The “ball”—a steamroller—blasted off; its bulk tore the air, which screamed like a ripped banner.

Ai watched his own steamroller rebound toward him, his face clouded like mist over a pond. Why return a weapon to its owner like a fool?

Confused or not, Ai reeled the steamroller in like a hooked whale, while the other steamroller kept pressing like a second wave.

Seeing Ai play along, Lian’s joy rose like sunrise; sure enough, baseball wins hearts wherever the wind goes.

Two clashing tunes somehow found harmony, like off-key strings settling into one chord.

—style snaps—

Lian leaped high like a startled swallow. Both hands snagged the steamroller that skimmed by. She spun three and a half times in air, landed like rain on stone, then pitched with cloud-and-stream grace. Phantom judges flashed her a 9.8.

Ai wasn’t slow. His right foot bit earth, and the rebound flung him up like a catapult. His form cut sky like a muscular swan, then stilled mid-flight. His palm floated forward; a gold-red ring bloomed from its center, widening like sunrise until it could swallow a steamroller, all in less than a breath.

The ball sank into that ring like a feather on water, rippling once, then falling quiet, its beast’s temper tamed to a still lake.

Cradling the steamroller, Ai drifted down like a leaf on wind.

“Why do something so pointless?” His voice fell like cold rain.

Lian had another steamroller in hand. The word froze her like winter. “Pointless?” The air thickened like storm cloud. “Are you saying my baseball is pointless!”

Her roar cracked like thunder; even space shivered like a taut drum.

Ai didn’t flinch; his gaze stayed flat as stone. He truly didn’t know baseball, so he couldn’t grasp its weight.

“To me, it has no meaning.” His words dropped like stones in a well.

A steamroller lunged at him like a bull. He caught it in a blink, smooth as a cobra snapping a mouse.

Lian stared at the thief of her “ball,” her eyes burning like coals.

“Let’s settle it with a match and see if it matters.” Her voice rang like a bell before war.

Ai nodded, puzzled, his thoughts drifting like mist; from before, it seemed he just had to catch the ball.

“You pitch.” Lian’s tone flicked aside his idea like a fan brushing dust, and Ai’s mind stalled like a cart in mud.

Pitch? Like she did? He thought, then pulled out a steamroller, lifted it carelessly, and tossed. It traced a perfect arc in the sky like a hand-thrown rainbow.

“Are you insulting me?!” Her shout snapped like a whip, and she crushed the steamroller near her like brittle clay. “You see a woman and choose to insult me? If you’re a man, face me in a proper duel!”

The heat of it lit Ai like dry grass catching spark; the taciturn man felt his blood drum like war.

“Muda!” The cry split the air like a battle horn, and a steamroller speared at Lian, leaving afterimages like heat haze.

Lian drew the Darkness Sword from a hidden realm like a moon pulled from cloud. Two fingers pinched the brim of an invisible cap; a faint gleam flicked beneath it like a firefly. She set the Darkness Sword back like a bat cocked behind her shoulder.

“Staff Art: Weak-Point Strike.”

Darkness—bat—bit a single spot at a wicked angle, and a tiny force, like a pebble nudging a landslide, sent the steamroller flying hundreds of meters.

Ai sneered, lip curling like a knife. “So you’ve got some skill… then take this.”

He hefted another steamroller. One foot lifted; his center slid back like a wave drawing away. A sly smile crept in like moonlight through a slit.

“Z-curve Pitch!”

The steamroller blasted out, faster than before, a hawk stooping through cloud. Only eyes honed like a ninja could track it; Lian’s gaze was no less sharp.

“Hmph, nothing special.” She raised her bat and read the path like wind reading grass, ready to swing.

Whoosh—the bat cut the air like a scythe. If nothing changed, it would meet the ball in two seconds. But does battle ever spare surprises?

At the kiss-point, the ball turned to afterimage like smoke, and its real body flickered right like a ghost stepping aside. You can’t reel back a swing already spent, so the ball skimmed Lian’s sleeve like a dragonfly on water and slammed the wall behind her like a hammer.

Shock glazed her face like frost on glass. “What just happened?”

Ai shook his head, helpless as a man caught in rain. “See? A small trick and you’re lost. So what’s the point of your baseball?”

“That shouldn’t happen at all! How did you do that?” Her disbelief sparked like flint to tinder.

“Nothing fancy. I tremble my hand fast at release, load a strand of force into the ball, and once it flies, that hidden current drives it off-course.” His tone was casual, like a fisherman explaining a knot.

Lian eyed him with doubt like a cat watching grass. “Sounds kind of right, but something feels off… I think a gunman said that too.”

“So go home. Baseball isn’t for—”

“Who says?” Her cut-in snapped like a blade. “One more pitch. I’ve figured out how to crack your superpower ball.”

Ai shook his head, slow as a pendulum. He didn’t believe his proud skill could be broken; he wrote it off as bluff, like a gambler at dusk.

“It’ll be the same every time. My—”

His mockery stopped mid-swing. In Lian’s eyes he saw battle heat like a forge burning bright—an invitation no warrior could refuse.

“Hmph… fine. As you wish. One more pitch.” His answer fell like a gauntlet.