"In that case, a complete shutout is no problem at all."
Isashiki crossed his arms and clicked his tongue, glaring at Ushijima Wakatoshi.
"This brat was clearly holding back."
"…Yeah."
Even Yuki Tetsuya nodded in agreement.
And they weren't wrong.
So far, Ushijima Wakatoshi had shown only two types of pitches—
the Four-Seam Fastball and the Two-Seam Fastball.
The Cutter hadn't appeared once.
As for a Curveball—
Ushijima hadn't even mentioned it to Miyuki.
Not even his teammates knew he possessed that pitch.
Let alone the rumored 150+ km/h top speed.
In the third inning, Seido added another four runs.
Sides switched.
Ushijima Wakatoshi took the mound again, facing Ichidai Sankō's seventh, eighth, and ninth batters.
Three batters.
Three outs.
Three up, three down.
End of Three Innings
Seido High School: 5 · 3 · 4
Ichidai Sankō: 0 · 0 · 0
Ushijima Wakatoshi's pitching line so far:
6 strikeouts
2 groundouts
1 pop fly
In the fourth inning, Seido's offense stayed relentless, adding three more runs.
Now, Ichidai Sankō's lineup returned to the top for their second at-bat.
This time, the first batter was mentally prepared.
Bang!
After a three-pitch battle, Ushijima's ball was finally put into play.
"Heads up!" Kominato shouted, sprinting in from second base.
Bang!
The glove blocked the ball and popped it into the air.
Kuramochi darted past, scooped it up smoothly, and fired to first.
Smack!
Yuki Tetsuya caught it cleanly.
"Out!"
The umpire's arm came down decisively.
On the mound, Ushijima Wakatoshi smiled faintly.
Miyuki Kazuya noticed.
Most pitchers would flinch after giving up contact.
Ushijima didn't care at all.
Bang!
Bang!
The next batter made contact twice—but both balls sailed foul.
Two strikes.
No balls.
With no room left to escape, the batter clenched his teeth.
Ushijima stepped forward and threw with full commitment.
The ball screamed toward home plate.
The batter swung—
The pitch suddenly drifted.
"Damn it—two-seam!"
The ball rolled weakly toward third.
Masuko Tōru charged forward, bare-handed it, and fired to first.
"Out!"
Two outs.
"Uga!" Masuko shouted.
"Don't worry, kid! One more!"
Isashiki roared from the dugout, arms folded arrogantly.
Ushijima lowered his head, scooped a bit of dirt, then looked up.
Miyuki set the glove.
Fourth inning, third batter.
First pitch:
Low and outside—four-seam, 145 km/h.
Strike.
Second pitch:
High and inside—four-seam, 143 km/h.
Strike.
Third pitch:
Low and inside—four-seam, 145 km/h.
"Strike three!"
The umpire's call echoed.
End of the Fourth Inning
Seido High School: 5 · 3 · 4 · 3
Ichidai Sankō: 0 · 0 · 0 · 0
Cheers filled the stadium.
"Another strikeout!"
"That's seven already, right?"
"Yeah—seven strikeouts!"
"And most of them were three-pitch strikeouts!"
"Inside and outside control is terrifying."
In the Seido dugout, the team recorder was asked a quiet question.
"Pitch count?"
The recorder checked his notebook—and froze.
"…Thirty-eight."
"Thirty-eight?"
Tanba and Kawakami both stiffened.
Four innings.
Only 38 pitches.
Less than 10 pitches per inning.
Twelve batters faced.
Seven strikeouts.
Nearly a 60% strikeout rate.
Even Coach Kataoka hadn't expected this.
Miyuki elbowed Ushijima lightly.
"Not bad."
Ushijima smirked.
"You want me to praise your pitch calling, right?"
"Is it that obvious?" Miyuki laughed awkwardly.
The fifth inning began.
Ushijima put on his batting gear and stepped into the box as the leadoff hitter.
Bang!
First pitch.
Another clean hit.
Three at-bats.
Three hits.
Seido crushed Ichidai Sankō again, scoring five more runs.
20–0.
Merciless.
But when Ushijima returned to the mound in the bottom of the fifth, something changed.
Ichidai Sankō's center lineup had adjusted.
They no longer panicked.
The fourth batter fought stubbornly.
Balls.
Strikes.
Fouls.
A full count.
Thirteen pitches—
for a single batter.
Ushijima couldn't put him away.
Not yet.
145 km/h wasn't overwhelming anymore.
They'd adapted.
Miyuki's eyes sharpened.
Then—
He gave the sign.
Cutter.
Ushijima didn't hesitate.
He hadn't thrown it once today.
The moment the ball left his hand—
The batter's pupils shrank.
"Fastball—Down the middle?!"