The Date Tech gymnasium during Golden Week smelled distinctly of three things: synthetic leather, floor wax, and the sheer, unfiltered desperation of teenage boys pushing beyond their physical limits.
“BALL DEEP!” Moniwa yelled, diving for a loose receive.
TWEEET!
Coach Oiwake stood by the referee stand, ruthlessly blowing his whistle.
“That’s twenty points for Ogano High!
Date Tech, your transition speed is garbage!
Switch out!”
Day One was an absolute meat grinder.
The strategy of the Golden Week camp was simple: flood the gym with respectable, fundamentally sound teams from across Osaki City, and force the Date Tech roster to play them on a continuous, brutal rotation.
No long breaks.
No tactical huddles.
Just raw, unbroken volleyball.
On the court, the new Iron Wall was suffering from growing pains.
“KOGANEGAWA, THE AXIS IS SKEWED AGAIN!” Itsuki called out, violently contorting his spine in mid-air to salvage a set that was drifting dangerously close to the antenna.
He barely managed to push the ball over the net, landing heavily on his right foot with a sharp grimace.
“I’M SORRY!
MY SHOULDERS FORGOT HOW TO BE A PROTRACTOR!” Koganegawa yelled, gripping his head in sheer panic.
“Protractor?!
What are you idiots talking about?!” Kamasaki roared, slamming a free ball down on the next play.
“Just toss it up and smash it!
Stop doing geometry on the court!”
They were winning their matches, but it was ugly.
The sheer physical toll of integrating new pieces was exposing every crack in their foundation.
During a brief ten-minute hydration break, the team collapsed against the gym walls.
Itsuki sat on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, furiously scribbling in his notebook.
His hand was shaking slightly from muscle fatigue.
Statistical analysis of Day One, Itsuki wrote.
My maximum power output is currently limited to two sets before lactic acid heavily impedes my mid-air flexibility.
Koganegawa’s setting consistency is at 34%.
Sakunami is hesitating to cover the block’s shadow.
He looked up.
The Date Tech seniors weren’t resting.
They were actively forging their own upgrades.
On the far court, Futakuchi was standing at the service line with a basket of volleyballs.
He wasn’t smirking.
He tossed a ball, took a sharp approach, and launched a jump serve.
The ball slammed into the net tape and rolled back.
“Hah!
Weak!” Kamasaki jeered from the water fountain, flexing a bicep.
“You need more core strength, string bean!”
“Shut your mouth, Gorilla-san, or I’ll aim the next one at your head,” Futakuchi snapped, a dark, competitive fire burning in his eyes.
He grabbed another ball.
Oikawa and that rookie freak both have cannons, Futakuchi thought fiercely.
If I don’t become a lethal server, I’m just a tall guy who blocks.
I’m not getting left behind.
He tossed the ball higher.
He adjusted his toss slightly forward, committing fully to the swing.
Smack!
The ball rocketed over the net, clipping the deep corner line.
“Oho,” Sasaya noted from the sidelines.
“He got the spin right that time.”
Near the net, Aone was doing lateral shuffle drills with Assistant Coach Nametsu tossing balls at him.
But Aone wasn’t jumping to block.
He was practicing soft blocking—purposefully angling his massive hands backward to absorb the momentum of the ball, forcing it to drop gently on his own side rather than ricocheting out of bounds. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Thwump.
The ball died perfectly against Aone’s palms.
Sakunami, watching this from the bench, suddenly had a revelation.
“Wait,” Sakunami whispered, his eyes widening.
He ran over to Itsuki.
“Naruse-kun!
Look at Aone-san’s soft blocks!
The ball doesn’t bounce far.
It drops straight down!”
Itsuki looked up from his notebook, instantly processing the geometry.
“Yes.
The recoil is minimized.
The drop zone is within a one-meter radius of the net.”
“I’ve been playing too deep!” Sakunami gasped, slapping his cheeks.
“When Aone-san is soft-blocking, I don’t need to cover the backline for a tool!
I need to be right behind him to scoop up the dead ball!”
Itsuki’s eyes widened slightly.
A small, proud smile touched his lips.
“An excellent tactical adjustment, Sakunami.
You are optimizing the defensive coverage grid.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m going to dig everything!” Sakunami beamed, sprinting back onto the court.
By the time the sun set on Day One, the gym smelled like a locker room, and everyone looked like zombies.
Dinner was served in the club room: massive, steaming vats of pork curry and mountains of white rice prepared by Coach Oiwake and Nametsu.
“FOOD OF THE GODS!” Koganegawa wept, shoving an entire ladle of curry into his mouth at once.
“Chew your food, you animal, you’re going to choke,” Futakuchi grumbled, though he was eating almost as fast.
Itsuki sat quietly in the corner, staring at his plate.
He had meticulously separated his rice, protein, and sauce to estimate the caloric density.
“Naruse,” a heavy voice said.
Itsuki looked up.
Aone was sitting across from him.
The giant second-year pushed a small plate with three extra pieces of chicken toward Itsuki.
Aone didn’t speak, but he pointed at the chicken, then pointed at Itsuki’s right arm.
Build the armor, the silent gesture commanded.
Itsuki’s social anxiety flared briefly at the direct attention, his ears turning pink.
“I…
mathematically, this exceeds my calculated fat intake, Aone-san.
However…
I will synthesize the protein.” He bowed his head and ate the chicken.
Later that night, the club room was a sea of sleeping bags.
The rhythmic, thunderous snoring of Kamasaki and Koganegawa created a stereo effect of sheer auditory torture.
Moniwa lay awake, staring at the ceiling, dark bags under his eyes.
I am the captain, he repeated to himself like a mantra.
I will not smother them with a pillow.
I am a benevolent captain.
Day Two began with the agonizing reality of delayed-onset muscle soreness.
When Itsuki tried to stand up from his futon, his calves screamed in protest.
Beside him, Koganegawa groaned, rolling over and getting completely tangled in his sleeping bag like a giant caterpillar.
But as they hit the court against the next wave of Osaki teams, something felt different.
The exhaustion had stripped away their ability to overthink.
The frantic panic of Day One was gone, replaced by a gritty, survival-mode instinct.
“Left side!”
It was a vicious spike, aimed perfectly at Aone’s hands.
But Aone didn’t stiffen.
He executed the soft block he had drilled for hours the day before.
He pulled his wrists back.
Thwump.
The ball died, dropping dangerously close to the net on Date Tech’s side.
Before it could hit the floor, a blur of motion swept under Aone’s massive frame.
“I got it!” Sakunami yelled, sliding on his knee pads.
He popped the ball up perfectly, dead center.
“NICE RECEIVE, SAKUNAMI!” Moniwa cheered.
“KOGANEGAWA!” Itsuki roared, his voice cutting through the gym.
He didn’t have the stamina to sprint, but he didn’t need to.
He paced his approach perfectly, conserving his kinetic energy for the final explosive jump.
Koganegawa lumbered under the ball.
Square the shoulders.
Like a protractor, Koganegawa chanted in his head.
He forcefully stopped his momentum, planted both feet firmly, and locked his shoulders perfectly parallel to the net.
He thrust his hands upward.
It wasn’t a panicked shove.
It was a heavy, deliberate, perfectly vertical push.
The ball shot directly up into the stratosphere, holding a clean, spinless trajectory.
It’s perfect, Itsuki analyzed, leaping into the air.
He didn’t have to contort his spine.
He didn’t have to adjust his axis.
He hung at his 192-centimeter apex, the ball floating exactly into his strike zone.
He pulled his arm back, his kinetic chain aligning with flawless, terrifying precision.
KABOOM!
The ball blasted straight down the line, entirely untouched, exploding against the hardwood.
The gym went completely silent.
The opposing team stared at the cratered floorboard in absolute shock.
“UWOOOOOOHHHHH!!!” Koganegawa leaped into the air, tears streaming down his face.
“THE PROTRACTOR WORKED!
I SET IT!
I’M A GENIUS SETTER!”
“You’re a completely unrefined brute, but the placement was statistically acceptable!” Itsuki called back, breathing heavily but smiling a sharp, competitive smile.
“That actually looked like a real volleyball play,” Futakuchi commented, wiping sweat from his forehead, looking genuinely impressed.
“Don’t let it go to your head, rookies.”
“THEY’RE DOING IT!
MY BEAUTIFUL KOHAI ARE GROWING!” Moniwa wept openly on the court, blowing his nose into his jersey.
“Moniwa, that’s disgusting, get a towel!” Kamasaki yelled, though he was grinning from ear to ear.
From the sideline, Coach Oiwake clicked his pen.
They were still rough around the edges.
Koganegawa was still clumsy, Itsuki’s stamina was still a ticking clock, and Sakunami was still getting bruised.
But the individual upgrades were finally locking together.
The Date Tech Iron Wall was no longer a static shield.
It was shifting, breathing, and evolving.
Oiwake looked at his calendar.
The final day of Golden Week was approaching.
Keep polishing the gears, Oiwake thought, a fierce anticipation burning in his chest.
Shiratorizawa won’t know what hit them.