Awakening After the Trade (3)
Buzz—! Buzz—!
“·····”
Even after finishing batting practice, Hajun stepped outside and kept swinging the bat. He wanted to feel that sensation from the cage one more time.
Was I always like this?
He hadn’t even faced a real pitcher—just balls from the pitching machine. Yet he couldn’t remember the last time the ball had looked so clear or the bat had come around so lightly.
No way?
Anyone who overheard him might call it ridiculous. But the memory was so vivid he couldn’t help guessing: that whatever he’d experienced in the dream was bleeding into reality. That the Bronze Skill Set had strengthened his hitting?
“Ha. Give me a break.”
It was absurd, of course. No matter how far the world advanced, something this nonsensical simply didn’t happen.
“Still feels good, though.”
One thing was certain—his batting feel today was outstanding. If every day felt like this, he’d have real confidence even in the first team.
Baseball demanded patience. Especially for a player like Hajun, who was never guaranteed at-bats. Days when the ball jumped off the bat this cleanly were rare little gifts of happiness.
But·····
Benched again today, of course.
There was no spot for Hajun in the Daejeon Hawks’ second-team starting lineup. When the trade first happened he’d allowed himself a tiny, foolish hope—that maybe the Hawks had actually seen something in him. Reality was colder. Even in the second team they didn’t hand out playing time easily, young as he still was at twenty-three.
In the end he was just the throw-in who came along with the two real pieces.
Hajun let out a long internal sigh and headed for the dugout. Cheering for the team was still a professional’s duty.
“Player substitution!”
“Hajun, you’re in.”
His turn. The role that had defined him so far: pinch runner. As always, his game began not at the plate but on first base.
A little disappointing, yeah.
Pinch-running even in the second team. Today’s game wouldn’t write the rest of his career, but it still left a sour taste.
Still·····
Tat-tat—!
Hajun broke for second on the very first pitch. He’d been watching—the opposing pitcher wasn’t sharp at holding runners, and the delivery was easy to time.
“Safe!”
The second-base umpire’s call was almost obligatory. Hajun had stolen the bag with room to spare.
Yeah. For now, I survive.
Whatever he’d seen in the dream, no matter how sweet his swing felt today, he had to do every single thing he could. He’d promised his father. And he wanted to stay a baseball player for even one more year.
Something appeared before his eyes.
A baseball stadium—far larger than the one he’d seen during the day. No one else was visible except himself.
“Whoa. Is this actually real?”
Having fallen asleep in the dorm, Hajun had arrived here again.
Pitches: 0/20
290 Points
The message floating in front of him left Hajun stunned.
The points I earned yesterday are still here·····
And the dream itself was impossibly vivid. Two nights in a row, the same dream, the content continuing, this unreal clarity—by any measure he knew, it had already crossed into the supernatural.
He swallowed hard. Something stirred deep in his chest.
What if—just what if—this game-like system really could affect reality?
He stepped forward. Once again a pitcher appeared on the mound. Hajun raised the bat, ready to hit the twenty pitches that man would throw.
“Hoo·····”
One deep breath. If he could truly grow steadily like a game character, becoming the best hitter in the league would be nothing.
The pitcher wound up cleanly and delivered.
Crack—!
Hajun swung hard; the ball dropped into the outfield.
“Please!”
Crack—!
He poured every ounce of longing into the swing. Let this impossible world save his baseball life.
“Hah····· hah·····”
Pitches: 20/20
770 Points
Yesterday it had been 290. Today, 480 more. With far sharper focus he’d posted a much better result.
He swallowed again and waited for the message that mattered more than anything.
Contact / Defense — [BRONZE]
“There it is!”
The Skill Set appeared. Relief broke across Hajun’s face—and right beside it, something else.
Points required for next stage: 770 / 10,000
“Right. I was too out of it yesterday to notice.”
He understood at once. Those were the remaining points needed for the next Contact/Defense Skill Set—the Silver one. Digging through his memory, he recalled that in the actual game unlocking Silver had also required 10,000 points.
“·····”
Hajun pressed the button immediately. His thoughts still hadn’t settled.
“Ah!”
“What the hell are you doing?”
On a rare day off, Jin Yeongil nearly jumped when his roommate Hajun suddenly shouted himself awake from a nap.
“Did a girl show up in your dream or something?”
“·····”
Hajun didn’t hear a word Yeongil said.
So that method doesn’t work.
Roughly a week had passed since he’d started treating the events in the dream as part of reality. What he’d figured out so far: for reasons he still didn’t understand, a game-style career-mode growth system was happening to him. And the dream only came once a day. Sleeping at night and then napping in the afternoon didn’t bring the stadium back.
Of course, that restriction barely counted as a restriction. There was no need to rush.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
Even the Bronze Skill Set alone was already a meaningful weapon for the player he was now. That razor-sharp batting feel from that first day was still with him—clear enough that he could finally accept it as his own ability.
“Hey.”
“Ah—yes!”
Yeongil finally snapped him out of the weird behavior.
“Your hyung’s getting called up to the first team and you’re acting like this?”
Yeongil had been called up for tomorrow. Coming down to the second team in his place was the Hawks’ starting second baseman, Ji Gyeongjun, fresh off injury.
“Congratulations, hyung.”
Hajun offered the proper congratulations for Yeongil’s return to the first team. Truthfully he had no room left in his head for it. All that filled him was anticipation for the future and the burning urge to show how much he’d changed.
Crack—!
A hard-hit ball rocketed toward the gap, trying to split the infield.
“Damn it!”
The Daegu Warriors second-team hitter cursed as he sprinted for first. The sharp grounder never made it through— the shortstop’s glove snagged it clean.
“Out!”
Lee Hajun, inserted at shortstop late in the second-team game, had ranged into the hole between third and short, scooped the ball that looked destined for left field, and fired a strong, accurate throw that beat the runner by a step.
“Was that kid always that good with the glove?”
“Heh. Manager, what did I tell you?”
The defensive coach had been saying for days that the new transfer’s defense was no ordinary thing. In fungo drills he’d looked every bit the equal of a league-veteran shortstop. The hitting coach kept recommending him too.
Maybe I should give him a longer look.
With the first team in disarray and the second-team development moving too slowly, Daejeon Hawks second-team manager No Donghyeon felt a rare spark of interest.
“Heh. Leave him in for the next at-bat.”
“Sir? But looking at their bullpen—”
“You need a real opponent to measure a real player, don’t you?”
“Gyeongjun, how’s the body?”
“Already good.”
Hawks second baseman Ji Gyeongjun had been out with a leg injury and had only recently returned, joining the second team to get his timing back. Daegu Warriors’ ironclad closer Shim Jaehun was also down here, sharpening his condition for a first-team return.
“You and me both—if we want another big FA payday, we gotta keep grinding.”
“True.”
FA, huh·····
Ji Gyeongjun thought back to the day he’d first signed with the Daejeon Hawks as a free agent. The return of Yu Seungjin—the franchise icon, the left-handed ace who’d left a real mark even in the majors. Young, famous talent. A brand-new state-of-the-art stadium about to open. A parent company flush with cash. When he’d first arrived everything had looked rosy. How had it come to this?
Where should I go next FA?
He wanted to play for a team that could actually win. As long as he performed, plenty of clubs would pay him well enough. Little by little the name “Hawks” was fading from his heart.
Annoying. Let’s just finish this.
Bottom of the ninth, 4–2. Daegu Warriors’ first-team closer Shim Jaehun took the mound.
“Hm?”
He knew the leadoff hitter. The kid who always came in late whenever they played the Seoul Lakers.
Second team, so of course he’s getting at-bats.
A pure pinch-runner who almost never stepped into the box. On the rare occasions he did hit, he was completely unthreatening.
Perfect. Easy first out.
Pop—!
“Strike!”
A fastball jammed tight on the hands. The board flashed 150 km/h. Across the entire Korean professional league, Shim Jaehun’s heavy fastball was famous; when it came in at 150 with perfect location, hitters had no chance. With a first-team return right around the corner, there was no reason to hold anything back.
He exchanged signs with the catcher and set again. Same location—another well-commanded inside fastball.
Crack—!
“Huh?”
Lee Hajun’s bat whipped through the zone with vicious speed. The ball rocketed off the barrel—too hard to die in the infield, yet not quite deep enough for the right fielder to camp under it and throw him out.
“Safe!”
Hajun’s legs carried him all the way to second.
“·····”
It had been a perfect pitch inside. Yet he’d just given up a clean hit—to a guy who, in the first team, would have been an automatic out just by stepping into the box.
Fluke····· right?
Shim Jaehun waved the catcher back down. Just a lucky swing. That was all it could be.