The bell above the door of Menya Osaki, a local ramen shop a short walk from Date Tech, jingled cheerfully.
It was immediately followed by the terrifying sight of what appeared to be a small, athletic yakuza gang filing into the establishment.
“Table for eight!” Kamasaki boomed, flexing his biceps in a way that absolutely no one asked for.
“And we need protein!
Lots of it!”
“Kamasaki, stop yelling at the staff, you’re scaring the other customers,” Moniwa hissed, frantically bowing to the terrified teenage waitress.
“I’m so sorry.
We’re from the high school.
Just…
the biggest table in the back, please.”
They squeezed into a large corner booth, and it was a logistical nightmare.
Aone took up the space of two regular humans, Koganegawa’s impossibly long legs kept kicking Kamasaki under the table, and Sakunami looked like he was fighting for his life wedged between Aone and the wall.
Itsuki sat on the end, his shoulders hunched, trying to make his 192-centimeter frame as invisible as possible.
The adrenaline of the practice match had completely faded, leaving behind his natural, debilitating social anxiety.
“Alright, rookies,” Futakuchi drawled, leaning back and crossing his arms.
A malicious smirk stretched across his face as he looked right at Itsuki.
“Captain Moniwa is paying for everyone tonight, which is very generous of him—”
“I said I’m paying for half!” Moniwa panicked, mentally calculating the limits of his weekly allowance.
“—but since you first-years made us sweat today, it’s tradition that the rookies go place the team order at the counter,” Futakuchi finished smoothly.
He kicked Itsuki lightly under the table.
“Go on, Naruse.
You’re good at calculating things.
Go calculate our dinner.”
Itsuki froze.
The blood drained from his face.
Go to the counter?
he thought, his heart rate instantly spiking.
Speak to a stranger?
On behalf of eight people?
What if I mispronounce ‘chashu’?
What if the ambient noise of the restaurant makes my voice too quiet and she asks me to repeat myself?
I will simply evaporate.
“I-I can do it!” Sakunami offered, sensing his classmate’s impending soul-death.
“Nope.
Sakunami is trapped behind Aone.
Naruse is on the aisle,” Sasaya chuckled, clearly enjoying the show.
“Go on, Naruse.
Here’s the list.” He handed Itsuki a crumpled piece of paper.
Itsuki stood up slowly.
He felt like he was walking to the gallows.
He shuffled over to the front counter, where the waitress—who barely reached his chest—looked up at him with wide, intimidated eyes.
Itsuki’s resting face, which was naturally sharp and serious, only made him look like a towering delinquent about to demand protection money.
“U-Um.
Excuse me,” Itsuki started, his voice incredibly quiet.
“Y-Yes?!
Welcome!” she squeaked.
“We have an order…
for table four.
Three miso pork…
two soy sauce…
one extra spicy…” Itsuki mumbled, keeping his eyes glued to the paper, internally praying for the floor to swallow him whole.
Suddenly, from across the restaurant, a voice like a foghorn shattered the ambient noise.
“NARUSE!!!”
Itsuki flinched so hard his soul almost left his body.
He looked back.
Koganegawa was standing halfway out of the booth, waving his arms like a stranded castaway.
“DON’T FORGET I CHANGED MINE!” Koganegawa bellowed.
“I WANT THE MEGA-PORK BOWL!
WITH THREE EGGS!
WAIT, NO!
FOUR EGGS!
AND EXTRA NOODLES!
MAKE SURE IT’S THE BIGGEST BOWL THEY HAVE!”
Every single head in the restaurant turned to look at Itsuki.
Itsuki’s brain short-circuited.
The social spotlight was blinding.
“Uh,” Itsuki stammered, entirely abandoning the list.
“Mega pork.
Four eggs.
Three miso.
Just…
just add an extra soy sauce bowl.
Please.
I am so sorry.”
He bowed perfectly at a 90-degree angle and practically fled back to the table, sliding into his seat and burying his face in his hands.
“Smooth,” Futakuchi commented drily.
Fifteen minutes later, the food arrived.
The table was covered in steaming bowls of rich, fragrant ramen.
But while everyone else got exactly what they wanted, Itsuki stared down at his place setting.
There, sitting in front of him, were two full-sized bowls of soy sauce ramen.
“Whoa, Naruse!” Kamasaki laughed around a mouthful of noodles.
“I didn’t know you had a hollow leg!
Two bowls?
You really are trying to build muscle!”
Itsuki stared at the bowls.
He had panic-ordered the extra bowl instead of fixing the list, and now he was too embarrassed to tell the staff it was a mistake.
“Yes,” Itsuki lied smoothly, though his eyes looked entirely dead.
“I am…
bulking.”
He picked up his chopsticks and began mechanically eating, fully aware he was going to hate himself in an hour.
As the bowls began to empty, the atmosphere at the table shifted.
The post-practice high settled into a comfortable, slightly heavier mood.
Futakuchi rested his chin on his hand, stirring the remaining broth in his bowl.
“You first-years are rough around the edges,” Futakuchi said, his snark completely gone, replaced by a quiet intensity.
“But we need you to get sharp fast.
We don’t have time to hold your hands.”
Moniwa nodded, his expression serious.
“The Miyagi Interhigh Qualifiers are coming up.
Last year, Date Tech got walled out.
We have the reputation of the Iron Wall, but a reputation doesn’t score points.”
“We’re taking back our pride this year,” Kamasaki growled, crushing a disposable chopstick wrapper in his fist.
“We are not letting Seijoh or Shiratorizawa look down on us anymore.
We’re going to Nationals.”
Koganegawa, halfway through inhaling his fourth egg, blinked his wide, bird-like eyes.
“Captain?” Koganegawa asked, his mouth completely full.
“What’s a Seijoh?
And Shira…
Shira-something?”
The entire table went dead silent.
Kamasaki’s chopstick snapped in half.
Futakuchi looked at Koganegawa like he had just spoken ancient Latin.
“You…
you giant golden retriever,” Futakuchi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You joined a high school volleyball club in Miyagi Prefecture and you don’t know who the final bosses are?”
“I know Date Tech is the best!” Koganegawa defended loudly, oblivious to the immense facepalming happening around him.
“Listen closely, Koganegawa,” Sasaya intervened, taking on his usual role of the patient explainer.
“Date Tech is located here in Osaki City.
But down in Sendai City, there are two absolute monster schools that rule this prefecture.”
Itsuki, who was quietly forcing down his second bowl of noodles, stopped chewing.
His analytical brain perked up.
He slipped his left hand into his pocket and subtly pulled out his phone, holding it under the table.
“First is Aoba Johsai, also called Seijoh,” Sasaya explained.
“They are the most complete, synchronized team in the prefecture.
Their captain, Oikawa Tooru, is a setter.
But he’s not just a setter.
He’s a conductor.
He draws out one hundred percent of the potential of every single spiker on his team, and his jump serve is a literal cannon.”
Moniwa shivered slightly.
“Playing against Seijoh feels like playing against a machine that perfectly adapts to your every weakness.”
Under the table, Itsuki’s thumb flew across his screen.
Aoba Johsai.
He found a picture of Oikawa Tooru mid-serve.
Itsuki’s eyes narrowed, zooming in on the setter’s form.
High toss.
Immense core twist.
The arm swing is perfectly optimized for maximum torque, Itsuki analyzed silently.
If a setter is that aggressive, you can’t just read the spiker.
You have to read the setter’s eyes before the ball even leaves his hands.
“But Seijoh isn’t even the top dog,” Kamasaki said, his voice dropping an octave.
“The undisputed king of Miyagi is Shiratorizawa Academy.”
Even Aone, who was quietly eating a mountain of rice, looked up at the mention of the name.
A dark, intense shadow fell over the giant’s face.
“Shiratorizawa doesn’t do complicated tactics,” Futakuchi said, a bitter edge to his voice.
“They don’t need to.
Because they have Ushijima Wakatoshi.
The undeniable Ace of the prefecture, and one of the top three aces in the entire country.”
“Top three in the country?!” Koganegawa gasped, finally looking intimidated.
“He’s a lefty,” Sasaya added grimly.
“And his power is absolute.
You know how Kamasaki-san spikes to blast through blocks?
Ushijima does that, but with twice the power and a spin that tears your receives apart.
Blocking him is like trying to stop a freight train with a piece of plywood.”
Ushijima Wakatoshi.
Itsuki typed the name into the search bar.
A video popped up—a shaky, low-quality recording of the previous year’s Spring High qualifiers.
Itsuki tapped play, keeping the volume muted.
On the tiny screen, he watched a massive, stoic player with olive-brown hair leap into the air.
The form was terrifyingly perfect.
The sheer brute force translating from his legs through his core and into his left arm was visible even in 480p.
The ball slammed into the floor so hard it bounced into the second-floor balcony.
Itsuki stared at his phone screen.
For a normal player, seeing Ushijima Wakatoshi would induce despair.
For Sakunami, who was listening to the seniors, it induced a nervous sweat.
But for Itsuki, sitting quietly at the end of the table with a stomach uncomfortably full of ramen, the fear didn’t come.
Instead, an icy, hyper-focused thrill ran down his spine.
A lefty cannon, Itsuki thought, his eyes tracking the video frame by frame.
The rotation on a lefty spike spins in the opposite direction.
That means the rebound angle off a block will be reversed.
If I’m hitting against a team that’s used to defending right-handed aces, their floor positioning will be mathematically skewed.
He looked up from his phone, his eyes landing on Aone and Futakuchi.
If I can practice tooling blocks against Aone, who is trying to stop me, and Koganegawa, who is tall enough to mimic a Shiratorizawa blocker…
I can find the seams.
“Hey, Naruse,” Kamasaki called out, snapping Itsuki out of his trance.
“You’re awfully quiet over there.
Are you scared of the big bad Sendai schools?”
Itsuki quickly locked his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
He picked up his chopsticks, looking at the remnants of his second bowl of ramen.
The social anxiety from the ordering fiasco was entirely gone, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated obsession with the geometry of the sport.
“No, Kamasaki-san,” Itsuki said quietly, but his voice carried a sharp, unmistakable edge.
“I was just thinking…
a freight train can only go where the tracks lead it.
If we control the tracks, we can derail it.”
Futakuchi raised an eyebrow, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
“Derail Ushijima?
You’ve got an arrogant mouth for a guy who just got shut out five times in practice today.”
“I’ll learn to go over you, Futakuchi-san,” Itsuki replied plainly, completely deadpan.
“Just give me a few weeks.”
Aone let out a quiet huff of breath that might have been a laugh, pointing a chopstick approvingly at the freshman.
“THEN I’M GONNA BE THE BEST FREIGHT TRAIN CONDUCTOR!” Koganegawa yelled, entirely missing the metaphor.
Moniwa sighed deeply, looking at his chaotic, ambitious, utterly unmanageable team.
He smiled, pulling out his wallet with a wince.
“Alright, alright.
Eat up, guys.
Tomorrow, we start building the new wall.”