Mash-Up: I'm Not A Substitute

Before Aoba even had time to catch their breath after their win over Arayata, the fifth round began on August 13th.

It was the semifinal match.

Aoba vs. Chukyo High.

One more win would take them to the final. Neither team wanted to give up now, and it turned into a fierce battle.

"This match is a showdown between a monster and three genius pitchers."

By the bottom of the fifth inning, Takashi realized that Aoba—including himself—still hadn't managed to score a single run.

As the teams switched sides, Takashi stepped down from the mound and took a towel from a reserve player with his left hand. 

He wiped his face, draped the towel over his head, sat down, and panted heavily to recover.

"Takashi, can you still hold on?"

Amatani Kensuke looked at him with deep concern—or rather, at Takashi's right arm, which occasionally spasmed uncontrollably.

"I'm fine," Takashi muttered.

But the truth was, his arm was in terrible shape. He was close to breaking down.

As the tournament progressed, rest intervals got shorter.

He was getting less and less recovery time—while his opponents just kept getting stronger.

The power-hitting Osaka Toin, the relentless grit of Arayata, and now the unshakable pitching trio of Chukyo High… even Takashi was struggling.

He could carry the defense on his own—but offensively, he was helpless.

Every time he stepped up to bat, Chukyo High just walked him with three balls. They refused to give him a chance for even a single or home run. It was shameless.

Sure, he got on base—but his teammates couldn't move him forward.

They had the momentum, but couldn't turn it into points.

Chukyo High's strategy was simple.

On offense: just swing randomly until the ninth inning.

On defense: walk Takashi, then crush his teammates.

They couldn't beat Takashi—but the rest of Aoba? Fair game.

Everyone could see it. Chukyo High had simply copied the strategy that Soubu High had used: wear Takashi's arm down.

They were waiting for the moment his stamina dropped into the negatives—waiting for him to break.

The packed schedule gave Takashi no time to rest.

The side effects of using [Popeye Mode] were showing. His arm hurt more and more.

Even raising it now felt like a test of will.

What should I do?

Takashi pondered desperately while resting.

…

On the Aoba side, everyone looked tense and weighed down with worry.

In contrast, Chukyo High's side was relaxed, even cheerful.

"Hey, Ryota, have you thought about what you'll do after you beat Takashi?"

One of the players asked Chukyo's top pitcher, Furusu Ryota.

Ryota smiled after thinking for a moment. "I want him to sign my jersey."

"No way, did you even hear his interview the other day?"

Another teammate muttered in disgust.

Takashi's interview about Ichika and Hoshino Ai had gone viral. 

His arrogant demeanor—like he looked down on all other athletes as jokes—had provoked a lot of people.

It was like a boulder had been dropped into a still lake. The online space exploded: fans, haters, netizens, everyone was arguing about him.

The flood of discussion even briefly crashed Twitter.

That's how big Takashi was now.

Just to illustrate: even when Japan's Prime Minister died, Tokyo TV kept airing a food festival. But for Takashi's interview, they cleared a special broadcast.

Some netizens joked, "I don't know if Takashi's the strongest pitcher in Koshien history, but he's definitely the most talked-about."

"So, you saw it. And?"

"How did you feel?"

"He wasn't wrong. He's the strongest I've ever seen."

Furusu Ryota's reply was completely unexpected.

"Ryota's right. Without Takashi, Aoba wouldn't have made it this far."

Another member of Chukyo High's ace trio, Shiyo Koya, chimed in.

"He's the king of Aoba."

The final member of the trio, the only third-year, Kabe Keita, wiped sweat from his face and stared directly at Takashi warming up in the bullpen.

Some people hated Takashi's arrogance. Some criticized his pride.

But no one dared say he sucked.

"That team belongs to Takashi."

"If he wins, they win."

"If he loses, they lose."

"The whole team's fate rests on one man's shoulders. You can't imagine the pressure he's under."

Only by becoming his opponent did Chukyo's three aces understand how terrifying that man truly was.

Since the start of Koshien, Takashi had pitched them all the way into the final four—on his own.

The biggest difference between Takashi and Chukyo wasn't skill. 

It was bench depth.

Even if one of Chukyo's pitchers got injured, they still had two more aces.

What about Takashi?

If he fell, Aoba was done.

Right now, that team was running on Takashi's sheer willpower.

This match had never been fair.

On paper, it was a one-on-one duel between pitchers.

But Takashi had thrown every single pitch himself.

To get this far, he'd thrown over 200 pitches.

Chukyo's team had thrown 300+, which sounded like more…

But Takashi had thrown 200+ alone.

Chukyo's 300+ pitches were split among three people.

That's only 100-ish per pitcher.

Their rotation gave each of them time to rest, recover, and avoid injury.

Takashi had no one backing him up.

From the beginning, this had been a three-vs-one fight. Like Three Heroes vs. Lu Bu.

What could Takashi possibly use to stop them?

"Aoba is lucky—they have Takashi."

"But Takashi is unlucky—because all he has is himself."

"These days, one man alone can't change everything anymore."

Kabe Keita's eyes held a trace of admiration.

A third-year about to graduate, admiring a first-year?

Out loud, it sounded ridiculous.

But Kabe Keita didn't see it that way.

Strength doesn't care about age.

"Let's go. Let me give this Demon King of Aoba a dignified curtain call."

Kabe Keita suddenly stood up and turned to his teammates.

"Yes!"

Under the scorching sun, carrying dreams of defeating the Demon King, the warrior stepped out of the bullpen.

It was midsummer. 

The blazing sun beat down, with temperatures at 34 degrees Celsius.

On the mound, Takashi was supporting himself with his left hand on his knee, panting heavily like a fish about to be stranded on land.

Large beads of sweat clung to his forehead, ready to fall at any moment.

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