The Date Tech gymnasium had a heartbeat.
It was a rhythm made of squeaking rubber, the heavy thud of medicine balls hitting the floor, and the sharp, synchronized exhales of two dozen teenagers.
Itsuki stood in the corner of the gym, a towel around his neck, taking it all in.
This was the official routine.
First came the dynamic stretches, then the core stabilization drills (which Kamasaki aggressively led while shouting about protein synthesis), and finally, the blocking footwork drills that were the absolute foundation of the Iron Wall.
Shuffle, shuffle, jump.
Shuffle, cross-step, jump.
Itsuki watched Aone and Futakuchi glide across the net.
Aone moved like a heavily armored tank that somehow had the engine of a sports car—silent, terrifyingly fast, and ending with a block that blotted out the gym lights.
A sharp blast from Coach Oiwake’s whistle cut through the noise.
“First-years!
Over here!”
Itsuki, Sakunami, and Koganegawa jogged over, lining up perfectly.
Oiwake stood by the whiteboard, clipboard in hand, looking at them with his usual mechanic-inspecting-an-engine glare.
“Starting today, you’re on specialized menus,” Oiwake announced.
He pointed his pen at Koganegawa.
“Koganegawa.
You have the coordination of a drunk flamingo.
I don’t want you touching a volleyball for the first half of practice.
You are doing ladder drills, cone touches, and core stabilization until you can move without tripping over your own size-fourteen shoes.”
“OSU!” Koganegawa yelled, bowing so hard he nearly launched himself forward.
“I WILL BE THE BEST FLAMINGO!”
Oiwake ignored the bizarre enthusiasm and shifted his gaze.
“Sakunami.
You’re with the second-string liberos and defensive specialists.
You’ll be taking hundred-ball receive drills.
I want your platform so stable I could balance a cup of tea on your forearms while you dive.”
“Y-Yes, Coach!” Sakunami gulped, his face pale but determined.
“Naruse.” Oiwake locked eyes with Itsuki.
“Your mid-air adjustments are sharp, but your takeoff is a mess.
Your brain thinks you’re still 188 centimeters, but your legs are 192.
Until you recalibrate your center of gravity, your spikes are just going to be elaborate tools that better teams will easily soft-block.”
Itsuki nodded strictly.
“Understood.”
“You’re on approach drills,” Oiwake commanded.
“No ball.
Just the run-up and jump.
Over and over.
Break down your penultimate step.
I want you to jump a hundred times and find exactly where your maximum apex is now.
When your body stops fighting its own height, we’ll give you a ball.”
“Osu.”
Thirty minutes later, the first-years collapsed against the wall near the water fountains.
Koganegawa was panting heavily, his long legs completely tangled in front of him after tripping over a speed ladder.
Sakunami’s forearms were bright red, steaming slightly in the cool gym air.
Itsuki sat between them, his knees pulled up to his chest, staring intensely at a blank spot on the wall.
“Man…” Koganegawa wheezed, splashing water on his face.
“High school practice is no joke.
I didn’t even touch a ball today and my calves are screaming!”
“Sasaya-san’s spikes are so heavy,” Sakunami murmured, rubbing his bruised arms.
“Even when I get perfectly under them, the ball just flies off my wrists.
The seniors really are on a whole different level.”
“They are,” Itsuki said quietly, finally blinking his eyes into focus.
He turned to look at Sakunami and Koganegawa.
The usual soft, socially anxious demeanor was completely absent, replaced by a cold, calculating fire.
“But we can’t just admire them.”
Sakunami blinked.
“Huh?”
“Moniwa-san, Kamasaki-san, and Sasaya-san are third-years.
They retire after the Spring High,” Itsuki stated, his voice flat but carrying a heavy weight.
“But I don’t want to wait until they retire to get on the court.
I didn’t come to Date Tech to sit on the bench and cheer.”
He looked toward the court, where Futakuchi was currently taunting Kamasaki at the net.
“In an official match, they only let six people on the floor,” Itsuki continued.
“If we want to play, we have to prove we are fundamentally better than the people currently standing there.
We have to steal their spots.”
Sakunami shivered.
It was the exact same feeling he had yesterday walking home.
When Itsuki talked about volleyball, the polite giant vanished, leaving behind a terrifyingly ambitious athlete.
“STEAL THEIR SPOTS!” Koganegawa suddenly roared, leaping to his feet and slamming his fists together.
“THAT’S RIGHT!
I’M GONNA OUST SOMEONE!
I DON’T KNOW WHO YET, BUT I’M GONNA DO IT!”
“Koganegawa-kun, please use your inside voice,” Sakunami panicked, looking around to make sure the seniors hadn’t heard.
But then, the libero clenched his own fists, looking at his red forearms.
“But…
you’re right, Naruse-kun.
If I want to protect the court behind the Iron Wall, I have to be undeniable.”
Itsuki pushed himself up off the wall.
“Then let’s get back to work.
I still have sixty jumps left.”
Squeak.
Step, STEP.
BANG.
Itsuki launched himself into the air near the empty side net.
No, he thought, landing with a heavy thud, his brow furrowed.
My left foot planted too shallow.
My hips opened up early.
All the kinetic energy leaked out the side.
He walked back to the three-meter line.
He closed his eyes, visualizing the biomechanics.
Left, right, left.
Deep bend.
Explode up.
Don’t look at the ball—there is no ball.
Just feel the floor push back.
Squeak.
Step, STEP.
BANG.
He hung in the air.
For a split second, it felt right—his core tightened, stopping his forward momentum and transferring it entirely upward.
But as he swung his empty arm, his shoulder dragged slightly, unaccustomed to the new apex.
He landed and immediately started pacing, muttering to himself.
“Torso twist was a tenth of a second late.
Gravity caught me before the swing peaked.
Again.”
From the other side of the gym, the upperclassmen were taking a hydration break, their eyes drifting over to the lone first-year launching himself into the air over and over again.
“Look at him,” Kamasaki grunted, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel.
“He hasn’t touched a ball in forty minutes, and he’s treating empty air like it’s the finals of the Interhigh.
Kid’s got an engine on him.”
Futakuchi took a swig from his water bottle, his eyes narrowed as he analyzed Itsuki’s form.
“He’s overthinking it.
You can see his eyes darting around mid-air.
He’s trying to manually operate every muscle in his body instead of just letting instinct take over.
Nerd.”
“He has to,” Sasaya pointed out, leaning against the equipment cart.
“He grew four centimeters in the last few months.
When you’re that tall, even a slight shift in your center of gravity completely ruins your aerial balance.
But notice how every jump is slightly cleaner than the last?
He’s actively patching the bugs in his software.”
Aone stood silently beside them.
The giant second-year was staring at Itsuki unblinkingly.
He didn’t speak, but his massive hands flexed slightly by his sides.
He could visualize a ball in the air in front of the freshman.
He could visualize himself jumping to block it.
He is fixing his apex, Aone’s intense stare seemed to say.
I want to block him when it is fixed.
Moniwa, holding a clipboard, walked over to his fellow third-years, a nervous but excited smile on his face.
“He’s incredibly dedicated,” Moniwa said, looking fondly at Itsuki, then over to Koganegawa (who was currently stuck inside a speed ladder) and Sakunami (who was repeatedly diving onto the floor).
“They all are.
They have the drive.
But individual practice will only take them so far.”
Futakuchi raised an eyebrow.
“Oh no.
I know that look, Captain.
You’re plotting something team-build-y, aren’t you?”
“It’s not just team building!” Moniwa defended, waving his hands.
“We need to see how they integrate into our system.
Naruse’s mid-air control, Koganegawa’s raw height, Sakunami’s floor defense.
Coach Oiwake agrees.
We can’t just have them doing isolated drills all week.”
Kamasaki grinned, punching a fist into his palm.
“A practice match?
Now we’re talking!
Let’s crush the rookies and show them the real Iron Wall!”
“No crushing!” Moniwa scolded.
“It’s going to be a mixed team shuffle.
Three-on-three or modified six-on-six.
We need to split the seniors and the first-years up.
I want to see how Naruse hits against Futakuchi or Aone in a real rally, and how Sakunami handles Kamasaki’s spikes.”
Futakuchi’s lazy smirk slowly turned into something much sharper.
He looked back over at Itsuki, remembering the sharp sting of the volleyball wiping off his pinky finger the day before.
“A mixed shuffle, huh?” Futakuchi cracked his knuckles.
“I’m game.
Put the giant nerd on the opposite side of the net from me, Moniwa-san.
He thinks he’s mathematically safe?
I’m going to shut down every single angle he tries to calculate.”
Aone simply nodded once, a dark, heavy aura of blocking intent radiating from his broad shoulders.
“Great!” Moniwa clapped his hands, completely ignoring the terrifying predatory aura coming from his second-year blockers.
“We’ll run the mixed practice match on Friday!
It’ll be the perfect way to forge the new Iron Wall!”
On the far side of the court, completely unaware of the gauntlet being planned for him, Itsuki took a deep breath.
He shook his arms out, clearing his mind of numbers, of angles, of everything except the feeling of the polished wood beneath his shoes.
Left, right, left.
He approached.
He planted.
He exploded upward.
For the first time all afternoon, his core locked in perfectly.
He hung in the air, a towering 192-centimeter shadow against the gym lights, suspended perfectly at the apex of his jump, entirely in control of his own gravity.
He didn’t have a ball to hit, but as he snapped his arm forward, the empty air cracked like a whip.
The Date Tech gym had a heartbeat.
And Itsuki Naruse was finally finding his rhythm within it.