The next few days in the Date Tech gymnasium were a beautiful, highly chaotic symphony of squeaking rubber and booming spikes.
Integration was the primary objective.
Coach Oiwake aggressively shuffled the line-ups, forcing the first-years to mesh with the veterans.
“Naruse!
You’re jumping a half-beat too late on the synchronized attack!” Moniwa yelled, setting a quick ball.
“Adjusting approach vector!” Itsuki called back.
He accelerated his penultimate step, soaring into the air.
He was rapidly adapting to the high school level.
His body, properly fueled by his rigid macronutrient spreadsheet, was beginning to seamlessly support his 192-centimeter frame.
But it was his brain that made him a nightmare in practice.
Mid-air, Itsuki saw Kamasaki and Futakuchi rise to block him.
Instead of swinging, Itsuki engaged his core, violently twisting his torso to the right while snapping his arm down the left line—a physically absurd, mid-air contortion that looked like an optical illusion.
Smack!
The ball blasted past Futakuchi’s outer arm before he could even close his fingers.
Futakuchi landed, his eye twitching furiously.
“You little freak!
Human spines aren’t supposed to bend that way!
Are you made of rubber?!”
“It’s a standard oblique contraction, Futakuchi-san,” Itsuki replied politely, landing with a light tap of his shoes.
“If you had angled your outside foot inward by three degrees, you would have sealed the lane.”
“I don’t need blocking advice from a freshman!” Futakuchi snapped, though he immediately looked down at his own feet, mentally noting the three degrees.
Across the net, Aone watched the exchange.
The giant second-year didn’t speak, but he dropped into a blocking stance, his pupil-less eyes tracking Itsuki with a terrifying, predatory hunger.
Itsuki was a puzzle that kept changing its shape, and Aone was entirely obsessed with solving him.
Every time Itsuki invented a new mid-air angle, Aone’s read-blocking became a fraction of a second faster.
They were forcing each other to evolve at a breakneck pace.
From the sidelines, Coach Oiwake stood with his arms crossed, watching the rally.
For years, Date Tech has been a one-trick pony, Oiwake thought, tapping his pen against his clipboard.
A massive, impenetrable shield.
But when the shield was bypassed, we didn’t have the offensive firepower or the tactical adaptability to fight back.
He looked at his new roster.
Sakunami is stabilizing the back line.
Koganegawa is an absolute wild card—clumsy, but his raw height forces opponents to panic.
Oiwake’s gaze finally settled on Itsuki, who was currently calculating the exact trajectory of his jump serve, muttering equations under his breath while Koganegawa cheered him on.
And Naruse.
A genuine, technical ace.
A sniper who can dismantle a block, serve with lethal precision, and analyze an opponent’s strategy in real-time.
Oiwake allowed a grim, terrifying smirk to cross his face.
We aren’t just a wall anymore.
We’re a fortress equipped with heavy artillery.
TWEEEEET!
Oiwake blew his whistle, cutting through the gym’s noise.
“Bring it in!” he barked.
The team jogged over, lining up in a matter of seconds.
Sweat dripped from Kamasaki’s chin.
Koganegawa looked like a panting golden retriever.
“But before we step onto the official court, we need to test the integrity of our new system.
Your first practice match is today.
This afternoon.”
A jolt of electricity shot through the first-years.
“TODAY?!” Koganegawa bellowed, vibrating with hype.
“Keep your voice down, Koganegawa,” Moniwa scolded, though the captain was smiling.
He looked at the coach.
“Who are we playing, Coach?”
“Wakutani Minami High,” Oiwake stated.
A murmur rippled through the seniors.
Sasaya crossed his arms, his expression turning serious.
“Wakunan, huh?
That’s a solid Miyagi Top Four contender.”
“They arrive in two hours,” Oiwake continued.
“First-years, get the gym cleaned.
Set up the nets.
Seniors, stretch out and prep the benches.
Don’t embarrass the Iron Wall in your own house.”
“OSU!”
The gym instantly erupted into a flurry of frantic activity.
“I AM THE MASTER OF THE MOP!” Koganegawa roared, aggressively pushing a wide dust mop across the floor with so much force he nearly drifted around the corners.
“Koganegawa-kun, please don’t run over my feet!” Sakunami panicked, dodging out of the way with his newly minted libero reflexes.
Over by the equipment room, Itsuki had volunteered to untangle the spare antennas.
But as soon as he was out of Coach Oiwake’s direct line of sight, Itsuki dropped the antennas and slipped his smartphone out of his pocket.
His social anxiety was completely gone, replaced by the icy, hyper-focused thrill of the hunt.
Wakutani Minami High, Itsuki typed rapidly into the Miyagi High School Athletics forum.
He scrolled past the generic school info and dove straight into the match recordings from the previous Spring High tournament.
His eyes darted rapidly across the screen, calculating the physics of their plays.
Their defense is incredibly sticky.
High floor cohesion.
They play like a family, Itsuki analyzed.
But their offensive output is heavily centralized.
He paused the video on a specific player.
A relatively short wing spiker with a buzzcut and intense eyes.
Takeru Nakashima.
Itsuki zoomed in on Nakashima’s mid-air form.
He doesn’t have overwhelming height or power.
He scores by deliberately hitting the blockers’ fingertips.
He wipes the block.
He’s a Little Giant.
A cold, competitive smile touched the corner of Itsuki’s mouth.
They rely on a captain who weaponizes the opponent’s block.
But Date Tech is the ultimate block.
If Nakashima tries to wipe Aone-san’s hands, and Aone-san pulls back to soft-block…
the rebound angle completely fails.
Weakness identified.
Over-reliance on tooling.
If we alter the timing of the Iron Wall’s apex, Nakashima’s muscle memory will betray him.
We just have to bait him into the seam.
“Hey!
Naruse!”
Itsuki flinched, nearly dropping his phone as Kamasaki stomped over.
“Are you playing games on your phone while we’re setting up for war?!” Kamasaki bellowed, flexing his biceps threateningly.
“N-No!
Kamasaki-san!” Itsuki stammered, instantly curling his shoulders inward as his social panic flared.
He shoved the phone into his pocket.
“I was merely calculating the tensile strength of the net cables!
I am untangling now!”
“Good!
Because they’re almost here!”
Ten minutes later, the gym was pristine.
The nets were tight, the floors were spotless, and the Date Tech volleyball team was lined up perfectly near the entrance.
The distant sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Multiple pairs of athletic shoes squeaking slightly against the linoleum.
“They’re here,” Moniwa whispered, straightening his posture.
Itsuki stood between Koganegawa and Sakunami.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
This was it.
His first high school match.
His first chance to prove his equations against a real, outside variable.
The heavy gym doors slid open.
The Wakutani Minami team walked in.
They were chatting amongst themselves, carrying an aura of relaxed, familial confidence.
Nakashima Takeru, their ace and captain, walked at the front, a friendly smile on his face as he looked up.
“Pardon the intrusion—” Nakashima started to say.
“WELCOME TO DATE TECH!” Moniwa yelled.
Instantly, the entire Date Tech team—all towering giants of muscle and terrifying intensity—stepped forward in perfect, military synchronization.
Kamasaki glared with pure meathead rage.
Futakuchi offered a snarky, deeply unsettling smirk.
Aone simply loomed, staring down with his pupil-less eyes like a literal wall of death.
Koganegawa puffed out his chest, trying to look intimidating but mostly just looking massive.
And Itsuki, standing tall at 192 centimeters, completely dropped his social anxiety, fixing the Wakunan captain with a cold, deadpan, hyper-analytical stare that felt like being dissected by a laser.
Together, the giants of Date Tech bent at the waist, delivering a perfectly synchronized, highly aggressive ninety-degree bow.
“THANK YOU FOR THE MATCH!” their collective voices boomed, echoing off the gym ceiling like a thunderclap.
The Wakutani Minami players froze dead in their tracks.
A few of their first-years physically recoiled, clutching their gym bags in sheer terror.
Even the confident Nakashima sweated slightly, taking a half-step back from the overwhelming, Yakuza-esque pressure radiating from the Miyagi fortress.
The Iron Wall was ready.
And they weren’t taking prisoners.