The days leading up to Golden Week dissolved into a grueling, sweat-soaked blur.
The Date Tech gymnasium felt less like a high school club and more like an industrial forge.
The squeak of rubber on hardwood was constant, layered beneath the heavy, concussive THUDS of volleyballs being blasted into the floor and the aggressive roars of the Iron Wall refining its defenses.
“Don’t swing your arms out, Koganegawa!
You’re bleeding momentum!” Itsuki barked, landing heavily after a spike.
“I AM KEEPING THEM IN!” Koganegawa yelled back, violently clamping his arms to his sides like a penguin before jumping.
“LIKE THIS?!”
“You look like a torpedo, you idiot, you still need to balance!” Futakuchi groaned, rubbing his temples.
They were pushing themselves to the absolute brink.
Coach Oiwake had increased the intensity of their drills by thirty percent, preparing their bodies for the marathon of the training camp.
Itsuki’s new regimen was agonizing.
To build the necessary armor for his 192-centimeter frame, his breaks consisted entirely of plyometric box jumps and heavy resistance band work.
His thighs burned constantly.
Forty-eight, Itsuki counted mentally, launching himself onto the wooden plyo-box.
Forty-nine.
Lactic acid buildup is peaking.
Muscle failure is imminent.
He landed heavily on the box for his fiftieth rep, his chest heaving, legs trembling.
He was about to step down and collapse when a massive shadow fell over him.
Aone stood next to a slightly taller plyo-box.
The giant second-year didn’t say a word.
He just locked his terrifying, pupil-less eyes onto Itsuki, squatted deeply, and leaped onto the box with the silent, effortless grace of a massive jungle cat.
He stepped down, and did it again.
One more rep, Aone’s silent glare seemed to say.
The Wall does not crumble.
Itsuki grit his teeth.
His competitive pride flared, entirely overriding the biological signals of pain.
“Fifty-one,” Itsuki grunted, forcing himself back into the air.
“Look at those two,” Sasaya chuckled, tossing a ball to Moniwa.
“Aone found himself a rival, and Naruse is too stubborn to back down.
They’re going to break the boxes.”
“Good!” Kamasaki roared, doing aggressive clapping push-ups nearby.
“That’s the Date Tech spirit!
Break the boxes!
Break the limits!
I’m going to do a thousand push-ups!”
“Kamasaki, please, save some energy for Golden Week!” Moniwa panicked, frantically handing out a stack of papers.
“Everyone!
Listen up!
These are the consent forms for the Golden Week Training Camp!
You are sleeping in the club room for five days!
If you do not bring this back with a parent or guardian’s signature by Friday, you cannot participate!”
Itsuki took the piece of paper from his captain.
He stared at the dotted line at the bottom.
His analytical brain, which had just flawlessly calculated a fifty-rep plyometric sequence, suddenly ground to a screeching halt.
A cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
“Naruse-kun?
Are you okay?” Sakunami asked, noticing the towering freshman suddenly go rigid.
“You look like you’re staring at a ghost.”
“Statistically speaking,” Itsuki murmured, his voice trembling slightly.
“Acquiring this signature is the most dangerous obstacle of the week.”
That evening, the Naruse household was impeccably quiet.
It was a traditional, spacious home, with sliding shoji doors and polished wooden hallways.
The silence wasn’t due to a lack of life; it was a highly disciplined silence, mandated by the head of the household.
Itsuki knelt at the low table in the living room, sitting in perfect seiza posture.
The consent form sat on the table in front of him, next to a perfectly aligned black pen.
His heart was beating like a drum.
Heavy, methodical footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Enter Naruse Genzo.
Itsuki’s father was a man who commanded absolute authority just by breathing.
As the Superintendent of the Miyagi Prefectural Police, he spent his days dismantling organized crime and overseeing hundreds of officers.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and it was immediately obvious where Itsuki had inherited his terrifying, deadpan glare.
Genzo’s eyes were like polished obsidian—sharp, calculating, and missing absolutely nothing.
Genzo sat across from his son, crossing his arms.
He didn’t wear a uniform at home, opting for a simple, dark yukata, but the aura of a high-ranking police chief remained fully intact.
“Itsuki,” Genzo’s voice was deep, rumbling like distant thunder.
“Your posture is tense.
Your heart rate is visibly elevated, indicated by the pulse in your carotid artery.
You have something to report.”
He’s too perceptive, Itsuki panicked internally, his social anxiety instantly redlining.
Initiate formal negotiation protocols.
“Father,” Itsuki began, his voice entirely robotic as he pushed the piece of paper across the table.
“I require your authorized signature on this localized travel and boarding document.
The Date Tech Volleyball Club is holding a Golden Week conditioning camp.
It mandates my physical presence on campus for five consecutive nights.”
Genzo didn’t move.
He simply lowered his eyes to the paper.
“It is a permission slip, Itsuki,” Genzo said dryly.
“Speak normally.”
“I want to go to the sleepover volleyball camp, please,” Itsuki corrected instantly, his voice cracking slightly.
Genzo picked up the paper.
He read it in silence.
For two agonizing minutes, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the wall clock and the distant splash of a koi fish in the garden pond.
“Five days,” Genzo finally spoke, looking up.
“A significant dedication of time.
Time that could be spent advancing your academic curriculum.”
“My academics are perfectly maintained,” Itsuki countered, gripping his knees.
“This camp is a statistical necessity.
We are attempting to forge a new tactical synergy before the Interhigh Qualifiers.”
Genzo’s sharp eyes narrowed.
The Superintendent was not a sports fanatic, but he understood the landscape of the prefecture perfectly.
“Date Tech.
The Iron Wall.
A formidable defensive strategy, but historically insufficient against Sendai’s elite academies.
Who is your final practice match against?”
Itsuki swallowed hard.
He knew his father valued absolute honesty above all else.
“Shiratorizawa Academy,” Itsuki answered, his voice quiet but steady.
Genzo raised an eyebrow.
The silence returned, heavier this time.
“Shiratorizawa,” Genzo repeated.
“An institution that offered you a direct path to national recognition.
An offer you declined, against my initial advice, in favor of an industrial high school that has not seen the national stage in years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now, you intend to face them in a practice match.” Genzo leaned forward slightly, the heavy aura of the Police Superintendent pressing down on the room.
“Tell me, Itsuki.
Did you choose Date Tech merely to be a large fish in a small pond?
Or do you actually intend to dismantle the reigning champions?”
Itsuki looked at his father.
The terrifying, intimidating pressure of the room was immense, but it was nothing compared to the phantom pressure of Aone’s block, or the weight of Koganegawa’s unwavering trust.
Itsuki’s social anxiety melted away.
The robotic, polite facade vanished.
He looked his father dead in the eye, his own dark eyes flaring with the exact same sharp, calculating intensity.
“I did not choose Date Tech to be comfortable,” Itsuki stated, his voice ringing with absolute, undeniable conviction.
“I chose Date Tech because they are the ultimate shield.
And they needed a spear.
Shiratorizawa relies on singular, predictable force.
We will out-calculate them, we will out-block them, and we will crush them.
Genzo stared at his son.
For a split second, the hardened Police Superintendent saw past the 192-centimeter frame.
He saw the fierce, burning ambition of a boy who had finally found a place where he belonged.
The corner of Genzo’s mouth twitched upward into a microscopic, incredibly rare smirk.
He picked up the pen, uncapped it with a sharp click, and signed his name on the dotted line with swift, decisive strokes.
“A police officer relies on evidence, Itsuki,” Genzo said, sliding the paper back across the table.
“You have presented your hypothesis.
Now, bring me the proof.”
Itsuki took the paper, holding it as if it were a holy relic.
He bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the tatami mat.
“Thank you, Father!
I will!”
May 1st.
The First Day of Golden Week.
The morning air was crisp and clear as Itsuki, carrying a massive duffel bag, walked up to the Date Tech club room.
He could hear the chaos before he even opened the door.
He slid the metal door open, instantly dodging a flying pillow.
“KAMASAKI-SAN, YOUR SNORES ARE GOING TO WAKE THE DEAD!” Futakuchi was yelling, standing on top of a pile of futons, armed with another pillow.
“IT’S CALLED MANLY RESPIRATION!” Kamasaki roared, currently trying to wrestle a massive, rolled-up sleeping bag away from Koganegawa.
“I BROUGHT TEN BAGS OF PROTIEN SHAKE MIX!” Koganegawa bellowed to absolutely no one, holding up a duffel bag that looked heavy enough to sink a ship.
“WE WILL DRINK IT UNTIL WE BECOME GODS!”
“Please stop yelling, it’s 6:00 AM,” Sakunami pleaded, looking incredibly small as he tried to neatly fold his blankets in the corner.
Itsuki stepped inside, setting his bag down.
He looked around the cramped club room.
The air smelled like Air Salonpas, old sneakers, and pure hype.
It was cramped, it was loud, and it was entirely chaotic.
Aone sat quietly in the corner, polishing his volleyball shoes.
He looked up, saw Itsuki, and gave a firm nod.
Itsuki nodded back, a genuine, completely un-anxious smile breaking across his face.
Clap, clap!
Captain Moniwa stood at the front of the room, holding his clipboard, looking both deeply stressed and incredibly excited.
“Alright, everyone, listen up!” Moniwa called out, silencing the room.
“The visiting teams from Osaki City will be arriving in exactly thirty minutes!
This camp is our crucible!
We are going to play until our legs give out, and then we are going to play some more!”
Futakuchi hopped down from the futons, a predatory smirk returning to his face.
“Let them come.
I need target practice.”
Kamasaki slammed his fists together.
“We’re going to build a wall they can’t even see over!”
The heavy club room door opened wider.
Coach Oiwake stood in the doorframe, his imposing silhouette blocking out the morning sun.
Assistant Coach Nametsu peeked around him, smiling brightly.
“Get your game faces on,” Oiwake commanded, his voice carrying a thrill of anticipation.
“First-years, this is your true baptism by fire.
Seniors, show them how Date Tech holds the line.
The road to Shiratorizawa starts today.”
The entire team straightened up, the chaotic energy instantly condensing into a sharp, terrifying focus.
“OSU!”
They marched out of the club room and down to the gymnasium as a single, unified front.
When the first visiting team—a respectable local high school—finally pushed open the Date Tech gym doors, they froze in their tracks.
Lined up on the baseline, looking like a heavily fortified, inescapable fortress of giants, Date Tech waited.
Itsuki stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kamasaki and Aone, his dark eyes locking onto the opponents with hyper-analytical precision.
Koganegawa towered on the other side, radiating explosive energy, while Sakunami guarded the back like a coiled spring.
Together, the Iron Wall bowed.
“THANK YOU FOR THE MATCH!”
Golden Week had officially begun.
And Date Tech was taking no prisoners.