Manaka already had two strikes. He needed just one more good pitch to retire the hitter. But he was in serious trouble.
No matter what he threw, Kominato Ryosuke, always smiling, never intimidating, would foul it off without apparent effort.
Manaka had faced this type of hitter before. In the past, whenever he ran into someone trying to grind him down pitch by pitch, he never hesitated. He fought them to the end.
Did they really think an ordinary hitter could act like a manga protagonist, fouling off pitch after pitch indefinitely? Manaka had taught that lesson to naive hitters more than once.
Among those opponents there had been no shortage of strong, troublesome guys. But even if all of them were put together, Manaka still believed none of them posed as much of a threat as the man standing in front of him now.
At the start of the game, he wouldn't have thought that.
If Kominato Ryosuke had tried this at the beginning, Manaka would have fought him to the bitter end without a second thought. But this wasn't the beginning of the game. It was the seventh inning, and his pitch count had already climbed to one hundred thirty.
His fighting spirit was still there, but his body was screaming. At this point, just keeping his pitching level from dropping significantly would be an achievement. His third physical peak was long behind him. How was he supposed to outlast his opponent in a battle of pitches?
He had to find a way to finish this quickly.
Once Manaka had an idea, he acted on it.
On the seventh pitch of the at-bat, he threw a ball deliberately.
It was only slightly off the strike zone. If it were put in play, it wouldn't land far from a fielder's position. Even if it went down the line, it would be reachable.
Manaka wasn't trying to strike Kominato out directly. He just needed him to swing and make contact. As long as the ball landed near the foul line, Manaka trusted his teammates to get to it.
But Kominato Ryosuke, who almost always swung, held back. Even with two strikes, even under pressure, he let the pitch go and watched it land in Takami's glove.
"Thwack!"
The Ichidaisan Third High School supporters felt their hearts leap.
A strikeout? The process had been messy, but if Manaka could actually put Kominato away, they would take it.
His style of grinding the pitcher down pitch after pitch was agonizing to watch. If he had simply put the ball in play, Ichidaisan might have given up a run, but at least it would have been over. A run given up cleanly was far better than this slow, suffocating tension.
They had suffered enough of that anxious feeling and never wanted to experience it again.
But Lady Luck was not with them.
"Ball!"
The umpire hesitated for a moment, then gave his answer firmly.
Behind the plate, Takami closed his eyes.
That last pitch had grazed the edge of the strike zone. Manaka had intended to throw a ball, but his control wasn't precise enough, and the ball had strayed slightly. A pitch like that, called a strike, would not have been unreasonable.
But the umpire didn't call it.
What did that mean?
It meant the umpire had already begun to favor the hitter. Kominato Ryosuke's performance had been so sharp that the umpire had subconsciously come to trust his pitch recognition. If Kominato read it as a ball and didn't swing, it was probably a ball.
Because of that performance, the effective strike zone had quietly tightened. Corner pitches that might have been called strikes in the first inning were not getting that call now.
That made it incredibly difficult for Manaka to work the edges.
In the stands, Ichidaisan's supporters groaned. They could barely accept it, but they had no choice.
The count stood at two balls, two strikes.
The hitter was still under pressure, but the pitcher was not much better off. One more ball and it would be a full count.
The sweat on Manaka's forehead kept coming.
In Seido's dugout, the players watched Kominato Ryosuke with wide eyes, their hearts practically leaping out of their chests.
"So cool!"
"That's it, force the walk."
Even Kuramochi, standing on second base, was buzzing.
"As expected of Senior Ryosuke. You really are from the devil's family."
Kominato Ryosuke no longer looked like a hitter at the plate. He looked like an artist at work. And Seido's supporters were enjoying every second of it.
The confrontation continued with no sign of ending.
The eighth pitch.
The ninth.
The tenth.
By the twelfth pitch, Manaka's total count had reached one hundred thirty-seven. In this inning alone, without recording a single out, he had thrown seventeen pitches.
His total was approaching a critical threshold, and the pitches thrown consecutively were closing in on his usual practice volume. His arm was wailing. His fingers were trembling. His wrist ached faintly.
When he first took the mound that day, even at one hundred twenty pitches, Manaka could still hold onto the hope of finishing the game. Now, that hope was gone entirely. Not just the door, he couldn't even find a window.
It was impossible.
If Manaka could just get through this inning, that would be more than enough to ask of him.
He threw his thirteenth pitch of the at-bat.
Everyone at the stadium went still.
The pitch sailed at least half a meter above the strike zone. Takami had to stand up just to catch it.
Three balls had already been called on the tenth pitch. This one made four.
"Ball!"
"Ball four. Take your base."
Kominato Ryosuke seemed to be glowing with some kind of light. He let go of his bat and jogged to first base. It wasn't until he reached the bag that the crowd erupted.
No outs, runners on first and second.
Getting on base was almost secondary. What Kominato Ryosuke had done in that at-bat was drag Manaka Kaname to the guillotine. The chance to drop the gate, he left to the man standing behind him.
Zhang Han.
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