The adrenaline was still buzzing in Itsuki’s veins as the teams moved to switch sides for the second set.
He reached for his water bottle, mentally calculating the optimal angles to exploit Wakutani’s shifted defense, when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Naruse.
You’re done.”
Itsuki blinked, turning to look at Coach Oiwake.
“Coach?
I am statistically capable of continuing.
My heart rate is returning to baseline—”
“Your heart rate is fine, but your right shoulder is drooping by two inches, and you’re dragging your left foot,” Oiwake interrupted, his voice gruff but entirely observant.
“You just hit a massive growth spurt.
Your joints aren’t bolted down tight enough yet for a full multi-set match at maximum output.
Sit down and watch.
That’s an order.”
Itsuki opened his mouth to argue, but the dull, burning ache radiating from his rotator cuff forcefully reminded him of his own physical limitations.
He clamped his mouth shut and gave a sharp, obedient nod.
He stepped to the sideline, but before taking his seat, Itsuki turned to the court.
He placed his hands stiffly at his sides and bowed at a perfect, ninety-degree angle toward his upperclassmen.
He then pivoted, facing the Wakutani Minami bench, and executed the exact same, highly formal bow.
“Thank you for the data,” Itsuki said loudly, his polite, robotic tone completely at odds with the sheer devastation he had just caused them.
Nakashima Takeru sweatdropped from across the net.
“He’s terrifying, but he’s got great manners…”
Itsuki grabbed his towel and took a seat on the bench right next to Assistant Coach Nametsu and Coach Oiwake.
Koganegawa, who had also been subbed out to let Captain Moniwa restabilize the team’s core rhythm, immediately leaned over.
“YOU WERE AMAZING, NARUSE!” Koganegawa whisper-yelled, which was still the volume of a normal person shouting.
“BUT WHY ARE WE SITTING?!
MY LEGS ARE READY TO KICK DOWN DOORS!”
“Because, Koganegawa, if we do not observe, we cannot adapt,” Itsuki replied, pulling out his notebook and uncapping his pen.
“Watch Captain Moniwa.
Watch how a true setter dictates the flow of the game.”
TWEEET!
The second set began.
Set Two: The Unyielding Wall
With Moniwa back on the court, Date Tech’s chaotic, high-risk energy transformed immediately back into a suffocating, mechanical fortress.
Wakutani Minami, however, was a Miyagi powerhouse for a reason.
Refusing to be intimidated by losing the first set, they dug their heels into the polished hardwood.
Hanayama, Wakutani’s setter, pushed a fast set to the left.
“Kawatabi!”
The pineapple-haired spiker leaped, aggressively swinging for the cross.
But the Iron Wall was already there.
Kamasaki and Aone formed a flawless, heavy canopy.
SMACK!
The ball rebounded off Kamasaki’s thick forearms, rocketing back toward the Wakutani court.
But Wakutani’s libero was already diving, his chest scraping the floor as he popped the ball back up.
“They picked up a direct block rebound!” Koganegawa gasped.
“Their floor cohesion is their greatest weapon,” Itsuki muttered, his eyes tracking every movement.
“They don’t panic when the ball is deflected.
They expect it to be deflected.” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“Exactly,” Coach Oiwake grunted from beside him.
“Wakutani Minami doesn’t have a two-meter giant, and they don’t have a cannon.
They survive by outlasting their opponents.
They turn rallies into marathons, waiting for the other team to run out of breath and make a mistake.”
The rally extended.
The ball crossed the net four, five, six times.
Nakashima took flight.
He saw Futakuchi and Aone rising to block.
Learning from his first-set mistake, the Little Giant didn’t try to wipe Aone’s hands.
He deliberately aimed for Futakuchi’s outer arm, snapping his wrist violently.
Block out.
The ball careened into the bleachers.
“ALRIGHT!” Nakashima roared, high-fiving his setter.
Futakuchi landed, clicking his tongue in deep annoyance.
“Tch.
Little flea just keeps bouncing around.”
“Don’t lose your cool, Futakuchi!” Moniwa yelled, clapping his hands.
“We get the next one!”
From the bench, Itsuki watched Nakashima land smoothly and immediately transition back into a defensive posture.
He watched Kamasaki blast a spike that was dug up, forcing Kamasaki to immediately jump and block on the counter-attack.
Itsuki’s pen hovered over his notebook.
He looked at his own long, lean legs.
Nakashima-san just executed his fifteenth maximum-effort jump of the match, Itsuki analyzed internally.
His vertical apex hasn’t decreased by a single centimeter.
His stamina is highly optimized for high school-level endurance.
Itsuki looked down at his right hand.
The phantom sting of his 100-percent spike and his ballistic jump serve still lingered.
My kinetic chain is efficient, Itsuki thought, his eyes narrowing in intense self-reflection.
But efficiency cannot replace physical mass.
When I contort my body mid-air to hit those extreme angles, the torque on my spine and joints is immense.
If I try to play a full three-set match against a team like Shiratorizawa or Aoba Johsai, my muscles will fatigue, my angles will widen, and I will be blocked.
Or worse, I will tear a ligament.
He drew a sharp line down the center of a blank page in his notebook.
On the left side, he wrote: Current Build.
* Height: 192cm.
* Advantage: High apex, sharp angles, mid-air flexibility.
* Weakness: Low muscle density, rapid lactic acid buildup, fragile joints.
On the right side, he wrote: Required Build.
* Goal: Hypertrophy without sacrificing aerial agility.
I cannot just gain weight like Kamasaki-san, Itsuki calculated, watching the burly vice-captain roar as he slammed a spike through a seam.
If I become too bulky, my mid-air torso twists will become sluggish.
I need lean, dense muscle.
I need to increase my protein synthesis and introduce heavy plyometric training to reinforce my tendons.
I have to build a chassis capable of firing the cannon repeatedly.
“Naruse.”
Itsuki blinked, looking up at Coach Oiwake.
“Volleyball is a marathon played in sprints,” Oiwake said, his eyes fixed on the court, as if reading the freshman’s mind.
“You have the brain of an ace, and the height of a monster.
You want to stay on the court?
Build the armor.”
Itsuki gripped his pen tightly.
The socially anxious, overthinking freshman vanished, leaving only a fiercely competitive athlete.
“I will,” Itsuki said quietly.
“I will calculate the exact macronutrient and resistance threshold required.”
“Good.
Now watch Aone,” Oiwake smirked.
“He’s about to end this.”
On the court, the score read 24 – 22.
Match point for Date Tech.
Wakutani Minami was desperate.
Hanayama sent a fast, low toss to Nakashima, hoping to catch the Iron Wall before it could fully form.
Nakashima flew in from the left side, his eyes burning with absolute determination.
He saw the Dateko blockers were slightly disjointed—Futakuchi was a half-step late.
There’s a seam!
Nakashima thought, pulling his arm back to blast the ball through the tiny gap between Aone and Futakuchi.
But Aone Takanobu was Date Tech’s ultimate guardian.
Instead of jumping straight up and leaving the seam open, Aone used his terrifying lateral core strength.
Mid-jump, he forcefully thrust his entire upper body sideways, completely closing the gap in the air.
Nakashima swung with all his might.
He didn’t hit a seam.
He hit a solid, inescapable wall of pale flesh and bone.
KRA-THUMP.
The ball didn’t even bounce on Wakutani’s side.
It was a complete, suffocating stuff block.
The ball slammed straight down onto Nakashima’s side of the court before the ace even realized his spike had been stopped.
TWEEEEEEET!
The referee blew the long whistle, signaling the end of the match.
25 – 22.
Date Tech takes the match in straight sets.
“SHUT OUUUUUT!” Kamasaki roared, grabbing Aone by the shoulders and violently shaking the giant.
Aone simply let out a quiet breath, giving a single, stoic nod.
“YEAAAAAAHHH!” Koganegawa screamed from the bench, leaping into the air and accidentally smacking his head against a hanging gymnasium banner.
Wakutani Minami landed, staring at the floor in exhausted silence.
Nakashima wiped his face with the back of his jersey, a bitter but respectful smile crossing his face as he looked at Aone.
“They’re solid…
the Iron Wall is definitely back.”
The teams lined up on the baselines.
“BOW!” Moniwa and Nakashima called out simultaneously.
“THANK YOU FOR THE MATCH!”
Itsuki bowed deeply alongside his seniors.
As he straightened up, he looked across the net.
He had survived his first high school match.
He had fired his weapon, and he had learned exactly where his armor was lacking.
He clutched his notebook tightly against his side.
The Interhigh Qualifiers were coming, and Itsuki Naruse was going to be ready.