Three days had passed since the night Advisor Oita told him to "end this." Kunimi Akira stood at the edge of the gymnasium, back against the wall, watching his underclassmen practice. The sound of spikes being driven, shoes scraping the floor, the coach's voice calling out instructions. Everything continued the same way. Nothing had changed. Not a single thing between before that phone call and after—and that fact was slowly, steadily burrowing into the pit of his stomach. Mid-August. The height of summer had not yet ended. As practice drew to a close, the underclassmen filed out of the gymnasium one by one. Kunimi began collecting the volleyballs. Though he had retired from active play, helping clean up after the underclassmen's practice was a habit he had continued without break. As he placed each ball into the cart, his mind was elsewhere entirely. No message had come from Gasshu yet. He had said three days ago that he was "considering the next move," and since then, silence. As Kunimi was placing a ball into the cart, the gymnasium door opened again. It was Kondaichi Yutaro. A second-year. Called a candidate for next year's regular lineup. His height was still growing, his limbs still slightly too long. His play was rough, but his reads were sharp. Among the players Kunimi had watched on court for three years, he was one of the few Kunimi believed would become truly exceptional in a few more years. That Kondaichi had returned into the gymnasium, his back still turned to Kunimi. He stopped just inside the door and did not move. Kunimi, still holding a ball, watched and waited. A long silence. Ten seconds, perhaps twenty. Outside the gymnasium, the sound of cicadas continued without pause. Kondaichi's back was rigid with tension—Kunimi could see it clearly. "[sad]...Senpai," His voice was trembling. From the very first word, it was already shaking. Kunimi placed the ball back into the cart. "[serious]What is it," "[sad]White Bird Dorm... our advisor, Oita-sensei, got a call from them. I heard about it," Kunimi said nothing. "[crying]Next year's... recommendation cooperation... they're reviewing it. If you keep moving, they said," Kondaichi slowly turned around. His eyes were red. Not on the verge of tears—he was already crying. His lips opened once, then closed again. It was as if something was caught in his throat, and the words would not come. "[crying]I wanted to go to university through volleyball... I've been practicing all this time. Next year, there's a practice match with White Bird Dorm, and if I show what I can do there... the advisor told me that too...," His voice broke. He was crying. Trying to suppress it, but unable to hold it back. Sixteen, seventeen years old—everything this boy had been carrying alone for the past few days was seeping out. Kunimi tried to say something. He searched for words of rebuttal, words of explanation, words of apology—something. But all of it caught in his throat. Faced with Kondaichi's tears, the words "I am doing the right thing" crumbled like sand. Right. Perhaps it was. But the result of doing the right thing was holding this underclassman's three years hostage. Three years of daily practice, a boy's dream, wavering because of Kunimi's actions. Whose fault was that. Mikasa Ikuo's—it would have been easy to say that. But in this moment, standing before Kondaichi, Kunimi did not feel he had the right to voice those words. If he had not moved, at least this underclassman would not be crying here today. "[sad]...I'm sorry. It's my fault," Kondaichi shook his head. Even as he shook it, the tears did not stop. "I don't think you're wrong, senpai. But... but—," He could not finish. Kondaichi pressed his hand to his mouth and turned toward the door. This time, he left the gymnasium for good. The door closed. Silence. Kunimi kept his gaze on the floor, remaining still for a long time. A single ball lay rolling nearby. He had no will to pick it up. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. The cool sensation of the gymnasium floor met his body, still warm from summer heat. Kondaichi's crying face remained behind his eyelids. --- That night, his smartphone rang. It was from Gasshu. The moment Kunimi saw the beginning of the message, his hand holding the screen stopped. "When I got back to the dorm, my room had been ransacked." He continued reading. Every drawer, every shelf had been opened. Three notebooks of recommendation selection records compiled over three years, copies of selection meeting minutes, testimony memos from affected players, printed sheets of spreadsheet data—all of it was gone. There were signs of forced entry, and Gasshu had tried to report it to the dorm supervisor, but they had unilaterally closed the matter with "it must have been lost during tidying." A single sheet of paper had been taped to his locker—the word "traitor" written in marker. At dinner, no one sat next to Gasshu in the cafeteria. The next morning's practice had a rule: those with health concerns were prohibited from participating—and only Gasshu was excluded. Kunimi read the message to the end and placed his smartphone on the floor. Imamura's voice from when he returned from Washio Arena echoed back. "It'll reach Chairman Mikasa"—those words had not been a threat. They had been a warning. And three days later, today, that warning had been completely carried out. They had not only erased the evidence. They were dismantling the whistleblower's position from within the organization. Gasshu was now completely alone inside the White Bird Dorm. The man who had spent three years filling notebooks in that old club building had not had a single person sit beside him at dinner today. Kunimi looked up at the ceiling. The fluorescent light in his room shone steadily. --- The next morning. Kunimi called Koshiba Keita. The phone rang. No answer. Five rings, then it cut off. He called again. The same thing. He sent a LINE message. "Koshiba, contact me," just one line. The message was not marked as read. Through the morning, Kunimi bought a bottle of water at a convenience store near Sendai Station and killed time on a park bench. He kept checking his smartphone. The message remained unread. Past noon, a message arrived from Gasshu. "Koshiba quit the team. Last night. Apparently pressure was put on his father's job. His father's company is a subcontractor for Mikasa Construction. There's talk that they hinted they would cut off his work." Kunimi read that sentence three times. His father. They had taken his father's job—unrelated to volleyball, a job of night shifts at construction sites—as a hostage. They had stolen Koshiba Keita's recommendation slot with money. To silence the son who tried to expose that fact, they had threatened the father's livelihood. Whether it touched the law or not, Kunimi could not confirm. No evidence would remain. Someone had simply said to someone else "I'll cut off your work," and a boy had gone silent. The voice of Koshiba saying his father came home black with dirt from the construction site and smiled, saying "You worked hard"—that voice came back. What kind of face that father must be making now—Kunimi's thoughts stopped midway. He expected anger to come. Anger that would overflow. But it did not come. The anger that should have come was stuck somewhere, lodged in his body. Clenching his fist changed nothing. There was only the sensation that nothing would change. Gripping his smartphone, he could not type a response. --- In the afternoon, Kunimi boarded a train. He had not decided on a destination. Before he realized it, he was heading toward Izumi Chuo. Near White Bird Academy. Near the place where Gasshu was now confined. He could not explain the reason well, even to himself. Beyond a residential area in the hills, there was a small park. The playground equipment was old, the sandbox nearly dried out. On a summer afternoon, no children had come out. A single bench sat at the edge of the shade. Kunimi sat down on it. The sound of cicadas fell from everywhere and nowhere. Not a single insect, but dozens overlapping, their cries unbroken. As if overwriting every thought in his head, the sound continued without end. He opened the SNS app on his smartphone. He did not know why he opened it. He was typing a name into the search bar. Oikawa Toru. The account appeared. The icon showed the back of someone in an Aoba Johsai jersey. He had over a thousand followers even after retirement. His last post was over a year ago. "There is always a way to win even without talent." Just that single line existed on the screen. Kunimi stared at those words for a long time. Winning without talent. You became the prefecture's top setter by saying that. You built it up. Bending, being worn down, but still building it up. Kunimi had watched that back from a distance for three years. Seeing Oikawa's back, he thought he could fight too. Even in battles outside the court, he thought it was the same—if you built it up, eventually you would reach it. But now, what had been built was gone. The evidence was gone. Gasshu was being isolated. Koshiba had been silenced, his father's job threatened. Kondaichi had cried. Advisor Oita had said "end this." Conversation had stopped in the locker room—all of it happened because he had moved. That thought would not leave his head. Kunimi moved only his lips. No sound came out. He could not make a sound. Oikawa-san, how did you stand against this wall. There was no answer. Only the sound of cicadas continued. Three years at Idate Engineering came in fragments. The night he watched Oikawa's match on video. The night practice went badly and he did wall practice alone. The night after the team lost, frustrated but unable to put it into words, leaving the gymnasium in silence. Back then too, it was the same—wanting to change something, but not knowing how, only able to keep hitting. Now and back then—what had changed. His fist struck the bench seat. It was not a loud sound. A small, muffled sound. It reached no one. Swallowed by the cicadas' cry. He struck again. Another small sound, then it faded. The back of his eyes grew hot. He had not meant to cry. He did not understand the reason for crying—no, he understood it too well, and did not know where to begin. For Kondaichi. For Koshiba. For Gasshu. For his own powerlessness. Or for himself, who had expected an answer from Oikawa's single line. He tried to hold it back. He could not hold it back well. The cicadas' cry continued. The wind in the shade blew once. That was all. --- As the sun began to tilt, his smartphone vibrated. It was from Gasshu. The message was short. "All the materials in my dorm room were taken. But I have a copy of the accounting ledger in another place. I only kept it there from the beginning. It is not over yet." Kunimi stared at the screen. The old club building—the place Gasshu had mentioned on the way back in the third chapter came back to him. A hundred meters from the main building, behind Washio Arena, a single-story storage shed. A spare key borrowed from the manager. A notebook hidden among old practice equipment. Gasshu had not mentioned that place once in any of his messages over these three days. He had let them think the evidence was in his dorm room—keeping only the most important thing in a separate location from the start. There was a move the opponent had not read. Kunimi held his smartphone without moving for a while. The weight of the bottom was still there. Kondaichi's tears, Koshiba's silence, the paper taped to Gasshu's locker—none of it was resolved. A single phrase "it is not over yet" did not change anything. But. A thin crack had opened in what he thought was completely sealed. Kunimi typed a short response to the screen. "[serious]Where is it," He sent it. The cicadas' cr