The school bell marking the end of the day had barely finished ringing before the heavy double doors of the Date Tech gymnasium were shoved open.
Itsuki Naruse marched in, his usual slouch entirely absent.
He walked with the heavy, rhythmic purpose of a metronome.
Flanking him on the right was Koganegawa, who looked like a boiler ready to explode, and on the left was Sakunami, who looked like he was walking to his own execution.
They didn’t head to the club room to change.
They marched directly across the polished hardwood, straight toward Coach Oiwake, who was currently updating the week’s practice menu on the whiteboard.
“Excuse me, Coach,” Itsuki said.
His voice was quiet, but it cut through the ambient noise of the early arrivals like a scalpel.
Oiwake turned around, lowering his dry-erase marker.
He looked at the three first-years, his sharp eyes immediately registering the terrifyingly intense aura rolling off the tall Wing Spiker.
“Naruse.
What is it?”
Itsuki didn’t hesitate.
“We would like to formally request a 3-on-3 practice match against the senior starting lineup.
If we win, or if we prove our statistical value to the team’s overall defensive and offensive capabilities, we want consideration for the main roster.”
Sakunami held his breath, tightly squeezing his eyes shut.
Koganegawa practically vibrated in place.
Coach Oiwake froze.
For three long seconds, the imposing coach just stared at the first-year.
In Oiwake’s head, a massive, satisfied grin was spreading across his face.
The Iron Wall is a fantastic defense, he thought, but iron rusts if it isn’t constantly polished by friction.
They have the guts to challenge the hierarchy on day two?
Good.
Outwardly, however, Oiwake’s face remained a mask of terrifying stone.
“A challenge, huh?” Oiwake said gruffly.
He lifted the whistle hanging around his neck and blew a short, piercing blast.
“EVERYONE!
GATHER AROUND!”
The gym instantly stopped.
The second and third-years jogged over, forming a semi-circle around the coach.
Moniwa looked nervously between the coach and the rigid first-years.
“Listen up,” Oiwake barked.
“Exactly one week from today, we are altering the practice menu.
We will be holding a 3-on-3 inter-squad match.
The challengers are Naruse, Koganegawa, and Sakunami.
They are playing for your spots on the starting roster.”
A collective gasp echoed through the gym.
Itsuki immediately stepped forward and bowed at a perfect, crisp ninety-degree angle.
“We know we are inexperienced,” Itsuki said to the floor, his voice echoing with absolute sincerity.
“But Date Tech’s goal is Nationals.
If we are going to be useful to you, we need to prove it against the best wall in the prefecture.
Please allow us this match, Seniors.”
Moniwa waved his hands frantically, completely flustered by the aggressive politeness.
“Y-You don’t need to bow!
Of course we accept!
We want you guys to get stronger, but—”
“A CHALLENGE?!” Kamasaki roared, shoving past Moniwa, his eyes practically glowing with meathead fire.
“YOU ROOKIES HAVE SOME GUTS!
I LIKE IT!
I’LL GRIND YOU INTO DUST MYSELF!
I’LL SHOW YOU THE POWER OF MUSCLE!”
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Futakuchi snickered, leaning his long frame against the net pole.
He cracked his knuckles, looking right at Itsuki.
“I hope you calculated the hospital bills, freshman.
Because Aone and I are going to permanently traumatize you.”
Beside Futakuchi, Aone stepped forward.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t smirk.
He just slowly locked his pupil-less eyes onto Itsuki and gave a single, impossibly heavy nod.
Challenge accepted.
Practice immediately split into two camps.
The gym atmosphere was electric, completely transformed from a standard training day into a bubbling cauldron of rivalry.
On the far side of the court, Itsuki stood under the net with his two teammates.
He tossed a volleyball into Koganegawa’s massive hands.
“I don’t get it, Naruse!” Koganegawa whined, staring at the ball like it was an alien artifact.
“Setters have to be like…
geniuses, right?!
Like that Oikawa guy from Seijoh! The source of this chapter is g.com.
They have to have magic fingers!
My fingers are just big sausages!”
“You are overthinking the mechanics,” Itsuki instructed calmly.
“In volleyball, raw height is a cheat code that equates to years of technical experience.”
Koganegawa blinked.
“It is?”
“Yes.
Think about the geometry,” Itsuki explained, raising his hand high above his head.
“Because you are 191 centimeters tall, your hands contact the ball significantly higher in the air than a normal setter’s.
That means the ball has to travel less distance to reach the spiker’s apex.
Your sets will naturally be faster just by existing.
Furthermore…”
Itsuki pointed to the top of the net tape.
“…If a receive is bumped too tight to the net, a short setter has to jump desperately to save it.
You just have to reach up.
And if the blockers jump to stop you, you don’t even have to toss it.
You just flick your wrists and push it directly over the net.
A setter dump from your height is virtually unblockable.”
Koganegawa’s jaw dropped.
The math finally clicked in his brain.
“I…
I AM A GENIUS!” Koganegawa bellowed, holding the ball to the sky.
“I HAVE YEARS OF EXPERIENCE BUILT INTO MY BONES!
I WILL SET IT TO THE MOON!”
“Just focus on keeping your elbows bent,” Sakunami nervously coached from behind them, trying to keep the giant grounded.
“Let’s test it,” Itsuki said, backing up toward the three-meter line.
“Give me a high toss.
The highest you can manage without hitting the ceiling.”
Koganegawa nodded furiously.
He tossed the ball to himself, awkwardly set his feet, and pushed the ball upward with all the brute strength in his thick fingers.
It wasn’t pretty, and there was zero spin control, but the ball shot into the air like a rocket, peaking incredibly high.
Itsuki exhaled.
He shut out the noise of Kamasaki yelling across the gym.
He shut out the squeak of shoes.
Left.
Right.
Left.
As he planted his feet, a ghost of a memory overlaid his vision.
Flashback.
Miyagi Prefecture Middle School Semifinals.
The Chidoriyama match.
He was 190 centimeters then.
A fraction lighter.
He remembered the exact feeling of that single, perfect spike in the third set.
It wasn’t about swinging his arm hard.
It was about the kinetic chain.
The perfect sequence of energy transferring from the rubber of his shoes, up through his calves, engaging his core, twisting his spine like a coiled spring, and finally whipping through his shoulder.
When he had hit the ball that day, the Chidoriyama libero hadn’t even moved.
The sound alone had silenced the gymnasium, leaving both teams staring at the cratered floor.
It was absolute, functional power generation.
Present.
Itsuki launched himself into the air.
I am 192 centimeters now, he thought, hanging suspended beneath the gym lights.
My limbs are longer.
The lever is larger.
The torque is greater.
He closed his eyes mid-air.
He didn’t need to see the ball; his brain had already calculated its exact descent trajectory based on Koganegawa’s clumsy release.
Instead, Itsuki turned his focus entirely inward.
He felt his joints aligning.
He felt the tension in his abdominal wall holding back his forward momentum.
Koganegawa’s set was a little too close to Itsuki’s body.
For a normal hitter, they would be jammed, resulting in a weak, awkward push.
Suspended at his maximum apex, Itsuki violently contorted his spine, bending backward at a brutal, entirely unnatural angle that made him look like a drawn longbow.
He created the space he needed out of thin air.
He opened his eyes.
The ball was perfectly aligned with his right shoulder.
He released the tension.
The kinetic chain fired flawlessly.
His core snapped forward, dragging his shoulder, snapping his elbow, and finally whipping his wrist with terrifying, surgical violence.
KABOOM!
The sound wasn’t a normal smack.
It was a concussive blast that sounded like a heavy textbook being slammed flat onto a concrete floor.
The ball completely vanished from Itsuki’s hand.
It obliterated the hardwood exactly on the three-meter line with enough force to deform the synthetic leather, then ricocheted at a blinding speed straight up into the high steel rafters of the gym roof, echoing with a massive CLANG.
Itsuki landed silently on his feet.
The Date Tech gymnasium went dead quiet.
Futakuchi, who had been mid-sentence complaining to Sasaya, stood with his mouth slightly open.
Kamasaki froze in a squat position.
Moniwa dropped his clipboard, the plastic clattering loudly against the silent floor.
Aone’s eyes were blown wide open, staring at the scuff mark left on the floorboards.
Itsuki let out a slow, quiet breath.
He raised his right hand, looking at his slightly reddened palm.
A tiny, genuine smile touched the corner of his lips.
Software updated.
Hardware recalibrated.
The timing is fixed.
He stood there for a moment, basking in the perfect biomechanical satisfaction of the spike.
Then, the heavy silence of the gym finally registered in his brain.
Itsuki blinked.
He slowly turned his head.
Two dozen high school boys were staring at him like he had just grown a second head.
Sakunami was trembling on the floor, holding his head in his hands.
The intense, terrifying aura of the analytical ace instantly shattered like glass.
Itsuki’s face rapidly turned the color of a ripe tomato.
His shoulders shot up to his ears, and he instinctively curled inward, desperately trying to make his towering frame look smaller.
“I—Um!” Itsuki stammered, his voice jumping up an octave as his social anxiety violently seized control of his vocal cords.
He waved his hands frantically in front of his face.
“I am so sorry!
Was that too loud?!
Did I damage the floor?!
I-I’ll get a rag!
I’ll sweep!
Please don’t look at me so much!”
The sheer, ridiculous whiplash between the terrifying monster who just broke the sound barrier and the blushing, stammering mess currently apologizing to the floorboards was too much.
“UWOOOOOOHHHHH!!!” Koganegawa broke the silence, leaping into the air and grabbing Itsuki in a chokehold.
“NARUSE!
YOU’RE A BAZOOKA!
YOU’RE A HUMAN CANNON!
MY SET WAS PERFECT!”
“BWAHAHAHAHA!” Kamasaki threw his head back and roared with laughter, slapping his thigh.
“DID YOU SEE THAT BEND?!
HE LOOKED LIKE A BROKEN ACTION FIGURE!
THIS ROOKIE IS INSANE!”
“A-Amazing…” Moniwa breathed, holding a hand over his rapidly beating heart.
Futakuchi didn’t laugh.
He stared at the spot where the ball had hit, a cold bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
He looked over at Aone.
The giant second-year was still staring at Itsuki.
Aone’s massive hands slowly clenched into tight fists at his sides.
The lock-on was complete.
Futakuchi swallowed hard, a grim, highly competitive smirk finally breaking through his shock.
“Yeah.
It’s hilarious, Kamasaki.
Until you realize we have to block that freak next week.”
Across the net, Itsuki was still furiously bowing to a very confused Sakunami, completely flustered, his face bright red.
But underneath the embarrassment, the Date Tech seniors knew the truth.
The Iron Wall had a new monster.
And he had just sounded the war horn.