The hallway of the Prefectural Sports Center was quiet. The air conditioning flowed through it, separated from the summer heat outside. The floor was linoleum, and the fluorescent lights reflected white against its surface. Kunimi Akira leaned his back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. Today's date was August 7th. He and Gasshu had arrived here just after 10 in the morning. For three nights before this day, Kunimi had been thinking about it. Gasshu's three notebooks, Koshiba's voice, Imamura's words about "the chairman Mikasa will hear about it." He'd thought that if he gathered all of it together and brought it here—to the administrative office of the Miyagi Prefecture High School Athletic Federation in Aoba Ward, Sendai—something would move. He'd been naive. The young staff member sitting at the window hadn't even accepted the copies of the notebooks that Gasshu had offered. "[cold]For complaints regarding internal selection criteria, we first require formal documentation submitted through the school's official channels" The voice was calm, bureaucratic. Emotionless. When Kunimi started to say "Then just tell us whether you'll accept it as evidence," Gasshu stopped him with just a glance. They asked different questions instead. The staff member said "I'll check with my supervisor" and disappeared into the back. More than five minutes passed before a different staff member came out. "[cold]Our person in charge is unavailable today. If you could make an appointment and visit again" That was all. They stepped into the hallway. Gasshu remained facing the administrative office window, motionless. Kunimi pressed his back against the wall and crossed his arms. The cut on his left ear seemed to ache faintly in the chilled air. "[serious]Just before he went back inside, that staff member used the intercom" Gasshu spoke quietly. "[serious]After talking to someone briefly, his attitude changed" Kunimi said nothing. There was no need to. —Kurosawa, the administrative director. The man who'd ended the Miyagi Cup referee fraud incident from eight years ago with minimal punishment. He was still in that position. Gasshu didn't explain that far. But Kunimi understood. As long as a man like that was in the back of the administrative office, this window was closed from the start. We need formal documentation, our person is unavailable—all of it was a wall built from the language of proper procedure. "[serious]Let's go" The two walked down the hallway. While waiting for the elevator, neither spoke. --- As they began the journey back, Gasshu spoke. "[serious]There's a gymnasium in the Rifu direction. Shiratorizawa is having a practice match today" Kunimi looked at Gasshu's profile. "[serious]You knew about it beforehand?" "[serious]I'm a member of Shiratorizawa. I know the schedule" They boarded a bus heading toward Rifu. The Sendai cityscape receded through the windows. They passed through residential areas, and greenery increased. The August sky was high and blue. That blueness mixed strangely in his head with the white fluorescent lights from the administrative office earlier. The gymnasium was a public facility. They completed the procedures for observation at the reception desk and climbed to the second-floor seating. The moment the court came into view, Kunimi's feet stopped. --- Ushijima Wakatoshi was something entirely different from the existence Kunimi had seen in video footage. His 198-centimeter frame seemed to defy gravity in the motion from his approach to his jump. His long hair, dyed in two tones of deep green and black, was tied back, and the star-shaped piercing in his left ear flashed once in the light. His left arm swung through the air in the sky—at that moment. It wasn't a *don* sound. It was a *zun*—a heavy impact. The ball was slammed to the floor along with the opposing team's block. The receiving player was knocked back, their stance broken. That was the first one. The second and third followed. Each time the course changed, the opposing team's defense crumbled in a different place. It wasn't that their defense wasn't functioning. No matter where they stood, it was rendered useless. Ushijima's expression never changed. It wasn't that he lacked emotion. Only concentration on volleyball existed in the depths of his dark green eyes. No anger, no joy, no exhilaration—just striking continuously. That was what made it terrifying. His full power didn't seem conscious of being full power. Kunimi gripped the railing with both hands and couldn't speak for a while. He remembered what he'd felt watching Oikawa's matches once—that had been the form of accumulated effort. A human shape that had been worn down repeatedly against talent, yet continued to be polished. But what stood before him now was different. Talent itself existed as a completed form from birth. Beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. In the next moment, that thought inverted. The stronger Ushijima was, the more Shiratorizawa would win. The more Shiratorizawa kept winning, the more Mikasa Ikuo's corruption would remain hidden inside that victory. The fraud in the recommendation slots, taking away Koshiba's dream—all of it would be overwritten by a single line: "the stronger team won." Every time that left arm struck, the fraud was protected. Something beautiful was protecting something ugly. The irrationality of that structure welled up from the pit of his stomach as something between anger and sorrow. Kunimi pressed harder with the fingers gripping the railing. His palm turned white against the cold metal. Gasshu watched the match silently beside him. --- When the practice match ended, the two left the spectator seating. As they descended to the first-floor lobby, someone called out to them. "[cold]You're Kunimi Akira, aren't you" He turned around. A man in a Shiratorizawa jersey stood there. Late forties, wearing glasses. Not large in build, but with good posture. His expression was gentle—almost a smile as he looked at Kunimi. Kunimi sensed in a second what lay beneath that smile. "[cold]I'm Tsuruoka. I coach at Shiratorizawa" His voice was low and calm. It felt like a calm voice wrapping a blade. "[cold]I've received reports that you've been making contact with our members and trainees recently" Kunimi said nothing. "[cold]I think it would be better if you stopped doing unnecessary things" That was all. No explanation, no detailed threats, nothing. The gentle expression didn't crack. Tsuruoka said only that and disappeared into the back of the lobby. That brevity was heavy in its own way. Being yelled at would have been easier to handle. This man hadn't given details—because he understood everything. Coming to the prefectural athletic federation, meeting Koshiba, being here today. All of it. Gasshu spoke quietly while watching the direction Tsuruoka had disappeared. "[serious]Everything about today's movements has already been reported to Chairman Mikasa" In that voice, Kunimi felt something for the first time. Not quite exhaustion. But something heavier than usual. Kunimi looked down the hallway where Tsuruoka had vanished. He couldn't tell if that man was moving of his own will or if he was forced to comply with the federation's position. Either way, from this moment on, the other side was openly moving to shut down Kunimi and Gasshu's movements. --- That night, his smartphone rang. The screen displayed "Teacher Oita." Oita Shinya, the coach of the Datte Kougyou volleyball club. Forty-two years old. A warm-hearted man with a reputation for sound judgment at crucial moments—someone Kunimi had trusted for three years. "[serious]Shiratorizawa sent documentation to the school" Oita's voice over the phone was calm, but confusion seeped through. "[serious]It says there was improper contact with club members by outsiders and unfounded defamation of the federation. They're asking the school to provide appropriate guidance" Kunimi sat on the floor of his room, holding the phone in silence. "[serious]Kunimi. Tell me what you're doing" He started to speak. There's evidence, there's fraud, there's a first-year named Koshiba— "[serious]Your three years have been admirable" Oita continued speaking. "[serious]But end it today. Don't damage Datte Kougyou's name" The call ended. He hadn't yelled. Not anger, but exhaustion. That cut deeper than being yelled at. Kunimi remained with his hand on the floor, motionless for a while. When good people stay silent, evil wins. Kunimi didn't think Oita was a bad person. But Oita had stayed silent today. He'd received the documentation from Shiratorizawa and told Kunimi to "end it." That was how this system was designed—to turn the person who spoke up into "the one who caused trouble," and silence well-meaning adults. The structure Gasshu had been watching for three years had pierced Kunimi himself tonight. --- The next day at practice. The moment Kunimi opened the locker room door, voices stopped. It was a conversation a few members had been having. No one had intentionally gone silent at the sight of him. The moment they saw his face, their mouths naturally closed—and that naturalness cut deeper. One of the younger members only bowed slightly, letting his gaze fall to the floor. A regular from his year continued organizing equipment without turning toward Kunimi. A voice came from the direction of the storage room. "You're picking a fight with Shiratorizawa" It was unclear if he was speaking to someone or to himself. Kunimi didn't turn around. During practice, there was one moment when a return pass didn't come even after he called for a toss. Whether that was intentional or not, there was no way to confirm. Everything was like that today. Unconfirmable. Unprovable. But something had definitely changed. After practice ended, Kunimi stayed alone on the court. He began spiking toward the wall. The sound of the ball hitting concrete echoed through the empty gymnasium. Light slanting through the high windows illuminated the court at an angle. Each time he retrieved the ball, Koshiba's voice returned. —My volleyball wasn't bad, was it? Trying to answer that question had led to all of this. The evidence exists. The records exist. But there's no window that will accept them. The school can't move. Those around him are pulling away. And Gasshu's movements are completely known to the other side. Kunimi clenched his fists. There was nowhere for his anger to go. Each time the ball bounced back from the wall, that alone remained as certain feedback. Hit, bounce back, retrieve, hit again. Gasshu had been doing this for three years. Living inside Shiratorizawa, filling notebooks alone. Accumulating records without ever playing in an official match. In isolation. The weight of that had finally entered Kunimi's body today. The light through the high windows was gradually tilting. It was the light of a summer evening. Outside, cicadas were still singing. Alone on the court, Kunimi Akira kept striking. His smartphone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Gasshu. Just one line. "I'm thinking about the next move. I'll contact you tomorrow." Kunimi looked at the message but didn't reply. Yet the hand that returned the smartphone to his pocket didn't stop. He retrieved the ball and took his stance again. He struck the next spike toward the wall.