The rhythmic plop of fish food hitting the surface of the water was the only sound in the Naruse family garden.
Itsuki sat on the edge of the spacious wooden veranda, his long legs folded awkwardly underneath him.
The Naruse household was traditionally Japanese and surprisingly large, a quiet sanctuary insulated from the noise of the city.
In the stone pond below, bright orange and white koi fish swirled, breaking the reflection of the evening moon.
Even now, miles away from the gymnasium, Itsuki’s eyes couldn’t turn off.
The Kohaku on the left always approaches the food from a forty-five-degree angle.
The Showa in the middle waits for the others to create a current, then rides it to snatch the pellets.
Patterns.
Geometry.
Efficiency.
It was how his brain had worked since he was a child.
He hadn’t fallen in love with volleyball because of the roaring crowds or the sheer power of a spike.
He had fallen in love with it in elementary school when he realized the court was just a giant, kinetic puzzle.
A 9×9 meter grid where gravity, velocity, and human psychology intersected.
But a puzzle was only fun if you had the right pieces.
Itsuki tossed another handful of pellets into the water, his reflection rippling.
Two years ago.
Miyagi Prefecture Middle School Qualifiers.
Itsuki stood on the court of Kawakami Junior High, completely drenched in sweat, his chest heaving painfully.
The scoreboard was a physical weight on his shoulders.
He was Kawakami’s ace.
Their only reliable weapon.
He had analyzed the opposing blockers perfectly, tooling them, hitting sharp angles, and scoring fifteen points on his own.
But across the net was Kitagawa Daiichi.
Itsuki glared at the setter on the other side.
A boy with dark hair and a scowl that looked permanently etched into his face—Kageyama Tobio.
Kageyama was a tyrant on the court, screaming at his own spikers to move faster, jump higher.
But his tosses…
Itsuki had never seen anything like them.
They were mathematically flawless.
A terrifying, pinpoint zero-tempo attack that bypassed Itsuki’s blockers before they could even bend their knees.
Itsuki could calculate Kageyama’s distribution, but it didn’t matter.
Kawakami didn’t have the defensive speed to stop it, and Itsuki was physically exhausted from carrying the entire offensive load.
They were crushed.
A few months later, it was the same story against Chidoriyama.
Itsuki manipulated his body mid-air, slipping spikes past the blockers, only to watch the ball get scooped up by a suffocating, perfectly synchronized floor defense.
He had hit a wall.
A single gear, no matter how perfectly machined, cannot turn the engine alone, Itsuki had realized, walking home after his final middle school defeat.
I need a system.
I need a shield so I can sharpen my sword.
Itsuki blinked, the memory of Kageyama’s oppressive aura fading into the cool evening breeze.
He looked up from the pond, fixing his gaze on the pale moon hanging over Miyagi.
He had received invitation letters from powerhouse schools.
Aoba Johsai had offered him a spot.
Shiratorizawa’s scouts had taken note of his height.
But Itsuki had thrown the letters in the trash.
If he went to Seijoh, he would just be another weapon in Oikawa Tooru’s arsenal.
If he went to Shiratorizawa, he would be overshadowed by Ushijima Wakatoshi’s absolute power.
He didn’t want to join an empire that was already built.
He wanted to build an empire that could tear theirs down.
“Date Tech,” Itsuki whispered to the empty garden.
“The ultimate shield.
Once I fix my timing…
I will become the spear that strikes from behind it.
We will go to Nationals.”
He stood up, his 192-centimeter frame unfolding in the moonlight.
The lingering self-doubt from his disastrous approach jumps that afternoon vanished.
He didn’t have time to be frustrated.
He had equations to solve.
Itsuki walked inside, heading straight for his bedroom desk.
He opened a fresh notebook, uncapped a pen, and began writing furiously.
Muscle mass insufficient for new skeletal frame.
Center of gravity heavily impacted by fatigue.
He drew a line down the middle of the page.
Solution: Caloric surplus prioritized for lean muscle synthesis.
Core stabilization routines.
Macro-nutrient tracking.
He paused, the tip of his pen hovering over the paper.
He thought of Koganegawa, who burned a thousand calories an hour just by existing and speaking in all caps.
He thought of Sakunami, whose low center of gravity required immense leg strength to maintain for long rallies.
Itsuki grabbed his phone and opened the first-year group chat.
[Itsuki]: Meet me at the school parking lot tomorrow morning at 6:15 AM.
Do not eat breakfast before you arrive.
For two minutes, there was nothing.
Then, his phone vibrated so violently it nearly walked off the desk.
[Koganegawa]: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 OSSU!!!
I WILL BE THERE AT 6:00 AM!!!
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 ARE WE DOING SECRET TRAINING?!
[Sakunami]: [Sticker of a frightened cat hiding in a box] 6:15 AM?
Did we do something wrong, Naruse-kun?
[Itsuki]: No.
We are going to fix the system.
The Miyagi morning air was bone-chillingly crisp when Sakunami trudged into the Date Tech parking lot at 6:10 AM, rubbing his tired eyes.
“Sakunami!
YOU MADE IT!”
Sakunami shrieked as Koganegawa bounded out from behind a parked bicycle rack, already wearing his gym clothes and doing aggressive high knees.
“K-Koganegawa-kun, please, the sun isn’t even fully up yet,” Sakunami pleaded, his soul leaving his body.
“Why are you so loud?”
“BECAUSE MORNINGS ARE FOR CHAMPIONS!”
“Actually, scientifically, mornings are for elevated cortisol levels, which is why proper nutrient timing is essential.”
Both of them jumped.
Itsuki had materialized silently from the morning mist, wearing a dark gray Date Tech tracksuit.
He carried three thick, neatly bound folders under his arm and a large insulated cooler bag in his hand.
“Naruse-kun!” Sakunami breathed a sigh of relief.
“You scared me.
What’s all this?”
Itsuki unzipped the cooler bag.
He pulled out three tightly wrapped, dense bento boxes and handed one to each of them.
“Breakfast,” Itsuki stated flatly.
“Kamasaki-san was technically correct yesterday, though his methodology is brutish.
If we are going to survive the Iron Wall’s training menu and build the muscle required to compete, we need to alter our cellular intake.
I stayed up calculating our exact macro-nutrient requirements based on our heights, basal metabolic rates, and positional duties on the court.”
Koganegawa blinked, looking at the box in his hand.
“Macros?
Like…
giant robots?”
“Proteins, carbohydrates, and healthy fats,” Itsuki corrected, deadpan.
He handed them the heavy folders.
“Inside is a strict dietary menu for the next three months.
Koganegawa, you require a massive caloric surplus, but you eat too much heavy pork fat.
It slows down your fast-twitch muscle fibers.
Sakunami, you need more complex carbohydrates for sustained anaerobic endurance during long rallies.”
Sakunami opened his folder.
It was filled with terrifyingly detailed charts, graphs, and meal prep instructions down to the exact gram of rice.
“N-Naruse-kun…
this is…
did you do math on my lunch?”
“I did math on everything,” Itsuki said, taking a bite of his own perfectly measured chicken breast and brown rice onigiri.
“NO MORE MEGA PORK RAMEN?!” Koganegawa wailed, falling to his knees in the parking lot.
“My soul is dying!”
“Your soul will recover.
Your vertical jump will increase by two centimeters,” Itsuki said ruthlessly.
He swallowed his food, closed his cooler bag, and looked at his two teammates.
The comedic atmosphere suddenly evaporated, replaced by the heavy, intense pressure Itsuki had emitted in the gym the day before.
He looked toward the looming, industrial architecture of the Date Tech gymnasium.
“Coach Oiwake is a pragmatist,” Itsuki explained.
“He has an established hierarchy.
Kamasaki-san, Sasaya-san, Aone-san, Futakuchi-san.
The Iron Wall is already built.
If we just follow the normal practice menu, Koganegawa, you won’t touch a ball in a real game for a year.
Sakunami, you’ll be benched behind the second-year defensive specialists.”
Sakunami gripped his folder tightly.
He knew it was true.
“So,” Itsuki continued, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, undeniable fire, “we have to force his hand.
We have to prove that our pieces belong on the board immediately.”
“How?” Koganegawa asked, forgetting to yell, suddenly captivated by Itsuki’s intensity.
“By Friday,” Itsuki said, “we are going to walk up to Captain Moniwa and Coach Oiwake, and we are going to challenge the starting lineup to a formal 3-on-3 match.”
Sakunami choked on his own spit.
“E-EHHH?!
Challenge the seniors?!
Aone-san?!
Kamasaki-san?!
We’ll be murdered!
We’ll be buried under the floorboards!”
“We challenge them,” Itsuki repeated, stepping closer.
“Me, as the Wing Spiker.
Sakunami, you will cover the entire back court as Libero.” He turned his piercing gaze to the giant blonde first-year.
“And Koganegawa.”
“Yeah?!” Koganegawa stood up tall.
“You are going to be our Setter.”
A moment of profound silence washed over the parking lot.
Even the distant sound of morning traffic seemed to stop.
“SETTER?!” Sakunami shrieked, panic entirely overtaking him.
“But Koganegawa-kun couldn’t even walk through a ladder yesterday without tripping!
He accidentally blocked Futakuchi-san while they were on the same team!”
“I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO SET!” Koganegawa yelled, gripping his hair.
“I JUST WANT TO SMASH THINGS!”
“I don’t need you to be Kageyama Tobio,” Itsuki said, stepping directly in front of Koganegawa, looking up slightly to meet the taller boy’s eyes.
“I don’t need pinpoint accuracy.
I need an apex.
If I am going to tool Aone’s block and hit over Kamasaki, I need the ball placed higher than any setter in this prefecture can reach.”
Itsuki pointed a finger at Koganegawa’s chest.
“Your height is your greatest weapon.
You don’t need to finesse the ball.
You just need to push it up to the ceiling, higher than the Iron Wall can jump.
If you put it up there…” Itsuki’s eyes darkened, a terrifying confidence bleeding into his voice.
“…I swear to you, I will calculate the angle, and I will strike it down.”
Koganegawa stared at him.
The sheer, absolute trust emanating from the socially anxious, hyper-analytical wing spiker hit him like a physical shockwave.
The blonde giant’s eyes welled up with anime tears once again.
“NARUSE!!!” Koganegawa roared, grabbing Itsuki in a bone-crushing hug.
“I’LL DO IT!
I’LL BE THE HIGHEST SETTER IN THE WORLD!
I’LL TOSS IT TO THE MOON FOR YOU!”
“Airflow…
restricting…” Itsuki choked out, tapping Koganegawa’s arm desperately.
Sakunami watched the two giants, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The fear of facing the seniors was still there, a heavy knot in his stomach.
But looking at Itsuki’s meticulously planned diet binder in his hands, and hearing the absolute certainty in his voice…
the fear was being overwritten by a thrilling spark of rebellion.
We really are going to fight them, Sakunami realized, a determined smile finally breaking across his face.
Itsuki finally broke free from Koganegawa’s grip, catching his breath and adjusting his tracksuit jacket.
He picked up his gym bag, his sharp eyes fixed firmly on the gymnasium doors.
“Eat your protein,” Itsuki commanded.
“Then we head inside.
We have a Wall to break.”