The sound of the final spike hitting the floor—Kunimi Akira would remember it forever. A dull thud. That was all. Not a cheer. Not a scream. Just the sound of a ball striking the court. And with that, everything ended. Shiratorizawa Academy—a prestigious private school rising from the hills of Izumi Ward, Sendai. Seven appearances at the Interhigh in the past decade. Three times reaching the national quarterfinals. A team that had been called an "unbreakable wall" in Miyagi's high school volleyball world. And this year, too, they had been repelled by that wall. Evening light slanted through the windows of the Datte Kogyo gymnasium, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Kunimi Akira stood motionless in his sweat-soaked uniform, gazing blankly across the net. His teammates were already gone. The sensation of his shoes pressing against the pine resin clinging to the floor, the distant sound of the brass band from a classroom somewhere—it all felt impossibly far away. The smell of sweat, dust, and old rubber. Kunimi had always liked that smell a little. But today, it made his breath catch. One hundred seventy centimeters tall, slender build. His black short hair had a slight wave to it, and sweat now clung to the strands. His deep brown eyes were sharp, people often said—but in this moment, they held no light at all. A small scar on his left ear caught the fading sunlight. Bruises from today's match still marked his arms, already beginning to turn purple. *(We lost.)* The images replayed endlessly in his mind. Late in the second set, nineteen to twenty-three. His teammate's spike deflected by Shiratorizawa's block. Deflected again and again. The "iron wall" that was Datte Kogyo's block had functioned. But it couldn't stop their attacks. In the end, the spike Kunimi himself had hit had gone wide. Only that dull sound remained. Through the high windows of the gymnasium, Sendai's summer dusk filtered in. Orange light stained the floor, stretching Kunimi's shadow long and thin. Someone closed a door. And with that, he was completely alone. --- The locker room was cramped as always, stuffy enough to make you hold your breath. A space about six tatami mats wide. Twelve lockers, an old wooden bench, two photographs pinned to the wall. Both from past Interhigh appearances, their colors faded and sun-bleached. Kunimi leaned his back against the wall and sank to the floor, hugging his knees. He didn't have the energy to change out of his uniform. Through the window came the sound of insects. The sound of summer drawing to a close. His gaze drifted naturally toward those photographs. But what occupied his mind wasn't the photos. It was a memory from a year ago. A practice match held in this gymnasium. A man in an Aoba Johsai uniform, standing on the court as a setter. Oikawa Tooru. Not a genius. At the national level, there were plenty of players with better specs. But that man's volleyball was different. The precision of his serves, the judgment in his tosses, the way he read the court—all of it bore the marks of accumulated effort. Each and every play carried the weight of time carved away. Kunimi had heard secondhand that Oikawa continued wall practice deep into the night beneath the overpass three minutes east of Sendai Station, in a concrete space eight meters wide. If you had no talent, you had to make up for it with time, he'd apparently said. But even Oikawa couldn't beat Shiratorizawa. The Interhigh prefectural preliminaries. Two sets to three. The last match Oikawa ever played on that court. Kunimi had watched from the stands. He still remembered the moment Oikawa raised that final toss. He didn't think Oikawa had accepted it. But he hadn't given up either. The expression on Oikawa's face after the loss said as much. After that, Oikawa retired, and disappeared from Kunimi's sight. Chasing that back, Kunimi had fought through three years. But today, they had lost in the same way. *(Was our three years really just a loss?)* The question circled endlessly in his head, voiceless. Even knowing it was a question without an answer, he couldn't stop it. Kunimi pulled out his smartphone and opened Oikawa's SNS account. The updates had stopped long ago. The last post was three months old. "There is always a way to win, even without talent." Just that single line remained there. Kunimi had carried those words for three months without finding an answer. Was it really true? Or was he just choosing to believe it to comfort himself in defeat? He didn't know. The rusted metal of a locker gleamed faintly. --- When he stepped outside, the evening summer air enveloped him. The asphalt still radiated the heat of the day, transmitting it through the soles of his shoes. He'd changed out of his sweat-dampened uniform, but his body still felt heavy. He slung his bag over his shoulder and passed through the gates of Datte Kogyo. He walked past the chain-link fence. On a normal day, he could see the gymnasium's practice from here. His underclassmen sweating through their drills. But today it was silent. With a match happening, they'd probably all gone to watch. Beyond the fence lay only an empty lot, utterly still. Kunimi paused there for a moment. *(Next year, we won't be here.)* That thought alone, and then he walked on. The dusk of Miyagino Ward, Sendai. A streetscape where factories and residences mingled. In the distance, the silhouettes of Sendai's downtown buildings floated against the sky. Their outlines, cut against the sunset, seemed unusually sharp today. The shadows of telephone poles stretched long, overlapping with his own. A single sparrow perched on a power line. Kunimi glanced at it absently. The sparrow paid him no mind, ruffled its feathers slightly, and remained still. Somewhere in the distance, the low, rhythmic sound of an evening factory echoed. His teammates had each gone their separate ways. He hadn't felt like inviting anyone, and he didn't want to be invited. The coach, Oita Shinya—forty-two, a former corporate league player, a gentle man—had stayed at school to handle the aftermath. Paperwork after the match. Oita was the type to handle such tasks carefully, regardless of the result. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to be comforted. He simply hadn't yet processed what this defeat meant within himself. Kunimi continued walking at a slow pace. The sunset stained the ground red. The sound of cicadas drifted from somewhere distant, gradually fading. Then his smartphone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket. A message notification from an unfamiliar SNS account. "Haven't you ever thought something was strange about Shiratorizawa's sports recommendations?" Kunimi stopped in the middle of the street. In the gathering dusk, only his smartphone screen glowed white. The sender's account name was a string of alphanumerics. No profile picture. When he checked the account creation date, it showed today's date. Today. An account created today. Kunimi read the message again. "Haven't you ever thought something was strange about Shiratorizawa's sports recommendations?" For a long moment, he stood frozen. Sports recommendations. In Miyagi's high school volleyball world, the term flew around casually enough. Shiratorizawa Academy was said to have eight to ten recommendation slots per year. Tuition waiver, half-price tuition reduction, dormitory subsidies—the system by which strong schools gathered promising players. If you were in volleyball circles, you heard such talk. By contrast, Datte Kogyo's recommendation slots were only two or three per year. As an industrial high school, employment results took priority over academic advancement. Even playing the same sport, the options available to you differed entirely depending on which school you attended. Kunimi knew this in his bones. But what did "strange" mean? Was it about the system itself? Or was there something more specific? Kunimi stared at the screen. The sparrow that had been perched on the telephone pole flew away. Only the sound of its wings remained, small and delicate in the evening air. *(Was what Oikawa-san fought against only talent?)* He didn't know why that thought surfaced now. But the association had formed. No matter how much effort you poured into the court, there was a wall. But what if something unseen was moving on the other side of that wall as well? "There is always a way to win, even without talent." Oikawa's words from moments ago echoed in his mind. For three months, Kunimi had interpreted those words as being about volleyball. Training volume, tactics, mentality, teamwork. Talk of the court. But in this moment, those words sounded different. A way to win always exists. Even outside the court? Kunimi scrolled the screen. A reply button appeared at the bottom. Send or don't send. The exhaustion from today's match still clung to his entire body. The bruise on his arm pushed back against his bag's strap. His sweat had dried, and his body had grown slightly cold. He didn't know who this sender was. It could be malicious. It could be mere speculation. And more fundamentally—did he, having retired, have any reason to pick this up? *(Did he?)* Kunimi asked himself. Something deep in his chest grew warm. It wasn't frustration or anger, but something quieter, yet undeniably real. The battle on the court had ended today. Three years of volleyball had ended today. But the question beyond this screen pointed to something else entirely. Kunimi stood on the street for a long time. The sunset gradually darkened. A streetlight flickered on. Once more, he took a long, deep breath. And then he pressed the reply button.