Pushing a floor mop when you are 192 centimeters tall is a uniquely uncomfortable experience.
Itsuki hunched over the wooden handle, rhythmically sweeping the wide dust mop across the polished hardwood.
Beside him, Sakunami was moving at double speed to cover the same amount of ground, while across the gym, Koganegawa was aggressively pushing his mop with so much force that the wooden handle looked ready to snap.
“Koganegawa, you’re just pushing the dust into the air!
Sweep, don’t bulldoze!” Moniwa’s tired voice echoed across the gym.
“Osu!
Sorry, Captain!” Koganegawa shouted, bowing so deeply he nearly headbutted the mop.
Itsuki let out a slow, quiet breath.
His shoulders ached, and his left knee was giving him that familiar, dull throb from a delayed growth spurt.
He was currently replaying his final failed spike in his head for the fifteenth time, adjusting the mental angle of his wrist, when the sharp blast of a whistle made him flinch.
“Mops away!
First-years, line up!” Coach Oiwake barked.
Within seconds, the three freshmen were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the coach.
The second and third-years gathered loosely behind Oiwake, wiping their faces with towels and watching with varying degrees of amusement.
Coach Oiwake slowly paced in front of the trio, his heavy gaze resting on each of them in turn.
The silence stretched, thick and intimidating.
Sakunami looked like he forgot how to breathe.
Koganegawa stood so rigidly at attention he was practically vibrating.
Itsuki stared straight ahead, trying desperately not to make accidental eye contact with anyone.
Oiwake stopped and crossed his arms.
“Koganegawa,” the coach started, his voice dry.
“YES, COACH!” Koganegawa bellowed, rattling the gym windows.
“You have the physical coordination of a newborn calf on roller skates.”
A snort of laughter erupted from the back—Futakuchi, completely failing to hide his amusement.
Kamasaki elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“H-Hieee!” Koganegawa wilted instantly.
“However,” Oiwake continued, unbothered, “your frame is undeniable.
If you can learn to actually control your limbs instead of just flinging them around, you’ll be useful.
But right now, you’re a liability.
You’ll be focusing on basic mobility and form.
Don’t even think about touching a spike yet.”
“Osu!” Koganegawa shouted, immediately reviving like a watered plant.
Oiwake’s eyes shifted.
“Sakunami.”
“Yes!” the libero squeaked.
“Your foundation is solid.
Your center of gravity is good, and your eyes don’t leave the ball.
But against powerhouse hitters, good form isn’t enough.
You need to read the spiker’s shoulders before they even swing.
You’ll be doing extra serve-receive drills starting tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much!” Sakunami bowed, visibly relieved.
Finally, Oiwake stepped in front of Itsuki.
The coach was a tall man, but Itsuki still had to look down ever so slightly to meet his eyes.
Oiwake didn’t look intimidated; he looked like a mechanic examining a complicated engine.
“Naruse.
192 centimeters.” Oiwake tapped his clipboard.
“You have the height of a middle blocker, but you insist on playing the wing.
And based on that trial, you think entirely too loud.”
Itsuki blinked.
“I…
think too loud?”
“I could see the gears turning in your head from the sideline,” Oiwake said bluntly.
“You are highly analytical.
You adjust in mid-air, which is a rare talent.
But your body is currently writing checks your muscles can’t cash.
You’re growing too fast, and your timing is fractured.
If you spend too much time thinking in the air, a good blocker will just wait you out and stuff you anyway.
You need to bridge the gap between your brain and your body.”
Itsuki swallowed hard, the absolute accuracy of the critique hitting him right in the chest.
He bowed deeply.
“I understand.
I will work on it.”
Oiwake let out a quiet hmph, a tiny smirk finally breaking his stoic expression.
“Welcome to the Date Tech Volleyball Club.
Don’t make me regret this.”
“Osu!” the three first-years chorused.
“Alright, the rest of you monsters, come introduce yourselves,” Oiwake sighed, waving the upperclassmen forward before walking toward his office.
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted from tense to utterly chaotic.
Moniwa stepped forward first, offering a warm, incredibly relieved smile.
“Welcome to the team!
I’m Moniwa Kaname, the captain.
We’re really happy to have you guys.
We’ve got a lot of tall players this year, so I know we’re going to be a great—”
“ALRIGHT, ROOKIES!” Kamasaki roared, shoving past Moniwa and flexing both of his biceps.
“I am Kamasaki Yasushi!
Vice-Captain!
If you want to survive the Iron Wall, you need MUSCLE!
You better go home and eat three steaks tonight!
Koganegawa, drop and give me fifty pushups right now!”
“YES, KAMASAKI-SAN!” Koganegawa yelled, immediately dropping to the floor and repping out incredibly fast, terribly formed pushups.
“Kamasaki, stop terrorizing them on day one!” Moniwa panicked, grabbing the burly spiker’s arm.
“Koganegawa, you don’t have to do that!
Stand up!”
“Ignore the meathead,” a lazy voice drawled.
Futakuchi strolled forward, an overly sweet, completely fake smile plastered on his face.
Behind him stood Obara, who simply offered a polite, quiet wave, and Aone, who looked as imposing as a brick wall.
“I’m Futakuchi Kenji.
Second-year,” he introduced himself, stopping right in front of Itsuki.
He tilted his head, his smirk turning a little sharper.
“So.
‘Naruse’, was it?”
Itsuki, his social anxiety flaring up wildly at being the center of attention, stood stiffly.
“Yes, Futakuchi-san.”
Futakuchi casually held up his right hand, pointing to his pinky finger.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, freshman.
Deciding to wipe the ball off my pinky on your very first trial.
You really thought you were being slick, didn’t you?”
Sakunami, sensing the danger, squeaked and took half a step behind Itsuki.
Itsuki looked at Futakuchi’s hand, then up at his face.
His brain bypassed his social filter entirely, slipping right back into volleyball analysis.
“I apologize if it was disrespectful, Futakuchi-san,” Itsuki said, perfectly polite, his voice deadpan.
“But if I had aimed for your ring or index finger, the rebound angle would have been too shallow, and the ball would have gone out of bounds on my side of the net.
Your pinky was the only mathematically safe option.”
The entire gym went dead silent.
Moniwa gasped.
Sasaya slapped a hand over his mouth.
Kamasaki froze.
Futakuchi’s eye twitched.
He wasn’t sure if he had just been highly complimented on his blocking form or utterly insulted by a freshman calling him ‘mathematically safe’.
The snarky second-year actually struggled to find a comeback.
“Pfft—BWAHAHAHA!” Kamasaki suddenly burst into booming laughter, slamming a heavy hand onto Itsuki’s shoulder, nearly buckling the first-year’s knees.
“Did you hear that, Futakuchi?!
The freshman just calculated you!
Oh, I like this kid!”
“Shut up, Kamasaki!” Futakuchi snapped, a vein popping on his forehead.
He pointed a finger at Itsuki.
“Alright, tall guy.
Next practice, I am shutting you out completely.
I’m going to stuff your spikes so hard you’ll forget how to do math.”
Before Itsuki could respond, a massive shadow fell over him.
Aone had stepped forward.
The gym quieted down again as the towering second-year stopped just inches from Itsuki.
Aone was slightly shorter than Itsuki, but he was twice as wide, radiating a silent, intense pressure.
Aone didn’t speak.
He slowly raised his hand and extended a single, massive finger, pointing it directly at Itsuki’s chest.
It was the Iron Wall’s official “lock-on.” The ultimate sign of recognition.
Aone only ever pointed at players he considered dangerous.
Itsuki understood instantly.
His anxiety vanished, replaced by the same hyper-focus he felt on the court.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes hardened.
He gave Aone a slow, deep bow of respect, then stood back up, meeting the silent giant’s gaze head-on.
Aone gave a single, firm nod.
“A-Alright!” Moniwa clapped his hands loudly, desperately trying to disperse the overwhelming alpha-blocker energy radiating from the two giants.
“That’s enough intimidation for one day!
First-years, lock up the gym when you’re done changing!
See you tomorrow!”
Ten minutes later, from the window of his second-floor office, Coach Oiwake stood with a cup of green tea in his hand, watching the three first-years walk out of the school gates.
Koganegawa was wildly pantomiming a spike, nearly hitting Sakunami in the head, while Itsuki walked beside them, his shoulders hunched slightly, looking completely drained.
Assistant Coach Nametsu walked in, holding a stack of roster forms.
“The new batch looks lively, Coach.
Especially Koganegawa.
Though, Naruse is an interesting case.
192 centimeters, but he plays like a trickster.”
“He’s a necessary contradiction,” Oiwake said, taking a sip of his tea.
Nametsu blinked.
“Sir?”
Oiwake looked out into the setting sun.
“Date Tech’s Iron Wall is built on absolute solidity.
Aone and Kamasaki crush the opponents with sheer power and speed.
Futakuchi suffocates them with smart read-blocking.
But an unmoving wall can become predictable to teams with highly adaptable offenses.”
He thought back to the way Itsuki had forcefully twisted his body in mid-air to avoid Futakuchi’s block.
“Naruse Itsuki isn’t a powerhouse yet.
He might never be an ace who blasts through a three-man block like Shiratorizawa’s Ushijima,” Oiwake noted, a sharp gleam in his eye.
“But he is a technician.
He sees the court in slow motion.
If Aone is the heavy shield of Date Tech…”
Oiwake set his teacup down.
“…Then Naruse will be the scalpel.
In practice, he’s going to drive our blockers insane with his tooling and shot selection.
He will force Aone and Futakuchi to become tighter, faster, and smarter to stop him.
And in official matches, when the opposing team thinks they just have to deal with our giant blockers, we’ll unleash a giant who specializes in dismantling blocks from the inside out.”
The coach smiled, a rare, terrifying expression.
“The Iron Wall is getting an upgrade.
Let’s see if the kid survives the first month of practice.”