Chapter 46: The Field of Giants

Summer in Hokkaido had its own rhythm—warm but never harsh, skies painted in the kind of blue that made everything feel possible. When the Miracle Nine stepped off the small rental bus, their shoes met the finely groomed gravel of the Sapporo Regional Baseball Center, and not one of them spoke for a while.

Before them stretched a field like none they had ever stepped on.

Grass like velvet.

Real dugouts.

Digital scoreboards.

Spectator stands that wrapped around the field like arms of something sacred.

"Woah…" Jun muttered, adjusting his second-hand cap.

"It's like stepping into a dream," Reina whispered.

Haruto squinted up at the tall fencing behind home plate, then down at the pure white bases. He felt… small. Not in a bad way—just aware. The way a person feels standing before something larger than their past.

They had made it.

But now came the real trial.

Their opponent: Kuroishi Middle School, seeded #3 in the region. Players handpicked from urban academies. They wore black-trimmed uniforms with chrome silver lettering. Their coaches wore matching tracksuits and headsets. There were even batboys.

A man with a clipboard approached.

"Haruto Kujo?" he asked without smiling.

Haruto stepped forward and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You'll be pitching Game 3. First match starts in one hour. Locker rooms are that way. You'll find the rosters posted."

The man left without a second glance.

Everything here felt fast, sharp, efficient. Not like home.

In the locker room, Jun stared at his jersey like he didn't recognize it. "What the hell are we doing here?"

Sōta looked at Haruto, then at the others. "What we've always done. Playing ball. Everything else is noise."

Reina walked in, clutching a bundle of taped-up notes. "Lineup is posted. Inoue-sensei sent a message—said to 'swing with heart, not form.'"

"Is that coaching?" Takeshi grinned.

They laughed a little. Just enough.

One hour later, they stepped onto the field.

Cheers from both sides. Kuroishi had brought banners. A drumline. Parents in coordinated jerseys. Reina glanced over their shoulder and saw only a small patch of familiar faces. Ayumu's younger siblings waving a towel that said "Go Big Bro!" in crayon.

No time to feel overwhelmed.

Game 1 came and went. They watched from the stands—analyzing, whispering, eyes wide.

Then—Game 3. Their turn.

"Now entering the mound, representing Furukawa Middle," the announcer's voice echoed, "#1, pitcher—Haruto Kujo."

He took the mound.

Stadium lights buzzed overhead like a living thing. His first pitch felt stiff. Not because of injury—because of pressure. Eyes. Silence. Expectation.

The Kuroishi batter eyed him like prey.

Strike one.

The second batter—hit.

Line drive past second.

The third—bunt.

Then the fourth—crack.

They were fast. Cold. Precise.

By the third inning, the score was 0–3.

No mistakes. No laziness. Just brutal, clean baseball.

"Haruto!" Reina called out. Between innings, she rushed to him with a water bottle. "You're falling into a rhythm. They're reading you."

He breathed hard. "They're better."

"They're different. That's not the same."

He looked up. "What should I do?"

Reina met his eyes. "Throw like you always have. Wild. Off-pattern. Trust yourself again."

Back on the mound, Haruto took her words like an offering. He adjusted his grip. He stopped aiming for perfection—and started aiming for surprise.

Fourth inning—he threw a slow curve with a double step. Strikeout.

Fifth—change-up that dipped hard. Another strike.

But they still couldn't score.

Takeshi struck out.

Jun made it to second, but was tagged out sliding.

By the seventh—it was 0–5.

Sōta limped slightly after a dive. Reina chewed the corner of her thumb. The players in the dugout sat stiff, some whispering, others staring at the dirt.

And in the stands, among the quiet, a man in a dark blue coat leaned forward—his eyes fixed on the boy at the mound.

Rin Katsuragi.

He said nothing.

Just took notes.

Haruto stepped up again. His shoulder ached faintly, but not dangerously. Just a whisper of warning.

He looked to Sōta. The catcher didn't say a word—just nodded once.

The eighth inning began.

First pitch—strike.

Second—ball.

Third—foul.

Fourth—caught by Shigeru in deep left. The crowd gasped at his full-body slide.

Two outs.

Haruto exhaled, muscles shaking, but still moving.

Last batter. Fast kid. Grin too wide.

He threw.

Crack.

The ball sailed past Jun, too far, too fast. Sōta scrambled, caught it, threw it back—but too late.

Runner scored.

0–6.

Final inning.

The Miracle Nine were down to their last three outs.

Ayumu walked to the plate. First pitch—strike. Second—swing and miss.

Third—he paused, then bunted.

He ran.

Safe.

Reina gasped.

Jun up next. Hit. Out.

Then Takeshi. Walked.

Then Haruto.

He walked up to the plate, bat resting on his shoulder like a memory. No cheers. Just murmurs. One chance.

He swung on the first pitch.

Crack.

It soared.

Too high. Too slow.

Caught.

Final out.

Game over.

The stadium didn't erupt. It never needed to.

The scoreboard read clearly: Kuroishi – 6 | Furukawa – 0

The silence said everything.

They stood together on the field, eyes low. Reina wiped her cheek but didn't cry.

Haruto removed his cap.

Then bowed.

The others followed.

From the opposing team's side, applause began—polite, short.

But then a few voices joined. Then more.

"Nice try!"

"Miracle Nine!"

"You did good!"

And above it all, a single voice from the top row:

"You've come far, Furukawa!"

Reina looked up—and saw their old janitor waving a towel. And laughing.

Later, as they gathered their things, Haruto sat on the edge of the dugout.

Rin Katsuragi approached.

"You're Haruto Kujo?"

He turned, surprised. "Yes…"

"You threw a 71 mph knuckle-curve with no formal coaching."

Haruto blinked. "I just… practiced."

Rin smiled faintly. "We'll be watching you."

He handed over a sealed envelope.

Haruto stared at it.

And for the first time that day, he smiled.

It wasn't a win.

But it wasn't the end.

Not yet.

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