The Monster Holds Firm
This is it.
For a full week after spring camp began, I deliberately held the line. In the bullpen, during live BP — I never once showed that I could break 160.
And now.
Against Shimamura Kenta, the man they called Japan's monster, I finally crossed that line for the first time.
Shock rippled through both the Flyers' bench and Seiryuu's, but Shimamura Kenta alone barely flinched. He widened his eyes at the scoreboard for a beat, then smirked and settled the bat back onto his shoulder as if nothing had happened.
Still that same unhurried expression. I hadn't expected anything else — but that didn't mean I liked it.
I checked the sign and nodded. No chance I was throwing the same pitch again. I took the grip that had become second nature by now, locked my eyes on the catcher's mitt, and—
"Hup!"
—drove the next pitch home.
Same low-and-away location as the first. Shimamura's bat answered. The barrel tracked the ball's path with perfect precision, and just before contact—
Crack!
The ball broke late, skimming under the sweet spot and off the bottom of the bat. It wasn't a clean hit, but Shimamura's raw power still launched it hard enough to scream past the first baseman into foul territory.
Ten kilometers slower than the 161 on the first pitch. But velocity wasn't the whole story with this one. I had shown him my absolute top speed on the first pitch. The second was still plenty fast — just not quite as fast — and carried movement no bat could square up cleanly.
That's a seventy-grade cutter.
The one Gang Junseong had drilled into me, harder to pick up and nastier in its break than ever before.
That was close, though. Did he sit cutter?
I had expected the backdoor cutter to miss the bat entirely. Instead Shimamura's swing arrived at a location and timing that would have been pure barrel contact against my old cutter. The sharper movement and the drop in velocity just made him early, and the contact point was terrible.
Thwack.
I took the ball back from the catcher and checked Shimamura's face. Suddenly staring down an 0-2 hole, he looked distinctly less comfortable.
Yeah. That's more like it.
Satisfied that the easy expression was finally gone, I set for the next pitch.
Blazing fastball. Fastball. And next—
"Hah!"
Another absolute heater.
This one rode high and in. Shimamura flinched, but the bat never came out, and the pitch was well enough off the zone that the umpire called ball.
A ball, sure — but from my side there was almost no risk. Don't swing, fine. Swing, even better. I had thrown it purely to plant a visual, so the mere fact that he twitched and nearly reacted meant the message landed.
Two pitches away had put me ahead in the count. Now I had burned a high fastball into the space closest to his eyes. All that remained was the familiar work of burying a slider inside that afterimage and reeling him in.
"There it is again! Han Doyoon breathing fire — another 161 heater!"
Another 161 lit up the scoreboard. The chat exploded all over again. Doyoon's grunt on the release had clearly caught the mic; even the broadcast booth answered with a mix of laughter and awe.
"Man, he's really gritting his teeth out there. Exhibition game or not, Han Doyoon is going all out."
"Honestly, I might've poked his pride a little before camp started. That's probably why he's throwing like this."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. I needled him just a bit and he immediately got all worked up, shaking with it. Swore he'd strike Shimamura out no matter what. He's secretly fun to mess with."
While everyone was still laughing, Han Doyoon set for the next pitch.
Thud!
His fourth pitch — a slider — bounced once. The catcher snapped down into a clean block.
"He doesn't bite on that one, and the count moves to two-and-two."
"Definitely looks like he's muscling up a little. Both the third and fourth pitches were pretty far off the zone."
Cheon Sojin, clearly more comfortable on air now, slid in with a natural comment of her own.
"Doyoon can get a little emotional on the mound. And I might be making it worse."
Kwak Daehwi picked up the thread and agreed.
Then came the fifth pitch.
This time Han Doyoon's four-seam fastball formed closer to the strike zone than before and successfully pulled Shimamura Kenta's bat into the path —
Crack!
— only to skim the top of the barrel and spin foul.
"These two are really going at it. Team Leader Cheon, how are you reading this matchup?"
"Uh… honestly, I just want it over. How many full-effort pitches is that now? I'm dying of anxiety."
Even the fans who had been roaring for Doyoon's velocity show paused for a second, Cheon Sojin's words making them wonder if he was pushing too hard.
Thwack.
But when Shimamura Kenta calmly took Doyoon's sixth-pitch slider for another ball, the chat snapped right back to the baseball.
"Did it catch? Ah— just missed. Ball again, and we're at a full count."
"Han Doyoon's fastball is elite, but his slider is no joke either. And this guy still won't bite."
Even Kwak Daehwi, one of the parties to the bet, had temporarily forgotten the wager and couldn't hide his frustration.
Crack!
Doyoon's next offering — a full-commitment four-seam away — was fouled off as well.
"Man, he is stubborn. Calling this an exhibition game almost feels wrong with how hard these two are competing."
"Right? Shimamura looked completely at ease at first, but now he's locked in for real."
By now the fans were completely locked into the duel.
Full count. Eighth pitch.
Han Doyoon checked the catcher's sign, then briefly dropped his head.
Windup.
The arm came through, and the pitch everyone had been waiting for left his hand.
But—
Thud!
The ball that bored in on the hands clipped the very edge of the zone and slipped past. The catcher's mitt jerked inward late, a short appeal for the strike, but the umpire's right hand never rose.
"……Ball!"
"Ah, it missed. Full count ends in a walk."
"Wow. Truly stubborn. Shimamura Kenta hangs on to the very end."
A short sigh leaked from the stands. While the scoreboard flashed the walk, Shimamura set the bat down and gave a small nod. No exaggerated gesture. Just a quiet walk toward first, his eyes never once leaving Han Doyoon the entire way.
"You have to give that at-bat to the hitter, right?"
"Yeah. Avoiding the strikeout, and protecting his zone all the way through."
Even the broadcast voices carried a thin thread of disappointment. The fierce duel had resolved itself in a single hollow moment.
Han Doyoon set the regret aside and turned to face the next batter.
Crack!
A sharp line drive shot toward first — but the first baseman was a step ahead, glove already waiting.
"Got it! Line out to first!"
The out was recorded and the inning closed. Still, the face of the pitcher coming off the mound carried the same unfinished look.
After the game ended, I lay on the dorm bed and replayed the at-bat.
Shimamura Kenta.
"Ha…… seriously, how do you not bite even once."
I muttered at the ceiling.
The fourth-pitch slider had leaked a little — I could admit that. But every pitch after that had gone exactly where I wanted it, and I still hadn't gotten the strikeout I was hunting.
"……What should I have done to put him away?"
I turned it over and over, but no clean answer appeared. Back-foot slider, high fastball, backdoor cutter — I had used all of them. Anything that entered the zone got a knife-edge swing; anything that didn't never drew the bat. On the last pitch I had even abandoned the strikeout and tried to glue a cutter in on the hands for a ground ball, and the bat still never came out. Walk.
"Hoo……."
I was still sighing over the missed chance when—
Knock knock.
The door opened and Kwak Daehwi walked in.
"Not easy, huh?"
A single line that hit dead center. It would have been a lie to say my pride wasn't bruised, but I couldn't keep from nodding.
"……Yeah."
"Still, a bet's a bet. For the rest of camp, you train exactly the way I tell you. Got it?"
Training under his orders for the rest of spring camp. On paper it didn't sound fatal. But for me — still unfinished with the Growth Center — it was a different story. Taking on another quest while grinding through Kwak Daehwi-style hard training without Diamond Body felt impossible, and putting the quests off meant wasting the remaining uses I still had.
But a bet was a bet.
"……Yes, hyung."
I answered short and finished steeling myself. Only one thing left now: whatever Kwak Daehwi was about to order.
I waited, quietly tense.
"Okay, then starting tomorrow—"
"……Huh?"
But the words that followed were nothing like what I had prepared myself for.