The sunlight filtered weakly through the training net, casting diagonal shadows across the field. Dust floated lazily in the spring air, disturbed only by cleats shifting nervously on the dirt. It was the third day of the entrance trials at Minazuki High School—an elite Tokyo baseball school known for producing powerhouses and heartbreaks in equal measure.
Haruto Aizawa stood at the edge of the bullpen with his glove resting against his hip. His uniform was still clean—he hadn't pitched yet. Not in front of them. Around him, freshmen were buzzing nervously, stretching, throwing, and trying desperately not to mess up. But Haruto wasn't thinking about making a good impression. He was waiting. Watching. Feeling something stir inside him like a soft vibration beneath his ribs.
The trial had reached the Red vs. Blue internal match—upperclassmen versus the first years. But before the game could begin, a loud, scornful voice cracked through the air.
"You call that pitching? That's a disgrace to this school!"
Everyone turned. A heavy-set third-year senior stood tall near the bullpen mound, his chest puffed like an angry bull. His name was Mizuno Takeru, and though his fastball was nowhere near the ace's level, his presence was unavoidable—loud, blunt, and filled with pride. He towered over a timid freshman pitcher who had just thrown a wild one to the backstop. The younger boy's shoulders curled in on themselves.
"Look at me when I talk to you! Are you even taking this seriously?"
Silence followed.
The coaches didn't interfere. It was one of those moments—part test, part tradition. Sink or survive.
And then, from the fringe of the bullpen, a quiet voice cut through.
"I'll throw for him."
Heads turned. Haruto had stepped forward. He hadn't raised his voice, but something in his tone made even Mizuno blink. The air seemed to tighten.
The senior scoffed. "What's this? Another savior? You think this is charity?"
Haruto walked past the frozen freshmen and stood on the bullpen mound. His shoes settled into the dirt grooves as if they belonged. His eyes locked on Mizuno—calm, unreadable.
"Give me the bat," Haruto said.
A murmur rolled through the watching players.
Mizuno's eyes narrowed behind his tinted sunglasses. "You want to pitch to me?"
Haruto nodded. "Three pitches. If you don't swing, you walk away."
The older player laughed, deep and guttural, as he picked up the nearest metal bat and slapped it against his palm. "Fine. One rookie versus one fat old man. Let's see if your mouth has a fastball behind it."
From the sidelines, Sōta Nakamura, Haruto's best friend and catcher, was halfway through biting a rice ball when it fell out of his hand. "He's really doing it…?"
Yusuke Mori, their second-year dorm mate, whistled quietly. "Either brave or suicidal."
Haruto raised his left leg slowly. His fingers gripped the seams of the ball—not tightly, not loosely, but with a strange certainty that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. His eyes stayed fixed on the senior's wide stance. His brain was quiet—too quiet.
The world blurred around the edges.
Then came the first pitch.
Thump. It hit the glove with a snap that turned heads.
Mizuno didn't swing.
"…A cutter?" murmured Yusuke. "No… something else."
Second pitch.
A low break, barely off the strike zone—but it looked hittable.
Mizuno grunted, choosing to watch again.
Third pitch.
Haruto's shoulders stayed level. He exhaled, let the system inside him hum—a low signal flickering just behind the nerves. He snapped forward with an uncharacteristic torque.
The pitch came in like a fastball… and died mid-air.
Mizuno swung.
Whiff.
A ghost of a ball cut under his bat.
A full second passed before anyone reacted. Then a burst of gasps and shocked mutters rippled through the bullpen.
"…Did he just strike out Mizuno?!"
Haruto stood there, breathing calmly, glove by his side. Mizuno lowered his bat and stared at the rookie, his jaw clenched.
"You little…"
But then—unexpectedly—Mizuno grinned.
"…Huh. Maybe you do belong here."
He dropped the bat and walked off, grumbling something about "kids these days."
Haruto turned, walking back to the sidelines without fanfare. Sōta ran up, grabbing him by the shoulders. "You're insane, you know that?! You challenged a third-year in the middle of trials!"
Haruto just nodded, still a little dazed himself. "…He was bullying that kid."
Sōta's grin softened. "Yeah. I know."
The tension melted slowly. Coaches exchanged glances. Clipboards were marked. The air changed around Haruto Aizawa. He was no longer just another freshman.
As they returned to the benches, Coach Hayama—a stoic man with grey hair, sunglasses, and the quiet weight of a man who once stood on the mound in Koshien—watched Haruto's back.
He whispered to his assistant, "Who's that boy?"
"Haruto Aizawa. Countryside recruit. Recommended by Reina Takamura."
Hayama pushed his shades higher up the bridge of his nose. "Hmm. Let's see if he can still pitch when the field's not on his side."
Far in the stands, Reina, in her tailored black coat, crossed her arms and smirked.
"Good, Haruto," she whispered. "Now let them fear you."
That night, in the dorms, Haruto unpacked in silence. The dorm room was a narrow L-shape—shared by three.
His corner had the smallest window.
Across from him, Yusuke Mori sat at his desk, already scribbling on a pitch chart.
Above, on the top bunk, Sōta was humming to himself, head buried in a manga.
Haruto looked around the room—his new space, his new battlefield.
From tomorrow, he wasn't a countryside boy anymore.
He was a Minazuki pitcher.
And somewhere in his chest, the system hummed.
Ready.