The heavy double doors of the Date Tech gymnasium yielded with a metallic groan.
As they swung open, the smell of Air Salonpas, sweat, and floor wax washed over Itsuki.
But it was the sound that commanded his attention—a thunderous CRACK followed by a heavy, resounding thud.
Itsuki and Sakunami froze in the doorway, their eyes glued to the court.
So this is the Iron Wall, Itsuki thought, his analytical brain immediately kicking into overdrive.
On the near side of the net, a muscular third-year with spiky blonde hair—Kamasaki Yasushi—was landing, his face twisted in frustration.
Across the net stood the reason why.
A giant of a second-year with zero eyebrows and a terrifying scowl was already coming down from a jump, his massive arms having completely shut down Kamasaki’s spike.
It was Aone Takanobu.
He didn’t cheer or gloat.
He simply stared silently at the ball on the floor.
“Dammit, Aone!” Kamasaki roared, pointing aggressively.
“You were late on the read!
You just threw your arms up based on reflexes!”
Next to Aone, a tall, languid second-year with brown hair—Futakuchi Kenji—smirked, casually stretching his arms.
“Sounds like an excuse from a guy who just got completely stuffed, Kamasaki-san.
Maybe swing harder next time?
Oh wait, you can’t.”
“What did you say, you cheeky brat?!” Kamasaki bellowed, veins popping on his forehead.
“I’ll crush you on the next one!”
“Kamasaki, calm down!
Futakuchi, don’t provoke your seniors!” The frantic, slightly high-pitched voice belonged to a third-year setter with curly black hair.
Moniwa Kaname, the captain, looked like he was one stress-headache away from passing out.
He frantically pointed toward the door.
“We have first-years watching!”
Itsuki flinched slightly, realizing they had been spotted.
Beside him, Sakunami stiffened into a rigid bow.
“Hey.
You two at the door.”
A deep, commanding voice cut through the gym’s echoing chaos.
Standing near the whiteboard with a clipboard in hand was Coach Takuro Oiwake.
He had a stern, immovable face and an aura that demanded instant respect.
“If you’re submitting applications, get over here and line up with the rest of them.
We don’t have all day.”
Itsuki snapped out of his trance.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, stepping onto the court with Sakunami right on his heels.
As they jogged over to the sideline, Itsuki noticed the other first-years who had already arrived.
One of them was impossible to miss—a towering boy with blonde hair and wide, eager eyes who looked like an overgrown golden retriever.
Koganegawa Kanji.
Coach Oiwake crossed his arms, his sharp eyes scanning the row of fresh recruits.
Coach Oiwake’s Internal Assessment:
Sakunami Kousuke.
Oiwake noted the boy’s short stature but solid stance.
Low center of gravity.
Good eyes.
He’s already tracking the loose balls bouncing around the gym.
Libero material.
We need a solid floor defense behind the wall.
His gaze moved to Koganegawa.
Huge frame, but stands like a baby giraffe.
Has absolutely no idea how to use his limbs yet.
He’s a long-term project, but you can’t teach height.
Finally, his eyes settled on Itsuki.
Naruse Itsuki.
192 centimeters.
Oiwake tapped his pen against the clipboard.
He’s as tall as Aone, but leaner.
Doesn’t have the raw musculature yet.
But his eyes…
he hasn’t stopped analyzing the upperclassmen since he walked in.
Let’s see what that brain translates to in the air.
“Alright, listen up!” Oiwake barked.
“We’re running a basic spiking and receiving trial!
Third-years, you’re tossing and hitting.
Second-years, you’re on blocking duty.
First-years, let’s see if you can actually hit a ball over the net before I make you run laps!”
The gym exploded into motion.
The trial began with Koganegawa.
Moniwa set a beautiful, high ball to the right side.
Koganegawa ran at it with the enthusiasm of a runaway train, swung with all his might, and completely missed the ball.
His hand slapped empty air, and he crashed headfirst into the net.
“I-I’m sorry!” Koganegawa yelled, bowing furiously.
“Don’t tangle yourself in the net, idiot!” Kamasaki yelled.
“Next!
Naruse!” Coach Oiwake called out.
Itsuki stepped onto the court.
The air immediately felt different.
His social anxiety vanished, replaced by a cold, hyper-focused clarity.
Across the net, waiting to block him, were Futakuchi and Aone.
Aone slowly turned his head, his pupil-less eyes locking onto Itsuki like a targeting system.
The sheer pressure radiating off the second-year middle blocker was suffocating.
“Let’s see what the new giant can do,” Futakuchi drawled, getting into his ready stance.
Itsuki didn’t respond.
He looked at Moniwa.
“A standard high toss to the left, please.”
Moniwa nodded, looking a little relieved by the polite request.
“You got it!”
The ball went up.
Itsuki began his approach.
One step, two steps, exploding off his left foot.
He soared upward.
From the sideline, Coach Oiwake widened his eyes slightly.
His jumping form is incredibly clean.
But…
Mid-air, Itsuki realized a split-second too late that his timing was off.
He had grown another two centimeters over the spring break, and his legs were just slightly longer than his muscle memory accounted for.
He had jumped a fraction of a second too early.
I’m falling, Itsuki realized.
In front of him, the true Iron Wall rose.
Aone and Futakuchi leaped together, a massive, imposing shadow that entirely blotted out the gym lights.
Aone’s massive hands sealed off the straight, while Futakuchi took the cross.
It was a perfect, inescapable canopy.
Itsuki couldn’t hit through Aone; it would be like punching a steel door.
He couldn’t hit over them because his apex was already slipping.
Instead, Itsuki’s eyes locked onto Futakuchi’s outside arm.
In a fraction of a second, Itsuki forcefully contorted his torso in mid-air, straining his core.
He dropped his right elbow, drastically changing the trajectory of his swing at the last possible moment.
He didn’t swing hard; he swung with surgical precision, aiming a wiping motion at the very edge of Futakuchi’s pinky finger.
Smack.
The ball grazed the side of Futakuchi’s hand and deflected sharply, flying wildly out of bounds on the blockers’ side.
Tool.
Itsuki landed heavily, stumbling forward a step to catch his balance due to the awkward mid-air twist, his chest heaving.
Futakuchi landed and stared at his hand in disbelief.
Then, his eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the quiet first-year.
“Huh?
You cheeky little…
You aimed for that, didn’t you?”
Aone landed silently beside him.
Slowly, the giant second-year turned to look at Itsuki, his eyes wide.
He didn’t speak, but he locked onto Itsuki with a renewed, intense focus.
“What kind of weak swing was that?!” Kamasaki yelled from the sidelines, pointing aggressively.
“You’re 192 centimeters tall!
Blast it through the block like a man!”
“Kamasaki, he still scored the point!
Don’t yell at him!” Moniwa panicked, waving his hands.
“Naruse-kun, are you okay?
That landing looked rough!”
“I’m fine, Moniwa-san,” Itsuki said quietly, rubbing his shoulder.
He frowned, deeply dissatisfied.
My timing was garbage.
If Futakuchi had closed his hands a centimeter tighter, that would have been a soft block right back in my face.
And Aone’s read was instantaneous.
I need to fix my approach step.
On the sideline, third-year Takehito Sasaya chuckled.
“Hey, Kamasaki.
He knew he messed up his jump timing.
He saw the block and deliberately retooled his swing mid-air to salvage the play.
That kid has some serious spatial awareness.”
Coach Oiwake didn’t smile, but he scribbled something furiously onto his clipboard.
He lacks Aone’s overwhelming power, and his body is still getting used to its own size.
But his mid-air body control is phenomenal.
A technical giant…
this is interesting.
“Don’t just stand there!
We’re not done!” Oiwake barked.
“Switch to receives!
I want to see if you tall trees can actually bend your knees!”
The trial stretched on, turning into a grueling test of stamina.
When it was Sakunami’s turn to receive, the gym watched in surprise as the tiny libero beautifully dug up a nasty spike from Sasaya, absorbing the impact with textbook form.
“Nice receive!” Moniwa cheered.
Then came Itsuki’s turn in the back row.
Sasaya jumped and slammed a sharp cross-court spike.
Because of his height, getting low fast enough was agonizing for Itsuki.
He couldn’t get his platform perfectly set in time, but he didn’t freeze.
Throwing his long frame toward the floor, Itsuki executed a desperate diving pancake.
The ball popped up off the back of his hand, high enough to be playable, as Itsuki’s chest slammed into the floor, skidding across the hardwood.
“Cover!” Itsuki rasped out, scrambling immediately back to his feet, ignoring the friction burn on his chin.
“Good hustle!” Kamasaki yelled, surprisingly approving.
“That’s the guts we need!”
By the final rotation, Itsuki was drenched in sweat, his legs burning.
“Last one, Naruse!” Moniwa yelled, sending up one final toss.
Itsuki approached.
Fix the timing.
Push harder off the left foot.
He jumped, feeling the apex perfectly this time.
The block rose—Aone and Obara this time.
Itsuki saw the seam between them.
He didn’t try to tool; he swung with everything he had, aiming for a sharp inner cross.
But as his arm whipped forward, his shoulder dragged slightly, exhausted from the continuous drills.
Smack-THWACK.
The ball caught the very top of the net tape, killing its momentum, and dropped dead on Itsuki’s own side of the court.
Itsuki landed, staring at the ball by his feet.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his face entirely unreadable, though internally he was ruthlessly cataloging the mechanical failure.
Elbow dropped.
Core didn’t engage fast enough.
Stamina limits reached.
TWEEEEET!
Coach Oiwake’s whistle sliced through the gym, sharp and final.
“That’s enough!” Oiwake commanded, lowering the whistle.
“Water break!
First-years, grab the mops!”