The Genius Hitter Who Conquered America - Chapter 74

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 74
Beneath Arizona’s scorching sun, a man stood upon the Mound.
193 centimeters tall, 95 kilograms—a physique sculpted as if by Roman masters, flawlessly hewn.
Blonde hair spilled slightly from beneath his cap, and his blue eyes gazed emotionlessly at the Catcher’s glove.
Victor Moretti.
Just twenty-two years old this year.
A pitcher for the Triple-A affiliate of the New York Yankees and the ace starter for the AFL Scottsdale Scorpions.
Yet these credentials fell woefully short of capturing who he truly was.
‘Time crawls here.’
Victor fidgeted with the rosin bag, stifling a yawn.
It was tedious.
Everything moved with agonizing slowness, utterly mundane.
Others called this Arizona Fall League a dream stage or a land of opportunity, throwing themselves at it with burning eyes.
For Victor, it was merely a tiresome waiting room.
In four months, Spring Training would commence.
And he had already secured a guarantee from the organization to join the Opening Day roster.
In other words, he was not an aspiring Major Leaguer—he was a Major Leaguer on temporary leave.
‘I want to stand on the Yankee Stadium Mound already. At least that might entertain me.’
The reason for his unwavering confidence was simple.
Victor had grown up never knowing the word defeat.
God was unfair.
While others coughed blood training to throw even one mile per hour faster.
He woke from sleep to find his velocity had increased by two miles per hour.
At fifteen, he threw ninety miles per hour.
At seventeen, he reached ninety-five miles per hour.
And he was the first overall draft pick.
Now he had already surpassed the hundred-mile-per-hour barrier.
People called him a talent that appeared once in a century.
Minor League Baseball was a narrow fishbowl to him.
From Single-A to Triple-A.
He had never once encountered a wall.
Batters did not hit his pitches—they scrambled to evade them in terror.
‘This place is no different.’
Victor’s gaze shifted toward the opposing Dugout.
The Desert Dogs’ batters came into view.
What emanated from their eyes was neither fighting spirit nor competitive hunger.
Unmistakable fear.
The gaze of prey animals confronting the apex predator in the food chain.
‘Boring.’
Victor’s lips curled into a bitter smile.
What he craved was a rival who could set his heart racing.
But in this narrow Minor League circuit, no such competitor existed.
Today’s game would be no different.
If I played along casually, they’d swing at air and the game would end on its own.
‘I should wrap this up quick and grab a steak.’
That arrogant thought was no exaggeration whatsoever.
He was Victor Moretti, after all.
The chosen one standing at the pinnacle of every prospect in this world.
That was when it happened.
Victor’s eyebrow twitched slightly as he prepared for the top of the first inning with a bored expression.
The leadoff batter was walking into the Batter’s Box.
‘At least someone interesting showed up.’
Oh Soo-ho.
I’d heard he was Korean.
This wasn’t the first game against the Desert Dogs, but facing him in the rotation was a first.
Victor tossed the ball into his glove and sized up Soo-ho.
To be honest, among the muscular freaks gathered in the Arizona Fall League, that frame looked almost frail.
A lean body that looked like it would snap with a single tap.
But Victor remembered the opponent’s play from watching the bench.
There was something that immediately caught the eye.
‘Tools.’
The word that made scouts go crazy.
Soo-ho clearly possessed exceptional tools.
Outstanding hitting ability, explosive speed on the Base Paths.
‘And on top of that, reliable defensive skills.’
The three tools modern baseball, especially the Major League, favored most—he already had them all.
Moreover, to display that level of performance while his body wasn’t even fully developed?
It was impossible not to be intrigued.
‘In the future, he’ll become an even better player.’
Tools don’t lie.
I knew that better than anyone.
The various elements called a pitcher’s tools.
I possessed the velocity that held the greatest value right now.
‘So if that scrawny frame gains muscle, develops power, and acquires the weapon called experience.’
He’d become a terrifying player compared to now.
Of course, baseball had too many variables to guarantee anything.
‘But he’s definitely the most promising prospect on this Ground right now.’
Yet Victor’s lips curved upward with arrogance.
‘Still, he’s no match for me.’
He was someone I’d want to face only after he’d fully developed into his final form.
Not a chance right now.
The opponent is merely Low-A Level.
Experience, physical ability, technical refinement—all of it fell short.
It was like a toddler taking his first steps challenging the track legend Usain Bolt to a race.
After all, he was already a polished Major Leaguer.
‘So I’ll have to show him.’
What a promising prospect with questionable fundamentals needed wasn’t praise.
It was the despair of confronting an insurmountable wall.
This was how he would prove his superiority.
* * *
The matchup between Soo-ho and Victor began.
Soo-ho drew a deep breath and positioned himself as close as possible to Home Plate.
Victor wound up.
Crack!
A tearing sound erupted from the Catcher’s glove, assaulting the eardrums.
Soo-ho’s eyes widened.
“Strike one!”
Only after the Referee’s call did the ball’s afterimage become visible.
102 miles (164 km).
Seeing it on a radar gun and witnessing it firsthand were worlds apart.
‘…It vanishes.’
The ball didn’t fly through the air—from the moment it left the Pitcher’s hand,
it felt like teleportation.
If the 150 km-range fastballs he’d seen often in Low-A felt fast,
this transcended mere speed.
A reaction? Impossible.
Before his brain could register ‘fastball’ and send signals to his nerves, it was already embedded in the Catcher’s glove.
‘Wow. So this is the pitching velocity of the current number-one ranked Minor League pitcher.’
Soo-ho swallowed hard.
Why he was the Minor League’s ecosystem destroyer was explained in a single pitch.
The second pitch followed.
The ball was released.
The same form as the fastball just before, the same release point.
The batter’s body instinctively flinched at fastball timing.
But then.
The ball curved sharply in front of Home Plate and disappeared.
An 89 mile-per-hour (143 km) high-velocity slider.
It was like watching magic unfold before his eyes.
“Strike two!”
He was completely caught off guard.
It was perfect tunneling that made him not even think of swinging the bat.
Tunneling refers to a phenomenon where different pitch types fly along nearly identical trajectories until the very last moment before the batter, where they finally diverge.
‘Wow. Insane. Really.’
Soo-ho had to admit it.
Right now, I couldn’t hit that ball accurately.
Neither my body’s reaction speed nor my eyes’ adaptability could keep up yet.
Besides, this was the first time I’d ever seen a pitch this fast and powerful.
Third pitch.
Another high fastball came flying at Soo-ho’s chest height.
Soo-ho’s eyes widened as I tracked the ball’s trajectory to the end.
Thwack!
“Strike out!”
Three strikes.
Moreover, it was an anticlimactic three-pitch strikeout.
Victor Moretti turned away coolly as if I wasn’t worth looking at and picked up the rosin bag.
Sighs flowed from the Stands, and the atmosphere in the Dugout grew quiet as if cold water had been poured over it.
But!
The expression on Soo-ho’s face as I walked into the Dugout was composed.
No, there was even a subtle smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
Disappointment? Frustration? Such expressions were nowhere to be found.
And for good reason.
‘Everything’s going according to plan.’
Baseball is a game of probabilities.
If a batter wins only 3 out of 10 times against a pitcher, they’re praised as a league-representative slugger.
Conversely, it means losing 7 times is acceptable.
‘Hitting a 164 km pitch I’ve never seen before from the first pitch? That’s only possible in manga.’
The human eye is an organ of adaptation.
No matter how exceptional a batter is.
They can’t instantly adapt to a 164 km pitch they’ve never seen before.
‘My eyes need time to adapt to the speed, and my brain needs time to memorize the trajectory.’
Shooting without zeroing in is just wasting bullets.
‘I’ve only seen three pitches, but I’ve gathered enough data.’
The height of the release point.
The trajectory the fastball follows.
The moment the breaking ball curves.
Instead of swinging the bat at the plate, Soo-ho had concentrated all my attention on etching that information into my mind.
‘The pitcher will throw at most 4 innings, at most 5 innings.’
Arizona Fall League pitchers have limited pitch counts.
Since it’s a showcase stage, they don’t overexert them.
Therefore, I still have at least one more opportunity, at most two more.
I sacrificed my first at-bat.
But in exchange, my eyes opened.
‘The reconnaissance is over.’
Soo-ho approached Casey in the On-Deck Circle.
Casey asked for his impressions.
“How was it?”
“Exactly as I saw it.”
Casey clenched his jaw.
The pitcher’s fastball was truly exceptional, as he could feel.
More than that—Soo-ho, relentless as a leech, had retreated without even attempting a swing.
The fact that he ranked first in Minor League Baseball and was a prospective Major Leaguer was no exaggeration.
But Soo-ho patted Casey’s shoulder reassuringly.
“Casey. I told you, right? If we can just drag the pitcher into the mud with us, we have more than enough to win. From here on, it’s in your hands.”
Casey mulled over those words as he headed to the Batter’s Box.
The instructions Soo-ho had given him just before the game came back vividly to mind.
-Casey. Don’t think about getting a hit on your first at-bat. Just be stubborn and hang in there. With your genius-level hitting ability, you should at least be able to rattle the pitcher’s composure.
Casey stepped into the Batter’s Box and adjusted his grip on the bat, holding it shorter.
His pride was wounded, as expected.
He too was a prospect whom staff members praised as a once-in-a-century talent.
But instead of matching strength against strength and technique against technique, he was being told to fight in the mud like a dog.
But.
‘All that matters is winning.’
Casey bit his lip.
Pride doesn’t put food on the table.
Striking out while acting superior and trudging back to the Dugout?
That wouldn’t get him to the Major Leagues.
More than anything.
‘Soo-ho, that bastard didn’t even swing the bat for me.’
Casey replayed Soo-ho’s strikeout in his mind.
Soo-ho hadn’t simply failed to hit.
He had chosen not to swing.
Why? When the batter ahead swings, the next batter in the On-Deck Circle struggles to see the complete trajectory of the pitcher’s throw.
The batter’s body movement and bat obstruct the view.
But because Soo-ho stood motionless like a scarecrow.
Casey could perfectly see every moment of Victor Moretti’s pitch—from the instant it left his hand to the moment it struck the glove.
‘So I could find my timing….’
He had sacrificed himself to pass along the data.
Casey couldn’t let that sacrifice go to waste.
Casey’s eyes turned cold and sharp.
“Bring it on.”
Crack!
First pitch. A 102-mile fastball. Casey didn’t swing.
The trajectory was exactly as I’d become familiar with through Soo-ho’s guidance.
“Ball!”
Slightly outside.
Victor Moretti’s expression darkened.
From the second pitch onward, Casey followed my instructions to the letter, refusing to back down.
He cut at pitches in the zone and laid off the borderline ones.
The genius’s cutting ability with a choked-up bat was a pitcher’s nightmare.
Finally.
Crack!
On the seventh pitch.
Casey’s contact rolled directly to the Second Baseman.
Ground out.
But as Casey returned to the Dugout, Soo-ho gave him a thumbs up.
‘Success.’
He’d forced the pitcher to throw seven pitches just to record one out.
Combined with Soo-ho’s three-pitch strikeout, they’d consumed ten pitches against just two batters.
Ten pitches.
Not an absolute mountain of throws, but—
‘For a pitcher like Victor Moretti who dominates hitters through sheer force, and compared to the momentum of striking out the first batter in three pitches, it’s absolutely unsatisfying.’
Everything up to this point had unfolded exactly as I’d predicted.
And now the third batter, Mark, stepped into the Batter’s Box.
As Mark entered the box, he caught a glimpse of Victor Moretti seething with frustration.
My prophecy echoed in his mind.
-If Casey clings to him stubbornly like that, he’ll get frustrated and try to finish things as quickly as possible against you, Mark. The first pitch is crucial. You have to swing with everything and at least make contact.
Having chased away the pesky gnat, he’d now try to overpower this bigger opponent and end it fast through sheer force.
I’d turn that psychology against him.
Mark gripped the bat tightly.
‘First pitch.’
The pitcher wound up.
Exactly as I’d anticipated.
A 101-mile fastball laced with fury, bypassing any complex pitch sequencing and planted right down the middle.
Mark swung as if he’d been waiting for this moment, channeling his entire body’s rotational power into the bat.
Whoosh!
Crack!
The ball rocketed backward with a dull, explosive sound.
A foul ball that smashed into the Behind Home Plate netting.
“…!”
Victor Moretti flinched in surprise, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Mark.
A full swing so powerful the bat nearly shattered.
The timing was late, but it had clearly come close to making contact.
Victor’s mind grew complicated.
It seemed he was thinking: Did this bastard know what was coming?
He had intended to simply overpower him, but this massive batter had come in looking for a fastball from the very first pitch.
If it had been a solid hit?
The anxiety that it might have sailed over the fence.
A prospect ready for the Major League in Low-A? It was impossible.
And so Victor had no choice but to abandon his strategy of a quick victory.
A single foul ball had forced the pitcher to revise his approach.
But after that foul, Mark followed Soo-ho’s second instruction.
‘From now on, I don’t swing at all.’
Because that foul just now was the evidence.
He had swung knowing a fastball would come, anticipating it, yet still fouled it off.
In other words, with his current eyes and bat speed, he couldn’t make solid contact with Victor’s pitches.
So there was no probability of winning this at-bat.
Swinging the bat now would result in either a strikeout or a fielder’s choice.
‘Then….’
Mark rested the bat on his shoulder.
The slider Victor threw as bait curved sharply away on the outside.
Mark didn’t budge.
And as a result.
“Strike three!”
Mark struck out.
But Victor’s total pitch count had reached seventeen.
Having devoted far more pitches than expected to retiring the Low-A trio.
His face began to flush red and purple.
It was all unfolding exactly as Soo-ho had planned.
The Major League prospect was slowly sinking deeper into the quagmire.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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