The Second Training (1)

159 km/h and 160 km/h.

Converted to miles: 99 mph and 100 mph.

In truth, there was almost no essential difference between the two. Just one extra kilometer per hour. One extra mile per hour. The time it took for the ball to leave a pitcher’s hand and land in the catcher’s mitt barely changed, and neither did the velocity a batter actually felt.

And yet people’s reactions were completely different.

The reason was simple.

People don’t feel speed so much as they look at numbers.

The moment a reading crosses from two digits into three, the moment the tens place flips from a five to a six, even a similar pitch takes on an entirely different meaning. Broadcast booths jump a full octave. Reporters scramble to file their pieces. The stands erupt with a kind of roar that simply wasn’t there before.

And pitchers themselves are no exception. Given the choice, anyone would rather be called a “160 km/h flamethrower” than a “159 km/h flamethrower.”

Which was why it felt only natural to attach special meaning to the number currently stamped in front of my eyes.

Fourteen days was no short stretch. The sweat I’d poured out, the unbroken streak of honest work — this was the reward. Seeing the result with my own eyes was nothing like checking it on the Status Window. Only now did it truly sink in.

Hitting 161 once was enough. From the second pitch on, I switched off Full Power Pitch. What mattered now wasn’t the new ceiling — it was what kind of ball I could throw on average once that ceiling had risen to 161.

Across twenty pitches, I didn’t force extra juice into every single one. I held my natural pace and threw as if it were a real start.

In the past, when I managed my stamina with a hundred-pitch outing in mind, the gun usually sat in the low-to-mid 150s. Not anymore. Most of my pitches were clearing 155.

As the max velocity climbed, the average had come up with it.

I finished the focused set of twenty and stepped out of the cage. Park Haeun took a half-step back from the net and stared straight at me.

My season high had been 157. What I’d just thrown in the cage topped out at 161 with an average of 156. That was a clear gap from the profile she knew.

So I asked, fully expecting a delicious reaction.

“Well?”

“……Doyoon.”

Park Haeun looked up at me with glittering eyes.

“Wait. Just wait.”

Both hands clamped over her mouth, only her eyes still sparkling.

“No way… is this even real…?”

She stepped closer, almost interrogating me.

“Your season high was 157. But just now…… 161? 161 is…… the Korean record.”

Her breathing grew rougher, and the words started pouring out as if someone had bolted a motor to her mouth.

“The stuff is completely different too. Watching from the stands is nothing like this. Wow…… and I’ve always wondered — your arm slot isn’t even that high, so how is the spin efficiency that good? Seeing it in person is even more incredible. Is that intentional, or is it just how you are?”

She barely paused for air as the torrent of words kept coming. Watching her light up like that made me glad I’d brought her to the center — but she was so worked up I figured I ought to reel her back in.

“Easy. Easy.”

The moment I set a hand on her shoulder, she flinched.

“……Ah.”

Her face went red.

“S-sorry. I got a little carried away.”

Then she clenched both fists and looked up at me again.

“But this is your fault, you know.”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

She nodded firmly.

“You show me pitches like that and then tell me not to get excited? That’s the weird part.”

She shot me a sideways glare and added,

“I object.”

I was so speechless I could only let out a dry laugh.

After a short break, I threw ten cutters and ten sliders. The reaction wasn’t as explosive as the first time I’d shown her a 161 km/h four-seamer, but the way she nodded or drew a sharp breath with every pitch was more than good enough. It made throwing fun for me too.

Just before we left the center, Park Haeun caught the senior staff member and made one more polite request.

“Uh…… you want the data?”

“Yes!”

Every pitch I’d thrown, the tracking logs, even the 3D motion-capture ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠files. The senior looked briefly put out — Why on earth does she need all that…? — but eventually sighed and handed everything over. The second she confirmed the files, Park Haeun nodded with pure satisfaction.

I walked her to the subway station after we left.

“Heading off to study now?”

“Study…… yeah, that’s right.”

“That’s impressive. Hankuk University, after all.”

“Studying’s the only thing I know how to do. Haha.”

She shrugged as she said it. Not so much humility as a simple statement of fact.

“Still, it’s not easy.”

“Mm…… no, it’s not.”

As the station entrance came into view, she slowed her steps a little.

“I think studying’s going to go well today.”

“Why’s that?”

She glanced at me and smiled.

“Watching your pitches cleared my head a bit.”

That drew a laugh out of me for no particular reason.

“I’ll show you again next time. Your reactions are so good it makes me want to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠throw. Way better than the mechanical ones I get from the bullpen catchers.”

“Mm…… that’s okay.”

She said it while briefly looking away. She’d been so into it a moment ago, and now suddenly she was fine without another look? That felt odd.

“Why?”

“No reason.”

A short answer, then a light smile.

“There’ll be plenty of chances anyway. You should rest during the off-season too.”

Something about that meaningful little smile made me want to ask more, but before I could—

“Okay, I’m off!”

The second the words left her mouth she turned and walked away. I lost the timing completely and settled for a goodbye.

“Ah — yeah. Get home safe.”

“I will.”

She gave a light wave and passed through the ticket gates. A moment later she vanished into the crowd, and I turned my steps toward home.

The second I got home I kicked off my shoes and went straight to my room. I tossed my bag onto the bed and opened the Status Window.

Growth Center.

Thinking back to Velocity Increase — Hard, a single quest had eaten a full two weeks. Mid-October was perfect timing. Knock out one more before wrap-up camp and join the team clean.

My eyes stopped on Velocity Increase. A neat strikethrough ran straight through it.

“So you can’t do the same one twice, huh……”

I’d figured out the knack for clearing velocity quests and wanted another run at it, but the system had shut that door tight.

Cheap.

I grumbled once at the Status Window that had already gifted me four extra kilometers, then carefully scanned the other options.

Man…… nothing else really grabs me the way velocity did. Maybe Add New Pitch?

I pulled up my stats alongside the list and sank into deciding which training to take.

Looking at my current sheet, every stat except the changeup sat at 60 or higher. Factor out a pitch I didn’t even throw, and essentially every ability was 60-plus.

On the 20–80 scale, anything 60 or above wasn’t merely above average — it was a genuine strength.

If I’d had a clear weakness, I could have plugged it. But when everything was this evenly solid, the choice got harder, not easier.

I’d already decided next season had to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mean fall baseball, which meant I wanted to become a pitcher who could truly carry the team. That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thought led to another, and another, and before I knew it the deliberation had stretched on.

Maybe thirty minutes in.

Ah. Right. Stamina.

The answer finally clicked.

My stats, changeup aside, were all 60 or better. Raising any one of them would “definitely help,” but none of them screamed that it had to be next.

The Wonju Flyers’ bullpen situation, on the other hand, was hard to call good even with generous wording. Looking at the quality of contact they’d given up in the second half, luck had been doing a lot of the heavy lifting — and there was no guarantee next year would go the same way.

On top of that, if Cheon Sojin was right, the real win-now window didn’t open next year. It opened the year after. Expecting a serious bullpen upgrade right now was unrealistic.

Which left one path. Instead of hoping the bullpen held, I would simply use it less. Pitch one more inning myself. Become a starter who could own the mound through the seventh — and, if possible, the eighth.

I locked in the decision and selected Stamina Training. Just like with Velocity Increase, a difficulty window appeared.

“Oh? This time failing doesn’t dock the stat?”

Velocity Increase had carried a hard risk of −2 km/h on failure. Stamina Training apparently had no such penalty.

That made the choice easy.

Difficulty: Normal.

The memory of how brutal Velocity Increase — Hard had been was still fresh, and +5 was a perfectly satisfying reward.

I hit Normal without hesitation.