The rhythmic thwack-squeak-thwack of the pre-match warm-ups filled the Date Tech gymnasium.
On one side of the net, Wakutani Minami High was running through their spiking drills.
They moved with a smooth, effortless cohesion, completely lacking the chaotic bickering of their opponents.
Takeru Nakashima, Wakutani’s captain and ace, landed smoothly after a solid spike.
He wiped his brow and glanced through the net.
He paused, his eyes widening slightly.
“Hey, Kawatabi,” Nakashima nudged his teammate, Shunki Kawatabi, who was sporting his usual pineapple-like hairstyle.
“Look over there.
Didn’t Date Tech have enough giant trees in their forest already?”
Kawatabi followed Nakashima’s gaze and visibly winced.
Standing near the ball cart were two first-years who completely broke the standard high school size charts.
One was a massive, golden-retriever-like blonde who was currently trying to high-five the ceiling.
The other was a dark-haired, lean player with metallic highlights who was stretching his calves while staring at the Wakutani side with the dead, calculating eyes of a hitman.
“191 centimeters at least,” Kawatabi muttered, sweating.
“And the quiet one is even taller.
What are they feeding middle schoolers in Osaki City?”
“Don’t let the height intimidate you,” a calm voice interrupted.
Coach Masaaki Onikobe, Wakutani’s sturdy, experienced coach, stepped up behind them with a clipboard.
He adjusted his glasses, looking at the Date Tech rookies.
“They are first-years,” Coach Onikobe stated dismissively.
“When a teenager hits a massive growth spurt that fast, their nervous system rarely keeps up with their skeletal structure.
They might be tall, but they’re guaranteed to be clumsy, uncoordinated, and slow to react.”
As if on cue, Koganegawa excitedly took a step backward, completely missed the fact that a ball basket was behind him, and tumbled backward with a loud, crashing yelp, sending volleyballs rolling across the floor.
Nakashima chuckled, relaxing his shoulders.
“You’re right, Coach.
They’re just big kids.
We focus on the seniors.
We break the Iron Wall with technique.”
Across the net, Date Tech was finishing their own drills.
Itsuki had flawlessly ignored Koganegawa’s spectacular fall, his eyes still locked onto Nakashima, rapidly processing the Wakutani ace’s approach angle, jump height, and arm swing.
Tweet!
“Gather round!” Coach Oiwake barked.
The Date Tech team circled up around the bench.
Oiwake looked over the starting roster.
Moniwa, Kamasaki, Aone, Futakuchi, Sasaya, and Obara.
The forged steel of the third and second-years.
Oiwake turned to the three first-years, who were practically vibrating with anticipation.
“First-years.
Put on your bibs.
You’re starting on the bench,” Oiwake commanded.
Koganegawa’s jaw dropped.
“EHH?!
BUT COACH, I DRANK EXTRA MILK TODAY!”
“You’re benched because you need to observe the flow of a real high school match before you ruin it,” Oiwake said bluntly.
He pointed at them.
“Koganegawa, watch how Moniwa controls the tempo.
Sakunami, watch Wakutani’s floor defense; they’re famous for it.
And Naruse.”
Itsuki stood at attention, his face perfectly blank.
“Yes, Coach.”
“You’re our tactical software,” Oiwake smirked slightly.
“Watch their ace.
Break down his habits.
I want to know exactly how he ticks before I put you on the court.”
Itsuki gave a sharp, perfectly executed bow.
“Understood.
I will dismantle his geometry.”
Moniwa sweatdropped.
He makes volleyball sound like a science experiment…
“Let’s go!” Kamasaki roared, slapping Aone on the back so hard it echoed.
The whistle blew.
The starters lined up on the court.
From the sideline, Itsuki sat on the bench, pulling a small notebook and a pen from his gym bag.
Beside him, Koganegawa gripped the metal railing, leaning so far forward he was practically on the court.
Sakunami sat quietly, his eyes fixed on Wakutani’s libero.
Wakutani Minami served first.
A sharp float serve aimed at Sasaya.
“Got it!” Sasaya called, bumping the ball up smoothly.
“Nice receive!” Moniwa yelled, moving perfectly under the ball.
“Kamasaki!”
Kamasaki launched himself into the air like a cannonball, entirely ignoring the Wakutani blockers, and slammed the ball with pure, unadulterated meathead strength.
BAM!
But Wakutani Minami was not a team that broke easily.
Their libero was already there, dropping his hips and popping the heavy spike up into the air.
“They picked up Kamasaki-san’s spike!” Sakunami gasped from the bench.
“Their floor cohesion is incredible…
they move like they share a single brain!”
“Wakutani’s libero reads the spiker’s chest, not the arm,” Itsuki muttered, his pen flying across his notebook.
“He positioned himself in the highest-probability deflection zone.
Flawless defensive fundamentals.”
On the court, Wakutani’s setter, Hanayama, got under the ball.
“Captain!”
Nakashima Takeru took off.
He wasn’t tall, but his jump was explosive, reminiscent of Karasuno’s legendary Little Giant.
He soared into the air, cocking his arm back.
In front of him, the Iron Wall rose.
Aone and Futakuchi leaped together, a massive, imposing shadow that entirely sealed off the straight and the inner-cross.
Nakashima didn’t panic.
This was his specialty.
He didn’t try to blast through Aone’s massive arms.
Instead, he snapped his wrist, aiming a sharp, wiping motion directly at the outer edge of Aone’s pinky finger.
Block out.
It was the perfect tool.
But Aone Takanobu had spent the last week being mentally tortured in practice by a 192-centimeter freshman who did nothing but tool his blocks from mathematically impossible angles.
A fraction of a second before Nakashima’s hand struck the ball, Aone’s eyes widened.
He recognized the slight dip in the ace’s elbow.
He’s wiping.
With a terrifying display of mid-air core strength, Aone violently jerked his right arm backward and inward by a mere four centimeters.
Nakashima swung.
But the pinky finger he aimed for was no longer there.
Instead of grazing the edge of the block and flying out of bounds, Nakashima’s hand slapped the ball directly into the meat of Aone’s forearm.
The ball ricocheted straight down, slamming into the hardwood on Wakutani’s side of the court before Nakashima even landed.
KRA-KOOM!
The gym went dead silent.
Nakashima landed, his eyes completely wide, staring at his own hand in sheer disbelief.
He dodged my wipe…
mid-air?!
“SHUT OUT!” Futakuchi yelled, landing with a deeply satisfied, arrogant smirk.
“Nice read, Aone!
Looks like their ace is a little too predictable!”
Aone landed silently.
He slowly turned his head toward the Date Tech bench, locking eyes with Itsuki, and gave a single, firm nod.
The software update was successful.
On the bench, Koganegawa completely lost his mind.
“UWOOOOOOOOHHH!!!” Koganegawa bellowed, jumping up and shaking the bench railing so hard it rattled the floorboards.
“AONE-SAN IS A GOD OF DESTRUCTION!
HE CRUSHED THE LITTLE GUY!
HE DID THE WOOOSH AND THEN THE BAM!”
“Koganegawa!
Keep it down!” Kamasaki yelled from the court, his face red with embarrassment.
“You’re acting like a crazed fanboy!”
“I AM YOUR BIGGEST FAN, KAMASAKI-SAN!
BREAK THEIR BONES!
METAPHORICALLY!”
“I’M GONNA BENCH YOU PERMANENTLY IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP!” Coach Oiwake barked, smacking Koganegawa on the back of the leg with his clipboard.
Itsuki ignored the chaos completely.
He was writing furiously.
“Aone-san’s lateral adjustment speed has increased by point-two seconds,” Itsuki muttered to Sakunami.
“Nakashima’s block-wipe relies on the blocker fully committing to the press.
Because Aone-san trained against my delayed mid-air swings, he is no longer fully committing until the ball makes contact.
The Iron Wall has eliminated its primary weakness against technical hitters.”
Sakunami stared at Itsuki in awe.
“You…
you basically upgraded the seniors just by fighting them in practice.”
Itsuki stopped writing, a tiny, proud smile touching his face.
“Friction sharpens the blade, Sakunami.”
The match resumed, and the first set turned into an absolute slugfest.
Nakashima quickly realized that tooling Aone was a death sentence, so he shifted his tactics, utilizing Hanayama’s quick sets to attack the seams before the double block could fully form.
Wakutani’s floor defense was like a sticky web, constantly scooping up Date Tech’s heavy spikes and extending the rallies.
But Date Tech’s blocking was noticeably, terrifyingly sharper than it had been at the last Interhigh.
When Wakutani tried a synchronized attack, Futakuchi read the setter perfectly, shifting his weight and shutting down Kawatabi with a sickening thud.
“Don’t underestimate us,” Futakuchi smirked through the net.
“We’re not just tall.
We’re smart.”
“Damn it, that snarky kid is annoying,” Kawatabi gritted his teeth, rubbing his stinging palms.
Even Moniwa, usually the anxious captain, was playing with a fierce, unwavering confidence.
Every time he felt the pressure mounting, he glanced over at the bench.
He saw Itsuki analyzing every play, and Koganegawa practically bursting with explosive energy.
I can’t let the rookies see me sweat, Moniwa thought, setting a beautiful, high ball to the left.
I have to show them what a Date Tech captain looks like!
“Sasaya!” Moniwa yelled.
Sasaya leaped, blasting a powerful cross-court spike that finally broke through Wakutani’s libero, rocketing off the floor.
25 – 21.
Tweet, tweeet!
The referee blew the whistle, signaling the end of the first set.
Date Tech.
The Date Tech players cheered, jogging off the court to grab their water bottles and towels.
They were sweating heavily, but their eyes were burning with a fierce, validated pride.
Wakutani Minami walked back to their bench, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and deep frustration.
“They’re different,” Nakashima panted, taking a towel from his manager.
“Their blocks are usually heavy and committed.
But today…
it’s like they’re reading my wrist movements mid-air.
Especially number seven.” He looked over at Aone, who was quietly drinking water.
“He pulled his hand back on my wipe.
That’s not normal Iron Wall behavior.”
Coach Onikobe frowned, crossing his arms.
“They’ve tightened their defensive software.
We have to speed up the tempo in the second set.
Don’t let them set the wall.”
Back on the Date Tech bench, Kamasaki chugged half a bottle of water and grinned at the first-years.
“How was that, rookies?!
Did you see the sheer power of my spikes?!”
“IT WAS GLORIOUS, KAMASAKI-SAN!” Koganegawa yelled, bowing in worship.
“YOUR BICEPS WERE LIKE SHINING MOUNTAINS!”
“Okay, that’s just weird, stop that,” Futakuchi deadpanned, wiping his face with a towel.
He looked down at Itsuki.
“Well, calculator boy?
Did you figure out their ace?”
Itsuki stood up.
He closed his small notebook and slipped the pen into his pocket.
The socially anxious slouch was completely gone.
He stood at his full 192 centimeters, looking down at the second-year with a cold, terrifyingly confident expression.
“Nakashima Takeru has three primary attack vectors,” Itsuki stated flatly, his voice carrying clearly over the gym noise.
“When forced out of system, he defaults to wiping the outer hand of the right-side blocker.
When the set is tight, he aims for a soft push over the center.
And his cross-court spike trajectory always drops his left shoulder by a visible margin.”
The seniors stared at him, slightly unnerved by the robotic precision of the analysis.
Itsuki reached down and grabbed the hem of his practice bib, pulling it over his head to reveal his pristine white and teal Date Tech jersey.
Number 11.
“His floor defense relies on his team picking up the tools,” Itsuki continued, tossing the bib onto the bench.
He looked at Coach Oiwake, his eyes burning with absolute certainty.
“If we deploy Koganegawa’s set height to bypass their defensive ceiling, and I execute sharp inner-cross spikes targeting the gaps between their defensive zones…
their system will mathematically collapse.”
Coach Oiwake let out a low, gruff chuckle.
He tapped his clipboard against his thigh.
“You talk too much, Naruse,” Oiwake said, though his eyes were gleaming with terrifying anticipation.
He pointed to the court.
“But let’s see if your math holds up.
First-years.
You’re subbing in.”
Sakunami gasped, his heart leaping into his throat.
Koganegawa ripped his bib off so fast he nearly tore it in half.
Itsuki stepped toward the sideline, rolling his right shoulder.
He looked across the net at Wakutani Minami, who were currently staring in shock as Date Tech swapped out their veteran setter and libero for a nervous short kid and two absolute titans.
“Let’s update their geometry,” Itsuki murmured.