The world didn't end with a bang.For Renji Kurusu, it ended quietly—with a dull pain in his chest, a blinking cursor on an untouched spreadsheet, and the sound of rain outside his apartment window.
So this is it, he thought. Figures.
He slumped forward on his desk, the cheap office chair creaking under the shift of weight. His breathing slowed. Then stopped.
No drama. No flashing lights. Just… silence.
When he next opened his eyes, everything was bright—too bright.
A white sky. No floor beneath him. He wasn't floating. He wasn't falling. He was just… there.
"Kurusu Renji, age twenty-eight. Died of cardiac arrest, overwork, and poor nutrition. Classic case."
The voice came from somewhere behind him. Turning around, Renji saw a man in a baseball cap and windbreaker, clipboard in hand.
"…Excuse me?"
"You're dead."
"…I gathered."
"But lucky for you, you've been chosen."
Renji blinked. "Chosen?"
"You get a second shot at life. Happens sometimes. Soul overflow, karmic imbalance, all that technical nonsense. We get maybe one guy every few million with a lingering passion strong enough to defy the natural cycle."
"…A passion?"
"Baseball."
Renji's breath caught.
It had been his one real escape from the monotony. He never played past middle school, but he watched. He read. He dreamed.
"So here's the deal. You're being reborn into the world of Diamond no Ace. You'll live a new life, start over, but your memories—those stick."
The man smirked.
"You've got the mind. The will. Let's see if you can swing it this time."
Ten Years Later – Tokyo Suburbs
Renji sat on the back porch of a modest house, sunlight filtering through the maple trees. He was ten years old now—shorter than average, a little thin—but sharp-eyed and quiet.
The aluminum bat in his hands was secondhand, slightly chipped at the handle. But to him, it was gold.
He adjusted his grip, shoulders squared, elbows tight.
One. Two. Swing.
The ball bounced off the garage wall and rolled back.
He caught it with his foot, bent down, and reset.
One. Two. Swing.
"Renji! Dinner's ready!" his mother called from inside.
"Five more minutes!"
"You said that ten minutes ago!"
He smiled faintly but didn't stop.
This routine—day after day—was all his.
Other kids played games. He trained.
His parents didn't understand why he practiced so much. He was still years away from high school. There was no team. No coach. Just him and the memory of a different life.
The life where he wasted his time.
The life where his dream died quietly under fluorescent office lights.
Later That Night
Lying on his futon, Renji stared at the ceiling, the old fan humming above him.
He reached out and picked up the dog-eared notebook beside his bed. Inside were pages of scribbled hitting techniques, analysis, and observations.
"Balance begins at the core.""Don't swing for power—swing for precision.""Read the pitcher's front foot."
All things he never truly learned the first time. All things he was determined to master now.
His fingers lingered on a name scrawled in the margins.
"Seidou High."
He had seen the signs. TV broadcasts. Player names. Miyuki. Sawamura. Furuya.
This wasn't just some baseball world. This was that timeline.
And Seidou was the stage.
He closed the notebook and exhaled slowly.
Not yet. But soon.
A Few Days Later – Local Park
"Yo, Renji!"
He turned to see Ryouta, one of the few boys who ever joined him for practice, jogging over with a glove.
"You really train every day, huh?"
Renji offered a shrug. "Habit."
"You're weird, you know that? We're not even in a club yet!"
"…You coming to tryouts next month?"
"Dunno. Depends on my grades." Ryouta grinned. "You trying to go pro or something?"
Renji didn't answer.
He just tightened his grip on the bat and nodded toward the pitching net.
"Throw it."
Ryouta laughed. "You got it, coach."