"This is as far as I go."
Momodani Kaname clutched his dislocated arm and gave a bitter smile at Takashi walking toward him.
Bone and tendon injuries take 100 days to heal.
A dislocated shoulder takes at least a month.
Koshien only lasts about 12 days.
Before it ends, he wouldn't be able to play again.
From now on, it would all rest on Takashi's shoulders.
"Kitahara-kun… my summer is over."
Takashi walked up to Momodani Kaname and stood still. Kaname tried to hand the baseball to him but didn't let go.
Kaname lowered his head, gripping the ball tightly. "But Aoba's summer isn't over yet!"
"Please carry on the dream I couldn't finish."
Kaname knew he was putting Takashi in a difficult position.
If the games before Koshien were like pros vs. streamers, then the games in Koshien were pros vs. pros.
Any so-called batting advantage was completely gone.
Everyone who made it this far was a regional powerhouse. Aside from pitchers, there were no absolute advantages or disadvantages in batting.
Even Sobu High, entering Koshien for the first time in ten years, had a solid batting lineup.
From the current 6:5 score, it was obvious how intense this game was.
To ask a first-year rookie to carry them this far—Kaname knew it was asking too much.
But he wanted that championship so badly.
He was a third-year student. There would be no next Koshien for him.
This was his last summer.
"I'm begging you."
Kaname suddenly bowed deeply to Takashi.
Tears dropped from his cheeks onto the land of dreams beneath him.
All around him, third-years had reddened eyes, lips bitten pale.
Some wore looks of despair.
The team had plenty of batters—but only one strong pitcher: Kaname.
And a good pitcher could sometimes determine the entire course of a game. That wasn't an exaggeration.
"Step down."
Takashi said nothing grand, made no promises.
He forcefully took the ball from Kaname's hand and said in a flat, almost emotionless tone, "Next pitcher."
Kaname froze.
"I'll leave it to you."
Kaname understood what Takashi meant.
This battlefield—was now his to command.
He refused a stretcher, holding his arm as he walked down from the mound to get treatment.
"Who will carry Aoba's glory?"
Takashi looked at the third-years around him and spoke out. His voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard it clearly.
The starting eight understood immediately. They quickly formed a circle, shoulders linked, veins bulging in their necks as they roared: "We will!"
The cameras zoomed in. Over 50,000 spectators turned to look at them all at once.
Standing in the center of the circle, Takashi continued: "Who sweated the most?"
"We did!"
"Who gave up their rest days?"
"We did!"
"Who shed the most tears?"
"We did."
"Who loves baseball more than anyone?"
"We do!"
"Who are we?!"
"Champions—Aoba!"
"And what must we do?!"
"Win!"
"Win!!"
"Win!!!"
Everyone from Aoba's baseball team roared in unison.
Their voices shook the entire stadium, stunning the students from Sobu High.
They had never been a baseball powerhouse—they couldn't understand the pride and unity that came from being in Koshien year after year.
That kind of foundation wasn't something you built with just one or two trips to Koshien.
Hasuno Yuma, who had planned to call out chants as catcher, shook his head and sat back down.
There was no need to worry.
Takashi would lead this team well.
He was even more suited to be captain than Kaname.
The camera shifted. Compared to Aoba, who had just reignited their fighting spirit, Sobu High looked like green rookies.
They simply stared, no one shouting any slogans.
Even Yukino didn't take the lead.
She could make decisions and plans—but she could never do what Takashi just did.
She was too arrogant, too self-righteous.
People like that often fall the hardest.
And what Takashi needed to do now was to pluck that proud flower from its lofty perch—slam it into the dirt, and grind her pride into the mud.
Helmet on, glove tightened, bat in hand—both sides returned to the field.
The match resumed.
Takashi took a deep breath, raised his leg, stepped, rotated his waist, and exploded with power—unleashing a pitch at full strength right from the start.
The white ball turned into a white flash, tearing through the air.
The batter saw Takashi pitch—he saw the ball—but there was nothing he could do.
Bang!
The baseball slammed into the catcher's mitt with a thunderous crack.
Look closely, and you could see the ball still spinning violently in the glove.
Hasuno Yuma had never caught such a ferocious fastball. He nearly lost his balance and fell on his butt.
Only by experiencing it firsthand could one understand how terrifying that pitch was.
Beep!
The electronic screen buzzed.
Everyone instinctively looked over.
It showed: 157 km/h!
That was Takashi's full-powered pitch—without holding anything back.
He couldn't go any faster than that.
At least, not at his current stage—unless he broke through his physical limit of 7.
Of course, Takashi wouldn't throw like that every time.
If he did, his arm would be wrecked by the end of this inning.
That opening pitch was just for intimidation.
Because this was Sobu High's first time in Koshien in ten years—their mindset couldn't be stable.
"..."
Hanshin Koshien Stadium was now silent as a funeral hall, deathly still.
Even the umpire stood stunned, wondering if the radar gun was broken.
What does 157 km/h mean?
It means a potential next Shohei Ohtani.
People looked up at Takashi, then at the number on the screen—still unable to believe that kind of speed came from a first-year high schooler.
Sobu High's players were mentally crumbling.
Dude, if you're going to play like this, what's the point?
With that speed, why aren't you in the MLB? What are you doing in high school games?
Who can even catch that?!
Give me the ball—I'm going home!
"Strike."
The umpire finally snapped out of it and called out.
The scoreboard in the outfield lit up with a strike.
Two more, and the batter would be out—next up would be the second batter.
Takashi turned, facing Aoba, and raised his palm high into the air.
"Takashi!"
Narii was the first to react, screaming his name.
The next moment, Aoba's students and teachers all stood up.
"Takashi!"
"Takashi!"
"Takashi!"
…
Over a thousand voices roared in unison.
Like Kuro seeing her beloved, their cheer crashed like a tidal wave—almost frenzied.
In contrast, Sobu High was completely crushed in terms of morale.
Some of the younger players were already losing confidence.
Yes—Takashi was putting pressure on them.
Fan cheers, familiar training grounds, and biased referees can all increase a home team's chances of winning and crush the opponent's will.
If you weren't born for the field, the roar of the crowd alone could destroy you.
'Yukinoshita Yukino, this game is already over.'
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