Chapter Text
The celebration in the Seidou canteen was more than just a dinner; it was a riot of colors, sounds, and the heavy, wonderful smell of victory. The long tables were pushed together, groaning under the weight of "Winner’s Specials"—towering piles of golden-brown tonkatsu, mountains of shredded cabbage, and bowls of rice so large they looked like small hills.
"ANOTHER BOWL! AND DON'T SKIMP ON THE GRAVY THIS TIME!" Sawamura Eijun’s voice acted like a lightning strike, cutting through the hum of forty other conversations. He stood up, his chair screeching against the linoleum floor, his gold medal swinging wildly like a pendulum against his chest.
"Eijun-kun, sit down! You’re going to knock over the tea!" Haruichi pleaded. He had grown his hair out slightly over the three years, looking more and more like his brother Ryosuke, but his temperament remained the anchor that kept Sawamura from floating away. He grabbed the back of Eijun’s jersey, trying to pull him back into his seat. "You’ve already had four bowls. Even your stomach has limits."
"LIMITS? THE ACE OF SEIDOU KNOWS NO LIMITS, HARUCHI!" Sawamura declared, striking a pose that was half-heroic and half-ridiculous. He turned his gaze toward the end of the table where the younger students sat. "Look at the first years! They’re trembling! Is it from the intensity of my aura, or the sheer majesty of my pitching today?!"
Okumura Koushuu, sitting directly across from him, didn't even look up. He was meticulously separating the ginger from his rice, his face a mask of stoic irritation. A visible white aura—cold and sharp—shimmered around him, clashing with the warm, golden energy Sawamura was putting out.
"They're trembling because you're shouting directly into their ears, Senpai," Okumura said, his voice like dry parchment. "And for the record, your 'majesty' almost gave up a lead-off double in the fifth because you were too busy nodding at the scouts in the stands."
Sawamura froze, his jaw dropping. "I WAS NOT NODDING! I WAS... ACKNOWLEDGING THE SPIRIT OF THE STADIUM! And you! Wolf Boy! You’re still sulking because Coach started Yui-shounen today, aren't you? Your eyes are like a hungry stray dog's!"
Okumura’s grip tightened on his chopsticks until they creaked. "I am not sulking. I am analyzing the game footage in my head to see where your control wavered."
"LIAR! You were making that 'grrr' sound the whole time you were in the dugout!" Sawamura leaned over the table, his face inches from Okumura’s. "But admit it! That last pitch! The Number 11 improved version! It felt like lightning in your glove, didn't it?!"
Okumura paused. A flicker of something—actual respect—crossed his sharp features before he suppressed it. "It was... acceptable. Barely."
"WAHAHA! HE SAID IT! HE CALLED IT DIVINE!"
"I said acceptable!"
SMACK.
The sound of a heavy palm hitting the back of a skull echoed through the room. Sawamura’s face met his rice bowl with a muffled 'thump'.
"Shut it, loudmouth. Some of us are trying to give a victory speech," Kanemaru Shinji grumbled. As the Captain, Kanemaru had developed a 'Sawamura-handling' technique that was refined and brutal. He didn't even look angry; he just looked tired, like a parent dealing with a hyperactive toddler.
"Kanemaru... you're so mean..." Sawamura whined, peeling his face out of the rice, a few grains stuck to his nose. "I’m the hero today! I threw 120 pitches!"
"And I caught 80 of them after coming in, so behave yourself," Okumura added, finally taking a bite of his food.
The table erupted in laughter. To the side, Furuya Satoru was peacefully drifting in a sea of his own making. He had finished three bowls of rice and was now staring blankly at a piece of broccoli, a small puff of steam rising from his head. He looked like a masterpiece of contentment.
"Furuya! Don't fall asleep in the middle of the feast!" Sawamura barked, turning his attention to his rival. "We still have to settle who gets more time on the mound in the fall exhibition!"
Furuya blinked slowly, his dark eyes focusing on Eijun. "I’m not sleeping. I’m... recovering. And I’m the one who started the game today. The Ace... is still me in spirit."
"WHAT?! OVER MY DEAD BODY, YOU PITCHING MONSTER!"
The dinner continued like this for hours—a chaotic, warm, and loud symphony of a team at its peak. They talked about the pitches that worked, the errors that nearly cost them, and the sheer euphoria of seeing the Seidou flag fly highest at Koshien for the second year in a row. It was a perfect moment, frozen in time, where the bond of the "diamond" felt unbreakable.
–
The celebration eventually hummed down into a satisfied, heavy glow. One by one, the players stumbled back to the Takao dorms, their stomachs full and their hearts light. Sawamura, however, felt a strange buzz beneath his skin—an electric current that even nine innings of high-pressure pitching hadn't fully discharged.
Sleep was impossible. The silence of the room he shared with Kanemaru felt too loud compared to the cheering crowds of Koshien. He slipped out of his futon with practiced stealth, grabbing his glove from the desk.
The walk to the practice field was one he had done thousands of times, often in the early morning mist or the grueling heat of mid-afternoon. But tonight, the air was cool and the campus was a ghost of its usual self. The massive stadium lights were dark, replaced by the pale, silver glow of the moon and a single, flickering security lamp near the third-base dugout.
Sawamura climbed the fence and walked toward the heart of the diamond. As he reached the mound, he stopped. He didn't begin to shadow pitch or run drills. He simply stood there, his feet finding the familiar, worn-down ruts in the clay.
He looked down at his chest. Even in his casual clothes, he could feel the ghost of the number '1' pressed against his spine. It had been a long, jagged road to get that number. He remembered the tears of the first summer, the crushing weight of the Yips where he couldn't even throw to the inside, and the long months of being "the other pitcher" while Furuya took the spotlight.
But I made it, he thought, his chest swelling with a quiet, fierce pride. Two years at the top of the nation. I didn't just get the number; I kept it.
His mind wandered through the library of his memories. He thought of his "Numbers"—the evolved arsenal of cutters, splitters, and change-ups he had painstakingly crafted. He thought of how his grip had changed from a clumsy, accidental movement to the surgical precision of a master craftsman. He had learned so much about the "Art of the Battery"—the psychological chess match between pitcher and batter.
He thought of Haruichi—his "Haruchi"—who had been the first to truly believe in him at Seidou. He thought of Furuya, the "Monster" who had pushed him to his absolute limits. He chuckled softly, remembering how they used to compete over everything from pitch speed to who could eat more rice. That rivalry had been the forge that tempered his spirit.
And then, his thoughts drifted to the person who had pulled him from the countryside of Nagano in the first place.
"Miyuki Kazuya..." he whispered to the night air.
That four-eyed tanuki. The captain who had challenged him, mocked him, and ultimately shaped him. Sawamura remembered the sting of Miyuki’s retirement—how the team felt empty for a few weeks before they had to step up.
He had heard the news recently: Miyuki had been drafted into the Major Leagues after a dominant stint in the Japanese professional leagues. He was currently in New York, probably acting smug while catching for some 100-mph American fireballer.
A cheeky, mischievous grin spread across Sawamura’s face. That senpai... he’s probably over there thinking I’m crying because I miss him. Just you wait. I’m going to call him tomorrow morning—no, tonight! It's morning over there! I’ll show him the photo of the trophy. I’ll tell him we didn't need his "lead" to win it all again.
He could almost hear Miyuki’s annoying laugh in his head. 'Sasuga, Bakamura. You finally learned how to win without me?'
"Sawamura-senpai..."
The voice was low and sharp, cutting through Eijun's internal monologue. He spun around, nearly losing his footing on the mound.
Okumura Koushuu stood at the edge of the dirt. His blonde hair looked almost white under the security lamp, and his "Wolf Boy" intensity was dialed up to the maximum. He looked at Sawamura with a face that screamed "I am dealing with an idiot."
"UWAAH! WOLF BOY! Why are you lurking in the shadows like a forest predator?!" Sawamura barked, his dramatic flair returning instantly.
Okumura didn't move. He stared at Eijun, then at the empty mound. "I could ask you the same thing. It’s 2:00 AM. Are you sleepwalking? Or did the victory finally make your brain short-circuit?"
Sawamura puffed out his chest, pointing a finger at the sky. "I am communing with the Goddess of Victory, you ungrateful underclassman! I am reflecting on the glorious path of the Ace!"
Okumura let out a long, weary sigh. "You’re standing in your pajamas in the middle of a dark field. If a scout saw you now, they’d revoke your scholarship for mental instability."
Sawamura’s shoulders slumped slightly, his bravado softening into a genuine smile. "I just... I wanted to see it one more time. The view from here is different when the stadium is quiet, Koushuu."
Okumura paused, his gaze softening just a fraction. He looked at the mound—the place he had spent the last year helping Sawamura defend. "It’s your last year," Okumura said quietly. "You’ve given everything to this dirt. Even I can see that."
"Yeah," Sawamura said, looking down at his hands—the calloused, scarred hands of a pitcher. "I’ve learned almost too much, haven't I? I wish I could tell that loud-mouthed kid from Nagano... that it was all worth it."
He looked at Okumura. "Go to bed, Wolf Boy. You need your rest if you’re going to catch my 'improved Number 9' in the exhibition match next week."
"I told you, I'm already prepared for that pitch," Okumura muttered, though he turned to head back to the dorms. "Don't catch a cold, Senpai. It would be pathetic if the National Champion died of a fever on his own mound."
Sawamura laughed—a bright, clear sound that echoed off the empty bleachers. He watched Okumura walk away, then took one last deep breath of the scent of clay and grass before walk off from it.
He felt a strange, heavy warmth spreading through his limbs. The world seemed to tilt slightly. I really am tired, he thought, his eyes fluttering shut. Just a quick nap... and then I'll call Miyuki...
But as the darkness took him, the sound of the wind changed. The smell of the Seidou grass faded, replaced by the scent of old wood and the distant, familiar hum of a cicada in the Nagano countryside.
–
It was the slow, rhythmic sound of a cicada buzzing against a window screen and the smell of old tatami mats—scents that should have been buried deep in his memories of Nagano.
"Eijun! Get up, you lazy brat! The sun is already mocking you!"
The voice of his grandfather, Sawamura Eitoku, thundered through the paper sliding doors.
Eijun groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow. Gramps... since when did he fly to the Koshien hotel? he thought groggily. He felt heavy, his limbs moving like they were submerged in honey. He stumbled out of his futon, his eyes half-closed, navigating the hallway by pure instinct.
He sat at the low dining table, his head bobbing as he picked up his chopsticks. His mother placed a bowl of rice and some grilled fish in front of him. Eijun began to eat with the mechanical efficiency of an athlete, but as he scraped the bottom of the ceramic bowl, a sense of profound wrongness washed over him.
"Wait..." he mumbled, poking at the empty bowl. "Usually... one bowl of rice doesn't make me feel full. Why is my stomach so small? And where’s the protein shake? Kanemaru usually nags me if I don’t drink it..."
He blinked, looking around. This wasn't the high-end hotel in Hyogo. This was his house. The old clock on the wall was ticking with a slow, rustic beat.
I must have slept through the bus ride back to Nagano, he reasoned, still half-dreaming. He stood up and shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He stepped onto the tile, reached for his toothbrush, and finally looked up at the mirror.
The toothbrush clattered into the sink.
"AHHHHHHH!"
Eijun leaned in so close his nose touched the glass. The sharp, defined jawline of a twenty-course meal athlete was gone. The lean, wiry muscles he had spent three years building in the Seidou gym had vanished. In their place was a scrawny, soft-faced kid with wide, frantic eyes. He looked down at his chest. His ribs were visible. His arms looked like toothpicks.
"Where is it?!" he screamed, slapping his own biceps. "My muscle! My definition! My power! Who stole my gains?!"
He bolted out of the bathroom, sprinting into the living room where his father was calmly reading the newspaper. "POPS! WHY AM I SMALL? Why am I here?! We just won Koshien! We were supposed to have a parade! Is this a kidnapping?! Am I being held for ransom by the losing team?!"
His father looked over the top of his paper, completely unimpressed. "What are you shouting about? You’re here because you live here. And of course you’re doing a match today. You’ve been talking about this junior high tournament for weeks."
Before Eijun could process that, the family landline rang. His mother picked it up, nodding. "Yes, Wakana-chan. He’s... well, he’s awake. He’s currently screaming about his muscles. I'll tell him."
She hung up and looked at Eijun. "Wakana says if you're late for the meeting at the school gates, she’s going to make the team run laps without you."
Eijun stood frozen in the middle of the room. Wakana? Junior high tournament? Suddenly, a memory—vivid and painful—struck him like a lightning bolt. This was the day of the Nagano regional qualifiers. The day he threw the stray pitch that ended his team's dreams. The day before he ever met Rei Takashima.
THWACK!
"GAHHH!" Eijun yelped as his grandfather’s foot connected squarely with his backside.
"Stop standing there like a decorative plant and go take a bath! You stink of sleep and stupidity!" the old man roared.
Eijun’s eyes darted to the large calendar hanging on the wall. He scanned the numbers, his breath hitching in his throat. The year was circled in red.
Five years.
He was back. Exactly five years into the past.
He wasn't the Ace of Seidou. He wasn't the National Champion. He was just a loud kid in a small town with a team that barely knew how to play baseball. All that sweat, all those "Numbers," all the games he had won with Miyuki and Okumura... they hadn't happened yet.
Eijun threw his head back, his face contorting into a mask of pure, comedic fury. He shook his fists at the ceiling, his voice echoing through the quiet Nagano morning.
"YOU CRUEL, BASTARD GODS! IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF A JOKE?!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "YOU BROUGHT ME BACK TO THE BEGINNING?! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD I WORKED FOR THAT JERSEY?! I HAD TO EAT SO MUCH RICE! SO! MUCH! RICE!"
He fell to his knees, clutching his scrawny chest. "And my phone! I didn't get to call that four-eyed tanuki! I was going to brag! I was going to rub the trophy in his face!"
"SHUT UP AND GET IN THE TUB!" his grandfather yelled, throwing a towel at his head.
Eijun grabbed the towel, his crying stopped instantly. A strange, sharp glint appeared in his eyes—the eyes of the Ace who had stared down the best hitters in Japan.
"Fine," he whispered, a smirk slowly spreading across his youthful face. "You want to play, Gods? Fine. I’ll show you. If I’m back in junior high... then this time, nobody is going to score a single run off me. Not one."
𝔗𝔬 𝔟𝔢 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔢𝔡