Mash-Up: I'm Not A Substitute

BEEP! BEEP BEEP—

As the head umpire blew the final whistle and the air-raid siren blared, the scoreboard read: Aoba 3 - 0 Osaka Toin.

This match hadn't been easy for Aoba.

The one-sided slaughter Takashi imagined never happened.

Up until the eighth inning, the score between Aoba and Osaka Toin was locked at 0–0.

Takashi was indeed powerful, but Osaka Toin's pitcher was just as formidable.

He may not have matched Takashi's pitch speed, but he had experience, varied throws, and viciously angled curveballs that left Aoba's batters frustrated—dominant but scoreless.

Even if Takashi struck out all the opposing batters every inning, Aoba still couldn't score if their offense didn't break through.

That's why neither team could gain an edge until the eighth inning.

Osaka Toin's pitcher didn't have to be better than Takashi—just better than his teammates.

And that's exactly why the score was stuck for so long.

In the end, Aoba won only because the opposing pitcher's speed dropped and they couldn't hold off Aoba's final push.

It was a grueling victory.

Even though Aoba won, the team was pushed to their absolute limit.

Every face was soaked in sweat, their fatigue visible even in their eyes.

Especially Takashi.

After pitching for nine and a half innings, his arm was almost ruined.

His right arm felt like it was going numb—he couldn't even move his fingers.

Takashi's edge had always been his overwhelming pitch speed.

To pitch at a speed beyond human limits, he needed explosive strength.

Explosive strength depended on fast-twitch muscle fibers, and muscle movement naturally produced lactic acid. 

Breaking down lactic acid required time.

Takashi's pitching form was wide and powerful, and he always raised his left leg high before pitching. 

This increased force—but also placed enormous strain on his waist and hips.

When his stamina was full, he could manage without injury. But repeated motions in a short time would inevitably lead to breakdown, increasing the risk of injury.

In this Koshien, a sacred field of glory and dreams, many pitchers had been broken trying to carry their team alone.

Takashi wasn't ignorant of that risk, but Aoba Private High had no depth on the bench.

Their backup pitchers and catchers could hold out in normal games—but against Koshien-level teams, they'd get crushed.

Even knowing the risks, Takashi had no choice but to keep throwing.

"My God, unbelievable! Unbelievable!"

"Takashi's pitch speed remained above 165 km/h the entire game!"

The female commentator had completely lost her composure.

Then the male commentator shouted what everyone was thinking:

"A monster!"

Osaka Toin absolutely played at a championship level.

But even so, Takashi single-handedly shut down their entire batting lineup.

From first to ninth batter, Osaka Toin's offense was completely shaved clean—left scoreless by Takashi alone.

Right now, Takashi was like a storm cloud looming over all of Koshien.

Every coach in the country was wondering how to beat this monster.

Beside them, guest commentator Sakurajima Mai kept calm and smiled as she said, "Let's congratulate Takashi for leading Aoba to advance smoothly into the quarterfinals."

The prestigious Osaka Toin packed their bags and ended their summer early.

Under the coach's harsh command, Uezu Yuta stumbled back to the team, got in formation, and bowed to the crowd.

During the post-game handshake, Takashi didn't extend his hand.

He was afraid the other side would notice how his hand was trembling uncontrollably.

Takashi wasn't the type to reveal his weaknesses, so he turned and left without a word, appearing arrogant and rude.

But no one dared stop him.

No one criticized him.

Everyone had nearly grown accustomed to Takashi's arrogance.

The truth was—Takashi had crafted this image from the start.

Yes, from the beginning, he had deliberately built a "persona."

He knew better than anyone how much controversy and criticism that would bring—but he did it anyway.

If he was going to be criticized no matter what, then he might as well make it louder.

Takashi chose the path of maximum exposure and maximum controversy.

And because of the groundwork he'd laid, whatever he did now felt totally in character.

Not just the audience—even Coach Amatani Kensuke had gotten used to it.

…

Just moments ago, Takashi had stood calm and proud in front of the cameras.

But the second he returned to the locker room, he clutched his right arm and collapsed to a squat, breathing heavily—"huff, huff!"

Power always comes at a price.

If it had only been for one inning, it would've just hurt a bit.

But in this single game, Takashi had thrown more than thirty pitches.

Now, every joint in his right arm ached as if something inside had broken. 

His entire arm felt like a malfunctioning machine—each part grinding against the next, foreign and disconnected, as if it didn't belong to him.

Knock knock!

Takashi leaned against the locker room door. Hearing the knock, he assumed one of the players had come back. 

He quickly composed himself, stood up with a relaxed smile, and opened the door.

But the person outside surprised him.

Takashi stared at Narii. "What are you doing here?"

"To apply medicine," Narii said, patting the small medical bag on her back.

"I can do it myself."

"Why not? It's not like my hands are broken."

Narii gave him a look and suddenly grabbed his arm.

Takashi winced in pain, his face tightening as sweat appeared on his brow.

"I didn't even use any force. You still think you can treat yourself?"

Her stern yet beautiful eyes locked with his.

"It's just a minor twist while pitching."

He looked away, speaking calmly.

"Get in."

Narii shoved Takashi back into the locker room and stepped in herself, locking the door behind her.

"Take off your shirt. Or wait—I'll do it."

As she moved to help him undress, Takashi protested, "My arm isn't broken. I can do it myself."

Narii just glanced at him and said nothing more.

She pulled out anti-inflammatory spray from her kit. 

Once Takashi took off his shirt and exposed the right side of his body, she carefully sprayed his elbow, shoulder, wrist, and middle finger joints. 

Then she expertly applied ice packs and cooling patches.

Her movements were precise and gentle—just like a real doctor.

"It's alright. Just a ligament contusion and minor joint inflammation from accumulated strain."

After examining him thoroughly, Narii finally relaxed.

Takashi's injury was caused by overextending his joints—common among manual laborers or athletes.

"How come I never knew you knew how to treat injuries?"

Takashi looked down at the ice packs on his arm.

"That's because you never paid attention to me. Your eyes were always on those plastic b*tches outside."

Her voice held a hint of grievance.

"I have my reasons."

Takashi had no intention of telling anyone about the system.

He would take that secret to the grave.

This was as much as he could tell Narii.

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