The scoreboard flipped with a sharp clack.
24 – 24.
Deuce.
As the teams switched sides, the atmosphere in the Date Tech gym grew oppressively heavy.
The initial shock of Itsuki’s 100-percent kinetic chain had faded, replaced by something far more dangerous: the bruised pride of the Iron Wall.
Kamasaki stood at the net, aggressively rubbing his reddened forearms.
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Next to him, Aone was completely still, his pupil-less eyes tracking Itsuki with the intensity of a predator that had finally found a meal worth hunting.
On the first-years’ side of the net, Itsuki grabbed his water bottle.
His hand was trembling slightly.
He took a sip, trying to hide a sharp wince.
My anterior deltoid is inflamed, Itsuki calculated grimly, rotating his right shoulder.
The hardware upgrade was successful, but the chassis is still too new.
If I use a 100-percent swing again, my accuracy will drop by forty percent due to muscle fatigue.
I have a maximum of one full-power swing left.
“Naruse-kun, are you okay?” Sakunami asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“You look pale.”
“I am mathematically sound,” Itsuki lied, his social anxiety instantly erecting a defensive wall.
“We just need two consecutive points.”
“THEN WE USE THE SUPER STRATOSPHERE!” Koganegawa bellowed, completely oblivious to Itsuki’s physical limits.
“WE’LL HIT IT SO HIGH IT LEAVES THE ATMOSPHERE!”
TWEEET!
Moniwa served again, targeting the deep corner.
This time, the pressure was completely different.
The seniors weren’t just playing; they were suffocating them.
Moniwa’s serve was heavier, dropping fast.
But Sakunami was evolving in real-time.
He didn’t panic.
He let out a sharp exhale, stepping smoothly into the ball’s path.
Don’t look at the ball’s spin.
Remember the release point, he thought.
He dropped his hips, perfectly receiving the serve.
“Nice receive!” Moniwa couldn’t help but compliment from the other side, even as he gritted his teeth.
“ALRIGHT!
SUPER STRATOSPHERE!” Koganegawa yelled, running under the ball.
But the adrenaline made Koganegawa clumsy.
He overran his mark by half a step.
The ball came down too close to the net.
Itsuki was already in the air, expecting a high, distant set.
It was a complete disaster in the making.
Aone and Kamasaki instantly jumped, forming a flawless, terrifying wall.
They read the tight set perfectly.
Panic seized Koganegawa.
Mid-air, realizing he couldn’t push the ball high, the giant setter simply grabbed the ball and violently shoved it sideways with one massive hand, completely abandoning all setting fundamentals.
Itsuki, hanging in the air with nowhere to go, saw the ball flying horizontally at his face.
Pure survival instinct overrode his calculations.
He violently twisted his core, abandoning his spiking form entirely, and just swatted at the ball with a flat hand like he was swatting a giant fly.
Smack!
The ball completely bypassed the rising Iron Wall, skimming the top of the net tape and dropping dead into the center of the seniors’ court, inches from Moniwa’s diving hand.
The gym went silent.
25 – 24.
Advantage, Challengers.
“W-What…” Futakuchi stammered from the sideline, his eyes wide.
“What kind of freakish minus-tempo quick was that?!
They didn’t even look at each other!”
“WE DID IT!” Koganegawa roared, striking a dramatic pose.
“THE ADVANCED STRATOSPHERE ZERO-GRAVITY BAZOOKA!
I TOTALLY MEANT TO DO THAT!”
Itsuki landed, clutching his chest, his face completely pale as his heart hammered in absolute terror.
We are going to die, he thought.
That was statistically anomalous luck.
“One more point!” Sakunami cheered.
The whistle blew.
First-years to serve.
Itsuki hit a standard float serve.
Sakunami successfully dug up Kamasaki’s powerful counter-spike.
“DO IT AGAIN, KOGANEGAWA!” Sakunami yelled.
“ADVANCED BAZOOKA!” Koganegawa hollered, jumping to set the exact same chaotic horizontal push.
Itsuki leaped, desperately trying to recreate the fluke timing.
But luck was not a reliable variable against Date Tech.
Aone didn’t even jump.
He simply took one step to the left, raised his massive hands, and waited.
Koganegawa violently shoved the ball sideways—directly into Aone’s waiting palms.
Thwack.
The ball rebounded instantly, slamming straight down into the floor on the first-years’ side before Itsuki even started his swing.
“Don’t mock the Wall,” Aone seemed to say with his silent, terrifying glare.
25 – 25.
“BWAHAHAHA!” Futakuchi cackled from the sideline, clutching his stomach.
“Advanced Bazooka?!
You just handed the ball to Aone!
You guys are idiots!”
“L-Luck is not a replicable strategy!” Itsuki scolded, his face flushing with embarrassment.
“Do not do that again!”
The battle dragged on.
The grit of the first-years clashed violently against the pure, forged experience of the seniors.
Sakunami threw his body across the floor, bruising his hips and arms, desperately keeping the ball alive.
He was reading Moniwa’s setter dumps and Kamasaki’s cross-courts, evolving into a true guardian of the back line.
But the Iron Wall was merciless.
Aone’s read-blocking was suffocating Itsuki’s offense.
Every time Itsuki tried to tool the block, Aone’s hands adjusted.
26 – 27.
Advantage, Seniors.
Match point.
The first-years were running on fumes.
Itsuki’s shoulder was throbbing with a dull, burning agony.
He looked across the net at the sheer, unbroken canopy of Aone and Kamasaki.
I can’t beat them in a direct aerial dogfight anymore, Itsuki’s brain raced.
My power is capped.
My angles are being read.
I need to disrupt their line of sight.
Itsuki looked at Koganegawa, who was currently panting like a massive, exhausted bear.
A wall cannot block what it cannot see.
Itsuki grabbed Koganegawa’s shoulder.
“Koganegawa.
When Sakunami receives this next ball…
do exactly as I say.” He whispered a chaotic, entirely absurd plan into the giant setter’s ear.
Koganegawa’s eyes widened, then practically sparkled.
“OSS!”
TWEEET!
Moniwa served a nasty jump float.
“I’ve got it!” Sakunami yelled, dropping to his knees and popping the ball up flawlessly.
Instantly, absolute chaos erupted on the first-years’ side.
Instead of moving to the setter’s position, Koganegawa let out a terrifying, blood-curdling roar.
He took a massive, thundering broad-jump approach directly toward the center of the net, swinging both of his massive arms back as if he were about to spike the ball straight to the center of the earth.
“HE’S HITTING?!” Kamasaki yelled.
Koganegawa was 191 centimeters of pure, unfiltered kinetic aggression.
The sheer visual threat of him launching into the air demanded absolute attention.
Aone and Kamasaki instinctively converged on the center, jumping to form a massive double block to shut the giant down.
But Koganegawa didn’t hit the ball.
He just roared and swung at empty air, missing the ball by a full two feet.
“A decoy?!” Moniwa gasped.
Where is Naruse?!
Aone’s eyes darted around frantically mid-air.
Because Koganegawa was so wide and had jumped so aggressively, he had created a complete visual eclipse.
Hidden perfectly behind Koganegawa’s massive back, Itsuki had taken the second touch himself.
He didn’t run a normal approach.
He let Koganegawa jump, and then Itsuki stepped cleanly around the descending giant, leaping from the right side of the court—a place Aone had completely abandoned to block the middle.
Itsuki hung in the empty air, no blockers in front of him.
He didn’t need 100-percent power.
He just needed precision.
With a sharp snap of his wrist, Itsuki drove the ball straight down the line.
BAM!
27 – 27.
“YEEEESSSS!” Koganegawa screamed, landing and instantly flexing.
“THE HUMAN ECLIPSE DECOY!”
“He…
he used our own setter as a visual screen,” Sasaya breathed from the sidelines, thoroughly impressed.
“He weaponized Koganegawa’s complete lack of subtlety.”
“Calculated chaos,” Oiwake smirked, making another note on his clipboard.
But the seniors were Date Tech’s finest for a reason.
They shook off the shock instantly.
27 – 28.
Match point, Seniors.
The final rally was a test of sheer survival.
Kamasaki hit a spike that nearly tore through Sakunami’s block.
The libero rolled backward, kicking the ball up with his heel in a desperation save.
“Cover!” Sakunami yelled from the floor.
“I GOT IT!” Koganegawa moved, getting under the chaotic pass.
“OPERATION STRATOSPHERE!
LAST ONE!”
He pushed the ball to the heavens.
Itsuki ran.
His legs felt like lead, his shoulder screaming in protest.
But he ignored the physical toll.
He channeled every ounce of grit, every ounce of frustration from his middle school defeats.
Left.
Right.
Left.
He leaped.
He suspended himself at the apex, staring at the Iron Wall.
Aone and Kamasaki were there.
Perfect form.
Perfect timing.
Itsuki coiled his spine.
100-percent kinetic chain.
All or nothing.
He unleashed the cannon.
But Aone Takanobu was a monster of evolution.
In the split second before the ball struck his hands, Aone didn’t push forward to kill it.
Aone inhaled deeply, slightly pulling his massive arms backward, absorbing the impact with the soft, fleshy part of his palms and wrists.
Thwump.
It wasn’t a crack.
It was a heavy, suffocating thud.
The 100-percent power of Itsuki’s spike was instantly swallowed by Aone’s soft block.
The ball lost all momentum, rolling off Aone’s fingers and dropping painfully slow directly behind Itsuki, falling perfectly into the empty space Koganegawa and Sakunami couldn’t reach in time.
Itsuki landed.
He turned his head, watching the ball hit the floor in slow motion.
Plop.
TWEEEEEEEET!
The sharp, final trill of Coach Oiwake’s whistle echoed through the dead-silent gym.
27 – 29.
Set and match.
The Seniors.
Itsuki stood there, his chest heaving painfully, staring at the ball by his feet.
Koganegawa dropped to his knees, utterly completely spent.
Sakunami lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
They had lost.
The sheer physical and mental exhaustion crashed down on Itsuki all at once.
His knees buckled slightly, his long frame swaying as the adrenaline rapidly left his system.
Before he could fall, a massive, heavy hand gripped his uninjured left shoulder, keeping him upright.
Itsuki blinked, looking up.
Aone was standing in front of him.
The giant second-year was breathing hard, covered in sweat, his chest rising and falling heavily.
He didn’t smile.
But the intense, terrifying glare was gone, replaced by a look of profound, undeniable respect.
Aone slowly raised his right hand and offered it to Itsuki.
Itsuki stared at the hand.
The disappointment of losing the mathematical battle was heavy, but as he looked around, he saw Kamasaki grinning at him, and Moniwa letting out a massive, relieved sigh.
Itsuki reached out and shook Aone’s hand.
“A-Ah…” Itsuki stammered, his social anxiety suddenly returning full force now that the match was over.
“I…
mathematically…
we lost.
I apologize.
We will…
run our laps.”
“Run your laps?!” Kamasaki roared, walking under the net and slapping Koganegawa on the back so hard the giant setter coughed.
“You rookies pushed us to twenty-nine points!
You made the Iron Wall sweat bullets!”
“You guys are absolute nightmares,” Futakuchi sighed, walking onto the court and tossing a towel at Itsuki’s face.
“I’m going to have wrinkles from stressing over your stupid geometry spikes, Naruse.”
Coach Oiwake stepped onto the court.
The gym quieted down immediately.
“A loss is a loss,” Oiwake said gruffly, looking at the exhausted first-years.
“You will run your laps tomorrow.”
The first-years wilted slightly.
“However,” Oiwake continued, pulling a piece of paper from his clipboard.
“The agreement was that you had to win, or prove your statistical value to the team’s defensive and offensive capabilities.”
Oiwake looked at Moniwa.
The captain nodded, a proud smile on his face.
“Sakunami,” Oiwake barked.
“Your defensive transition is sharp.
You’re rotating with the main squad.”
Sakunami scrambled to his feet, tears welling in his eyes.
“OSU!”
“Koganegawa.
You’re still a clumsy idiot who doesn’t know how to set,” Oiwake stated bluntly.
“But your height and that decoy play…
it’s a weapon.
You’re on the reserve roster.”
“I AM A WEAPON!” Koganegawa sobbed, hugging the net pole.
Oiwake finally turned his gaze to Itsuki.
The coach looked at the tall, socially anxious first-year who had nearly blown a hole through their vice-captain.
“Naruse Itsuki,” Oiwake said, his voice carrying the full weight of Date Tech’s history.
“You need to fix your stamina, and you need to stop calculating every single breath you take.
But your cannon is real.”
Oiwake held out a freshly printed Date Tech jersey.
“Number 11.
You’re starting on the left wing for the Interhigh Qualifiers.”
Itsuki stared at the white and teal fabric.
The equations in his head finally went completely silent.
He took the jersey with trembling hands, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched his knees.
“Thank you, Coach,” Itsuki said, his voice wavering just slightly.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Kamasaki yelled, grabbing Itsuki in a headlock and aggressively ruffling his hair.
“No crying!
We’re Date Tech!
We have a wall to rebuild, and you rookies are the new bricks!”
“Let him go, Kamasaki, you’re going to break his neck!” Moniwa panicked.
As the gym devolved into its usual, loud, chaotic Date Tech banter, Itsuki held the jersey tightly to his chest.
He looked at Koganegawa and Sakunami, who were beaming at him.
He looked at Aone, who gave him a silent nod.
They had lost the battle today.
But as Itsuki looked toward the gym doors, imagining the powerhouse teams waiting for them in Sendai City, he knew one thing for certain.
The Iron Wall was ready for war.