Three days had passed since he sent the reply. In that time, Kunimi Akira had opened and closed his smartphone countless times. The response from the unknown account had arrived the next morning. The message was brief. "July 28th, 3:00 PM. In front of Shiratorizawa Academy's main gate. Come alone." A map link was attached. (Go or not go?) For three days, that question circled endlessly in his mind. He didn't know who the sender was. It could be a trap. It could be nothing but a prank. But the weight of that message—the heaviness of that single line, "Haven't you ever thought something was strange about Shiratorizawa's sports recommendations?"—kept Kunimi from dismissing it. And now, Kunimi Akira swayed inside a southbound car on the Sendai Subway Nanboku Line. A train heading to Izumi Chuo. From Sendai Station, moving northward, the scenery beyond the windows transformed—from city streets to residential neighborhoods, from neighborhoods to the green of rolling hills. The late-July sky was bottomless blue, the light harsh and strong. The air conditioning inside the train fought against the heat, but each time the doors opened, a wave of outside warmth rushed in. (Shiratorizawa...) Kunimi's deep brown eyes traced the landscape flowing past the window. Sweat glistened on his black short hair. Three days since retirement, and his body—unaccustomed to the absence of practice—felt restless. Bruises from matches still marked his arms, fading to a dull purple beneath his shirt sleeves. When he stepped onto the platform at Izumi Chuo Station, a heat wave enveloped his entire body. The concrete had absorbed the midday sun and radiated it back through the soles of his shoes. Several taxis lined the station rotary, and white heat shimmer wavered across the asphalt. Each time the automatic doors of the convenience store "Miyagi Mart Izumi Chuo Branch" opened, the scent of cool air brushed against his nose. He checked the map app. Shiratorizawa Academy was about a 15-minute walk away. There was apparently a school bus route, but he was in no position to ride such a thing. He began climbing the slope. As he passed through the residential streets of the hilly area, the road suddenly widened. Landscaped hedges lined both sides, and in the distance, a brick school building came into view. What first caught his eye was the low stone wall encircling the vast grounds. Different material from the fence at Daitou Industrial. Stone construction, with small white swan motifs carved along the top. With each step forward, the full picture emerged. The grounds themselves were different in scale. In the distance, the roofs of two gymnasiums were visible. He would learn later that one was exclusively for the volleyball team—a facility called the "Washio Arena," with three courts and 200 spectator seats. The volleyball team at Daitou Industrial shared the first gymnasium with the basketball team. Two courts' worth. Compared to that, Shiratorizawa's facilities seemed to belong to another world entirely. As he approached the main gate, plaques lined the side of the black metal gate. Plaques commemorating national tournament appearances. Commemorative plates for Inter-High participation. Seven Inter-High appearances in the past ten years. Three times reaching the national quarterfinals. Each one engraved with the year and tournament name. Kunimi stopped. (This is Shiratorizawa.) Facts he should have known all along suddenly felt real, piercing his skin for the first time. The prefecture's premier private powerhouse school. Supported by a sports promotion association with an annual budget of 18 million yen. Eight to ten recommendation slots per year. Tuition waiver of approximately 300,000 yen. Half-price tuition—approximately 240,000 yen in annual reduction. Dormitory subsidy of 20,000 yen per month. The players here spent three years in such an environment. In contrast, Daitou Industrial's recommendation slots numbered two or three per year. As an industrial high school, employment results took priority. The gymnasium was shared with the basketball team. The locker room was a six-tatami prefabricated building. Both were called "regulars" in Miyagi Prefecture's high school volleyball world. But the substance of that "regular" status was vastly different. The time was 2:58 PM. Along the stone wall beside the main gate, hedges continued. From their shadow, a figure emerged. --- He was large. That was the first impression. 183 centimeters—more than ten centimeters taller than Kunimi. He wore Shiratorizawa's jersey—white with deep crimson lines, a color scheme Kunimi recognized. His shoulders were broad, his build unmistakably that of a middle blocker. Yet his movements were economical. Despite his size, the way he carried his presence was quiet, his footsteps soundless. When Kunimi saw his face, he looked at the figure again. Jet-black short hair with thin deep crimson streaks running through it. That alone wasn't particularly unusual, but what Kunimi noticed next was his eyes. The left eye was golden. The right eye was deep indigo. Heterochromia—eyes of different colors. His brows were perpetually slightly furrowed, and that expression naturally conveyed seriousness to anyone observing him. "You're Kunimi Akira, aren't you?" The voice was quiet and low. It was phrased as a question, but the tone was one of confirmation. "...Yeah." Kunimi made no attempt to hide his wariness. He met the other's gaze directly, as if taking his measure. "I'm Nomura Takeshi. You can call me Gasshu." "A nickname from your build?" "That's right." His answer carried no emotional inflection. Both affirmation and denial came back in the same tone. That uniformity struck Kunimi as slightly unsettling. "You sent the message?" "Yes." "Why me?" Gasshu didn't answer immediately. His golden and indigo eyes regarded Kunimi quietly. Above the main gate, a championship plaque reflected the afternoon light. "[serious]Let's move somewhere we can talk. This is too conspicuous." --- Jolly Pasta Sendai East was a family restaurant ten minutes' walk from Daitou Industrial. For Kunimi, it was a familiar place—he'd stopped by occasionally after club activities. A booth in the back—a four-person window seat—became the location for their "strategy meeting." They each ordered a drink bar, and faced each other across the table with cups in hand. The afternoon sunlight slanted across the glass windows. The restaurant was nearly empty, with only what appeared to be two housewives at a distant table. The background music was subdued, and the air between them took on an unusual density. "[serious]First, let me explain the Shiratorizawa Sports Promotion Association." Gasshu began speaking in a voice stripped of emotion. The Shiratorizawa Sports Promotion Association. A sports support organization founded twelve years ago, with the school's parent-teacher association as its foundation. Approximately eighty members, an annual operating budget of roughly 18 million yen—membership fees, donations, and sponsorships from alumni companies were the primary revenue sources. On the surface, their activities were supplementing travel expenses, purchasing training equipment, and maintaining facilities. Viewed only from that angle, it was a legitimate organization, a natural extension of typical parent-teacher association work. But the reality was different, Gasshu said. "[serious]The association chairman, Mikasa Ikuo—president of the local construction company 'Mikasa Construction'—and the executive leadership directly intervene in the selection of recommendation slots." Kunimi listened in silence, holding his cup. Shiratorizawa's recommendation system offered eight to ten slots per year. Tuition waiver of approximately 300,000 yen. Half-price tuition—approximately 240,000 yen in annual reduction. Dormitory subsidy of 20,000 yen per month. These benefits were presented to promising middle school students. Recommendation approval was informally decided around the summer of third year, and the selection process was almost entirely opaque to outsiders. The problem lay in that "opaque process." "[serious]Children of executives and children from families with large donation amounts to the association are prioritized for recommendation slots. Conversely, recommendations for players deemed 'unnecessary' are canceled without explanation." Kunimi's fingers gripped the cup tightly. "...How many times has this happened?" "[serious]Within the range I could verify, at least four cases over the past three years. The most clear-cut is this year's first-year student, Koshiba Keita." Koshiba Keita. When Gasshu spoke that name, he paused for the first time, however briefly. His golden eye fell to the table. In Miyagi Prefecture's middle school volleyball world, Koshiba had been named as a candidate for the Miyagi Prefecture All-Star team the previous year. He'd drawn attention for his spike precision and block-reading ability. His recommendation to Shiratorizawa had once been close to approval. But in the spring of this year, the recommendation was canceled. The reason given by the association was "re-evaluation due to insufficient ability." "[serious]The slot he was competing for went to Mikasa Shota. He's the nephew of Chairman Mikasa Ikuo. Koshiba's father is a construction site laborer, and his family's donation to the association is less than one-tenth of the Mikasa family's." Kunimi's mouth remained closed. Each time Gasshu presented a figure, it ceased to be mere talk. Specific amounts, specific names, specific facts. Not emotional argument, but the contours of the problem drawn as structure. "[serious]Koshiba is trying to quit volleyball now." That single sentence changed the air in the room. Kunimi set his cup on the table. It made a sound. --- "[angry]That's not a recommendation system." His voice had dropped. It came from deep in his belly. "You pick the kids from families with money and push out the talented players—that's not a system. That's bribery. Where is Koshiba now? Right now, I'm going to—" "[serious]Kunimi." Gasshu's voice was low and quiet. That single utterance stopped Kunimi's half-risen form. "[serious]Don't be angry. Understand. This is reality." The words were brief. But their weight was different. Words stripped of emotion could strike at the core more effectively than passionate ones. Kunimi slowly lowered himself back into his chair. Gasshu continued, cradling his cup in both hands. "[serious]Association Chairman Mikasa Ikuo is a man of influence in the region. He has influence in the local construction industry and deep connections with the Miyagi Prefecture High School Athletic Association. Shiratorizawa's coach, Washio Tatsumi, is a fifteen-year veteran who has achieved the national quarterfinals three times, but he's tacitly approved the association's demands to maintain those results. If you move on emotion now, they'll suppress the evidence before we can gather it." "[cold]...So you've been silent about this for three years?" The voice remained low, but something other than anger had mixed into it now. Gasshu raised his golden and indigo eyes to meet Kunimi's gaze. "[serious]I recorded it for three years. That's all." At those words, Kunimi fell silent. Gasshu took out his smartphone. He manipulated the screen and turned it toward Kunimi across the table. A spreadsheet file. Vertical axis: years. Horizontal axis: player names, recommendation approval or rejection, and in another column, estimated donation amounts to the association. A self-made analysis table. Numbers lined the screen. Year by year, who received recommendations and who was rejected. And the correlation with their families' donation amounts. Neatly, quietly, stacked data. Kunimi stared at that screen without moving for a long time. (For three years, this man was watching from th