The Appointment is Set

"Alright, everyone’s here."

The Haneul High baseball team was doing a quick roll call in front of Sajik Baseball Stadium.

"Heo Kangmin."

"Yes."

"Yang Uijin."

"Yes!"

...

...

"Lee Seojun."

"Here."

Once my name was called and the roll call finished, people nearby noticed what we were doing and began to gather slowly.

The murmurs rippled through the growing crowd.

"What’s going on? Did some celebrity show up?"

"Ah, look at the hats. Must be the kids from Busan High."

"Didn’t Busan High’s bus get scrapped after that traffic accident? Wait, don’t tell me that’s their new one… nah, probably not."

Word that a baseball team had arrived spread quickly. Since this was Busan—the city of baseball—a small crowd of locals started to form.

"No, not them… it’s another school. Let me see… Haneul High?"

"What? Haneul High? That’s the school our Busan boys knocked out of the President’s Cup or the Golden Lion Tournament or whatever it was!"

Among them were some serious high school baseball fans.

Twitch…!

The manager’s face was a masterpiece of barely contained rage. When I glanced at the second- and third-years, it looked like he was the only one still bitter about it.

I get to watch this drama from the front row now.

With the massive influx ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of first-years, the power balance had completely flipped. The core players who had carried Busan High last year had all been drafted into the LT Oceans, so a comfortable victory was basically guaranteed.

He’ll probably show up.

In the practice games that ran from the first to the sixth inning, he didn’t appear often, but Haneul High had once scheduled a matchup against a strong school to boost its reputation. They dropped ten runs by the second inning and ended it via mercy rule. Of course, they later lost to Daeji High in a walk-off, but still.

A mercy-rule game, huh…

"…For now, head to the hotel and unpack. You’re all probably tired, so rest in your rooms. Come down to the food court on the first basement level when it’s time for dinner. I’ve already assigned roommates, so I’ll call out the names once we arrive."

After that, we took the bus to the hotel. My roommate turned out to be…

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

"…What do you want?"

"Nothing."

Ah. I was screwed.

...

...

...

The card key beeped, the door opened, and a stunning ocean-view room greeted us with the blue sea of Busan. Kim Sihu stepped inside.

"I’m taking the bed by the window."

"Do whatever you want."

I carefully set down the brand-new silver suitcase my parents had bought for the Busan trip and flopped onto the bed. It was…

Way too comfortable.

The mattress was so plush it felt almost unpleasant, creating a strange sense of disconnection.

"Doesn’t it feel weird to you?"

"Not really."

Kim Sihu must have been used to mattresses like this. He lay there completely relaxed, staring blankly at the ceiling lights. In my previous life, I’d never stayed in a hotel this luxurious, so everything felt new and fascinating.

We’d gone on school trips and training camps before, but those usually crammed six to eight people into a four-person room. Training camps were even worse—huge empty halls with nothing but rows of beds for an entire class.

Corporate-run private schools really are on another level.

Even at a glance, the hotel looked expensive. I’d assumed they’d put three or four per room to keep costs down, but two per room? I never saw that coming. GL really does have deep pockets.

I clicked the TV on. A screen popped up explaining which channel each button switched to.

"When’s the opening day again?"

"Next Tuesday, March twenty-third."

"Right. We should go watch it in person."

"…You mean the GL game? Or are you getting special treatment as a special admission student?"

"No, I’m going with Epinel to watch the Heroes."

"?"

"What, just because we’re from Haneul High, we all have to be GL fans? Is this place their third-string or fourth-string team or something?"

(It kind of was, though.)

"…I’ve got nothing to say to that."

Kim Sihu and I killed time watching classic Korean Series games—Kosh highlights, as they were called—hoping the hours would fly by.

"Yeah, next."

"……Wait, play that 1994 GL Devils clip one more time…"

"Weren’t you on your phone?"

Still, it was a surprisingly meaningful way to spend time. I learned that Kim Sihu wasn’t nearly as rude as I’d thought.

"By the way, is it okay that you gave up four runs against Seoul High?"

"……"

"Looking at your face, I guess there’s no need to worry."

When I glanced at him again, Kim Sihu didn’t look particularly scarred by the experience. If anything, he seemed to have grown a lot since then. His resolve felt different.

Kid’s got a good heart.

He’d probably been devastated by Haneul High’s absurd pitching depth and crushed under Yang Uijin’s constant nagging. His parents—high-ranking GL Group executives—had always demanded perfection. His grandfather in particular had passed away in the hospital without ever seeing the GL Devils win a championship. That tragedy became the catalyst for both Kim Sihu and Lee Taehyun’s awakening, setting the stage for their title the following year.

Kim Sihu’s reaction made sense, but I still didn’t quite understand why Lee Taehyun had awakened alongside him. Then again, they were rivals. He probably just grew on his own.

Still, it’s surprising.

Because of his strict personality, Kim Sihu got put through the wringer in the original story. After joining GL and becoming their ace, his grandfather passed away. Throughout his entire school career, he never once beat Lee Taehyun in a game.

There were only two scenarios in which Haneul High won the national tournament. First, if Lee Taehyun overexerted himself in an earlier round and couldn’t pitch against Haneul High, letting the weak Daeji High team get crushed on their way to the title. Second, if Lee Taehyun lost to another school and was eliminated. In those cases, Haneul High would always end up winning the tournament.

In order to elevate Kim Sihu’s reputation as the guy who always lost to Lee Taehyun, the story had Haneul High win every tournament Lee Taehyun missed. But the moment Lee Taehyun actually took the mound, Haneul High’s powerful lineup would be completely shut down. Then some random hero would hit one lucky bomb and Kim Sihu would collapse.

From Haneul High’s perspective, facing Daeji High with Lee Taehyun on the mound gave them a zero percent win rate. That was the Heaven and Earth Tournament.

Well, things are different now that I’m here.

I’d already grown by facing Choi Dong-il’s insane pitches. If anything, I should be the one making him hit a wall.

Things have already changed so much.

I’d predicted this the moment I stole his “wings,” but it still felt strange. The story had shifted. I’d openly taken what was supposed to be his spotlight and then crushed him so overwhelmingly that I nearly pushed him into a slump before he could even face Lee Taehyun.

Thankfully, Kim Sihu had overcome that trial.

"Yeah, giving up four runs was definitely a mistake, but what pitcher in the world doesn’t make mistakes… Ugh, saying that with the guy who never makes any right in front of me just feels terrible."

He was still prickly, but he really was one of the few ace-type pitchers Haneul High had.

"If you’re mad, you know what to do about it."

"Sigh… Anyway, I didn’t fall into a slump or anything, so stop worrying. There’s no way the ace of Haneul High would crumble that eas—"

"…Ace?"

I stared at him with a look that clearly said, You really think you’re the ace? Kim Sihu faltered for a second, then corrected himself.

"The future ace of Haneul High won’t crumble, so stop worrying."

"Sure, whatever. It’s not like it affects me. Even if you give up runs, our lineup scores so much you probably won’t even get a save chance anyway. What could go wrong?"

It was actually ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠weird that Lee Sanghwi had managed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to shut down Haneul High’s bats like a madman. Against most strong high schools, our lineup still put up two to four runs even without me. With me in the lineup, run support would only increase. The pitchers could throw with total confidence. Even if they gave up a run, they could just laugh it off with, “We’re up by a ton anyway, who cares about one point?”

It was an overwhelming positive feedback loop.

"After dinner, just sleep. Tomorrow’s for adjusting to Busan or whatever. They said we have free time from ten in the morning until nine at night."

"Got it."

Kim Sihu threw himself ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠onto the bed like he was ready to sleep, but apparently my loud TV watching annoyed him. He challenged me to a game with the remote.

"I win, right?"

"Ugh…!!!!"

A confident victory. After a pleasant dinner and the manager’s short roll call, we were about to head back to our rooms when—

"W-wait!"

"…?"

I turned at the sudden voice behind us. There stood the second- and third-year managers, and in front of them—clearly pushed forward—was Epinel.

Ah, they weren’t bullying her. They were cheering her on.

Looking closer, it was obvious they were supporting her. During all the time she’d spent with the baseball team, she clearly hadn’t been isolated. The managers had grown fond of her.

"U-um, Seojun. If you have time tomorrow… do you want to walk around together?"

"?"

Epinel’s surprise attack momentarily short-circuited my brain, but I quickly recovered.

"Sure, let’s do it."

"R-really?"

And just like that, my plans for the next day changed. I had been planning to visit Sajik Baseball Stadium, stop by the Choi Dong-il statue, maybe check out the museum, and kill time at the PC bang in the hotel basement that Oh Jihun had told me about.

But if I was going with Epinel, I could throw all of that away.

Or rather… I could just take her with me.