The match was over. That was all it was. Kuroo Tetsurou stood with his back pressed against the outer wall of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, gazing up at the winter night sky. The January Tokyo sky was thick with clouds, and not a single star was visible. From inside the gymnasium, faint cheers drifted out. Some team had won their match. Someone was shouting in celebration. It had nothing to do with Kuroo. His jet-black short hair swayed in the night breeze. Pressing his 187.7-centimeter frame against the wall, Kuroo exhaled slowly. The inside of his black and white zip-up jacket held just a trace of warmth. Everything else was cold. The Spring High School Volleyball Tournament. The official name was the All Japan High School Volleyball Championship. Held every January here at the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium. Representative schools from all 47 prefectures competed for a single summit. For most third-year students, this was their final official match. Lose, and it was over. There would be no more chances to step on the court. Which meant that tonight, Kuroo Tetsurou's high school volleyball had ended. Retirement. He'd understood the meaning of that word long ago. But tonight, for the first time, it felt like the word had attached itself to his body. Something heavy, cold, and utterly silent had taken root in the very center of his chest. Another cheer echoed from inside the gymnasium. Kuroo closed his eyes. *Stop,* he thought. But it didn't. The sound from beyond the wall kept reaching him, stubbornly, relentlessly. The voices of the victors were always loud. --- Kuroo had entered Karasuno High School three years ago. An old school near Sumida Ward in the northeastern part of Tokyo. The volleyball club's practice space was the second gymnasium, and the building, thirty-five years old, had a low ceiling that made high toss practice difficult. Photos of past captains lined the walls, and when Kuroo first peeked into the club room, the antiquated feel made him slip and say, "This is a nationally competitive school?" Coach Nekomata hit him on the back of the head. Nekomata Ikuji. A small man in his seventies who looked exactly like the type you'd find in neighborhood parks. But when he started talking about tactics, his eyes changed. Kuroo understood immediately. This man was the real deal. And what Coach Nekomata had brought to Karasuno was connection volleyball. Receive the ball, set it up, score through the organizational power of all team members. Polish the precision of coordination over individual breakthrough power. A plain, long-lasting style of play. There was no flash to it. But Kuroo loved this volleyball. You didn't have to rely on a single genius. Everyone used their heads, and everyone fought to win together. That was the kind of volleyball it was. He'd believed in it for three years. Tonight, it had ended. Karasuno High School. Hinata Shoyo and Kageyama Tobio. A small first-year at 162.8 centimeters and a genius setter at 180.6 centimeters. What those two had shown was volleyball that did both connection and individuality at the same time. Kageyama's sets were at maximum speed, Hinata's hitting point was at maximum speed, and when those two came together, it wasn't a rally anymore—it was an explosion. It wasn't connection. It was breakthrough. In three years, Karasuno had honed their methodology. Those guys had leaped over it with sheer force. The same scene played over and over in Kuroo's mind. The moment in the final phase when Hinata scooped up a ball barely off the floor. The moment Kageyama instantly set it up. The moment he'd tried to block it and failed. Even if he did it again, he didn't know if he could have stopped it. That was what hurt the most. Was our volleyball wrong? That question wouldn't dissolve into the cold night air. It lingered there, unanswered. --- Still gazing up at the sky, Kuroo remembered Coach Nekomata's voice. "Don't rush. Stick to your convictions." Words spoken the night before the match. Words he'd heard dozens of times before that. Kuroo had always brushed them off with "I understand," but tonight that lightness felt a little guilty. The match between Karasuno and Karasuno had a name: the Garbage Dump Battle. The two coaches had faced each other once during their playing days, and decades had passed since then. A fateful confrontation that the coaches had dreamed of for years. What Kuroo had staked on this tournament wasn't just his own volleyball life. There was also the meaning of fulfilling Coach Nekomata's dream in their generation. And they'd lost that match. Another cheer echoed from inside the gymnasium. The Karasuno people must be celebrating. Kuroo took one deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd had three years of training to suppress emotion. Don't cry, don't get angry, don't lose composure. That's what a captain does. He'd always done it that way. But tonight, that training didn't seem to fit quite right. It wasn't that he could cry. He couldn't get angry either. Just a silence, as if something had been ripped out by the roots, spread through his chest. The gymnasium's concrete wall was cold against his back. His sharp black eyes searched the gaps in the clouds. Found nothing. Kuroo pushed off from the wall and walked a little. A single dried leaf lay at his feet. Unusual for January in Tokyo, he thought. Where had it blown from? All the way here. Noticing himself thinking about such pointless things, Kuroo raised one eyebrow slightly. A thin scar remained on his brow—a mark from when he'd hit his face on the floor during practice in his second year. Well, thinking about pointless things was about right for tonight. --- Inside the lobby, the lights had been dimmed to half brightness. The Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium's lobby, with its soaring atrium structure, was packed with athletes and staff during the day of the tournament. But at night, that noise receded, leaving only the vast space. The high ceiling made the silence even wider. And there, against the wall, stood Ushijima Wakatoshi. 189.5 centimeters tall. Taller than Kuroo. Over his Shiratorizawa Academy uniform, he wore a jersey with the mark of his number still visible on the chest. Broad shoulders, thick neck, a body with nothing wasted. His left hand was slightly clenched into a fist. His spike, thrown with his left hand, was said to be among the best in the nation. The absolute ace of Miyagi Prefecture, unstoppable by anyone. Shiratorizawa Academy. A powerhouse school with full boarding, its own gymnasium, training facilities. The man who'd carried that team forward with individual strength. But Ushijima's face tonight wasn't the face of the absolute ace Kuroo had imagined. His gaze turned toward the ceiling held no focus. He wasn't looking anywhere. He was searching for something but didn't know where to look. That was the face he wore. Ushijima had lost to Karasuno in the Miyagi prefectural finals. Kuroo had heard about it later. That man was here tonight too. --- The locker room was silent. The Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium's player locker room was tucked away at the end of a corridor. After his teammates had left, Fukurodani Academy's ace, Bokuto Kotaro, stood alone in front of his locker. 185.3 centimeters tall. His hair was a bit long, matted with sweat. Still in his Fukurodani uniform, he had his hand against the locker, just standing there. The same scene played over and over in his mind. Third set. Bokuto's spike went out three times in a row. The first one was close. But the second one changed the flow. By the third, his teammates' faces on the bench had darkened. It was his fault. Bokuto Kotaro's emotions swung larger than most people's. Joy, anger, sadness—everything was big. That had fueled his spike's explosive power. But tonight, that same amplitude had swung in the opposite direction. His form had collapsed. The atmosphere had changed. The momentum had broken. All of it was because of his mood. [angry] "Damn it." A small but sharp voice escaped. His fist slammed against the locker. A metallic *clang* echoed through the locker room, and then silence. Bokuto held his palm, not moving. A throbbing pain spread through his hand. He held his breath until the aftershock faded. He'd destroyed the team with his moody nature. Tonight, for the first time, he'd faced it head-on. He didn't want to admit it. But he couldn't look away. His teammates had worked so hard, and he'd smashed it to pieces. That's what it was. The fluorescent light in the locker room flickered faintly. Its cheap glow illuminated Bokuto alone. There was nowhere to run. --- Kuroo turned to leave, his back to the gymnasium. His teammates should already be on the bus. Coach Nekomata would be there too. Pack up, leave Tokyo, return to Karasuno. That was all. As he passed in front of the lobby's large glass panel, Kuroo stopped. A figure was visible beyond the glass. A large man, back against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling, motionless. Kuroo watched that silhouette for a while. Miyagi Prefecture's strongest, Shiratorizawa Academy. Its absolute ace. Any athlete at tonight's tournament would recognize the face. That was Ushijima Wakatoshi. Glass stood between them. Sound couldn't reach across it. Between the two of them was only cold glass. When Kuroo's gaze turned toward him, Ushijima's eyes moved. They came down from the ceiling and fixed directly on the other side of the glass. The two gazes crossed over the glass. For several seconds, neither moved. There were no words. They weren't from the same school. They hadn't fought the same opponents. The volleyball they'd believed in was different. Karasuno played connection volleyball, Shiratorizawa played individual power. Two people with nothing in common faced each other across the glass of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium on a January night. But in that moment, something became clear. This man had also lost tonight. This man had also lost something tonight. That alone was quietly conveyed across the glass. Neither called out to the other. It was Ushijima who moved his gaze first. Slowly, he turned his eyes back to the ceiling, returning to that unfocused face. Kuroo walked on. Stepping out into the night, his back to the gymnasium. Cold air touched his cheek. With each breath, white mist appeared and vanished immediately. Something was caught in his chest now, different in quality from the emptiness of before. He didn't know what it was. It had no name. Just a grain of sand in size, but unmistakably there. Coach Nekomata's voice seemed to echo from somewhere far away. *Don't rush,* it said. Kuroo had no strength to answer that voice. He simply walked. The Tokyo night was a little brighter than Miyagi, a little louder, a little warmer. The match was over. Volleyball was over. But tonight, it didn't feel like it was finished yet.