cleanly.
"Captain!"
He leaped slightly and fired to first.
"Whoosh—Thud!"
The ball landed perfectly in Tetsu's glove.
"Out!"
Two down.
The batter jogged off, muttering.
"That wasn't a four-seam… it was a sinker."
On the mound, Ushijima adjusted his cap slightly.
The arrogant trio could sulk all they wanted.
But the scoreboard—
Was doing all the talking.