Rain started to fall.
Michael's eyes locked onto Mason King as the first raindrop struck his cheek.
The retired MLB star stood at the edge of the dugout, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
While the crowd roared and cameras flashed, King hadn't flinched once—not when Cole struck out, not when Landon fled.
He just… watched. Like a stone pillar in a hurricane.
What's his deal?
The Phoenix Vial's timer showed peripheral vision: [00:03:17…].
The icy energy that had fueled his arm was fraying, replaced by a deep, marrow-deep ache.
Thunder growled. The clouds, bruised and swollen, split open.
Rain slashed down in sheets, drenching the field in seconds. The crowd scattered—students shrieking, cameras ducking under coats, the ESPN crew scrambling to protect their equipment.
Luis huddled under the concession stand awning, shivering as rain soaked his hoodie. He still had Michael's phone, which showed "no signal."
The donation counter froze at [ $152,340 ] as the stream died.
"Mike, we gotta go!" Tyler yelled, shielding Michael's phone with his hoodie. The livestream glitched, pixelated comments blinking out mid-insult.
"Lightning's coming!"
Tyler scrambled up under the concession stand, dripping. "Dude, we gotta drag him outta here!"
"He won't come," Luis muttered.
He'd seen that look before—back when Michael was pitching through a 102 fever in high school. The Cobb Special: stubbornness with a side of self-destruction.
Tyler yelled: "You'll both die!"
"Go," Michael ordered Tyler. "Leave my phone."
"Are you insane?! You'll get struck by—"
"Go."
Tyler hesitated, then bolted, angling the phone just to avoid direct contact with rain water.
In seconds, the field emptied.
The ESPN crew had also retreated, including everyone from the team, and Katie and her sorority friends, even Ms. Greene retreated to her Audi.
Lightning flashed.
Michael didn't move. Across the field, Mason King stepped into the batter's box.
Rain sluiced off his cap, but his stance didn't waver—feet planted, bat resting on his shoulder like a samurai's sword.
He didn't speak, yet his message was clear:
Run now, and you lose.
Rain needled Michael's skin. His thrift-store sneakers sank into mud, his pinned sleeve flapping uselessly.
King adjusted his grip, the bat's handle creaking.
No smirk. No taunt. Just silence.
Michael wiped rain from his face with his pinned sleeve. The ball in his left hand felt like a lead weight.
The rain was a problem. A big problem.
His sneakers squelched in the mud as he adjusted his footing. The mound had become a swamp. One wrong step, and he'd slip mid-pitch.
No cameras on him anymore.
The realization sent a jolt through him.
The vial's icy energy pulsed in his veins, begging to be unleashed.
First pitch. Give him everything.
He dug his fingers into the ball's seams. Rainwater made the leather slick, but his grip held.
If I hit 150 mph… who's gonna know?
Windup.
His left arm whipped forward with a violence that tore a gasp from his lungs. The ball rocketed out, invisible in the rain.
A sonic boom split the air.
CRACK!
Not the sound of a mitt. The ball smashed into the metal backstop, denting the railing. It bounced into the mud, still spinning.
A low, gravelly voice cut through the rain.
"Strike one."
King hadn't moved. His bat still rested on his shoulder.
Michael's breath hitched.
How? How did I hear him so clearly?!
"Catch."
Something thudded at Michael's feet.
A fresh baseball, pristine and dry, as if the storm hadn't touched it.
What the—?
He scooped it up.
No mud. No water. Warm, like it'd been baked in an oven.
The vial's timer flickered: [00:02:49…].
No time to question. Pitch.
He glanced at King. The man's eyes glinted under his cap.
Lightning lit the sky.
Thunder shook the earth. Michael's heartbeat synced with the storm's fury.
Second windup.
He leaned into the vial's power, deeper than before. Cold fire exploded in his shoulder. His bones groaned. Faster. Harder.
The pitch left his hand at 180 mph.
The baseball tore through the rain, vaporizing water in its path. A white streak. A comet. A scream.
CRACKKKKKKK!
This time, King swung.
The sound wasn't a bat hitting a ball. It was a skyscraper snapping in half.
Michael's head whipped around, following the noise.
The ball had rocketed straight up—into a spiraling vortex in the clouds.
The storm parted, revealing a slice of black sky… and something moving inside it.
Scales.
Gold and shimmering. A serpentine body thicker than a subway train.
The clouds rippled as a massive head emerged—slitted eyes burning crimson, whiskers like lightning bolts.
A dragon.
Michael's brain short-circuited.
The dragon's scales shimmered like molten gold, each one the size of a car door. Its crimson eyes glowed like hellfire, piercing through the rain.
What. The. Actual. F—
A clawed foot the size of a dump truck slammed onto the field, cratering the mound.
The ground trembled. Michael stumbled back, mud sucking at his shoes.
His left arm—the only arm—burned like someone had poured lava into his veins. The Phoenix Vial's timer flickered in his vision: [00:01:12…]
I'm hallucinating. The vial's frying my brain. That's the only explanation.
But the stench of ozone and wet earth felt too real. The dragon's growl vibrated in Michael's chest, rattling his ribs.
—EEEEYAAAAH!—
—HOLYSHITHOLYSHIT!—
Screams tore through the storm as the crowd stampeded—a writhing mass of soaked t-shirts and abandoned flip-flops. Yet every fleeing head twisted backward, necks craning in primal defiance of survival instinct.
A sorority girl slipped in the mud, phone raised in trembling fingers as rain short-circuited her camera lens.
"It's not—it won't—!" she shrieked, stabbing at a black screen.
Around her, a dozen dead phones hit the pavement like electronic hail. The dragon's growl reverberated through the flooded parking lot, trembling car alarms into silent submission.
Even the storm seemed to bend around its form—raindrops vaporizing inches from scaled flesh, creating a shimmering halo of mist around the monstrosity.
Mason King stepped beside him, bat raised. Rain slid off the barrel like it was repelled by some invisible force. "Stay close," he barked. "And don't die."
"What is that?!" Michael yelled over the storm.
This isn't happening.
A dragon. A real, gigantic dragon.