Behind the Washuoh Arena, roughly a hundred meters away, the building stood. A single-story structure, thirty-five years old. The mortar on its walls had cracked into a web of fissures, and the paint on the window frames had peeled away, exposing bare wood beneath. It had once served as the volleyball club's practice room, but now it functioned as a storage shed—a faded sign reading "No Entry Without Authorization" stood at its entrance. The August sun beat down at its zenith. Heat shimmered up from the asphalt, and the cicadas' cries continued without pause in the distance. Kunimi Akira watched Gasshu's back while wiping sweat from the back of his hand. Nomura Gasshu produced a key. He'd said it was a spare borrowed from the caretaker. An ordinary key. For three years, this man had been preparing—and that single key quietly testified to the accumulation of his efforts. [serious]I'm going in. The lock clicked open, the sound carrying through the quiet courtyard. --- Inside, it was dim. Light filtered through the windows in slanted rays, carrying dust motes with it. Old practice equipment—the remains of ball carts, torn supporters, worn-out shoe soles—lay stacked against the walls. Shelves held tournament pamphlets from the past thirty years, their spines faded with age. Kunimi stepped inside and stopped. From the depths came the smell of a place where athletes had once spent their youth. Sweat, rubber, and the faint ghost of humid heat. Now it was simply the smell of an abandoned space. Gasshu moved toward the back shelves without hesitation. He reached behind the row of tournament pamphlets on the highest shelf. A vinyl bag emerged—A4 papers bundled inside, wrapped carefully in double layers. [serious]This is it. He spread them across an old locker, using it as a table. Kunimi approached. The first thing that caught his eye was a series of numbers. Printed from an Excel spreadsheet, years arranged vertically, categories arranged horizontally. "Promotion Association Donation Ledger," "Recommendation Selection Results," "Selection Candidate List," "Adopted Names," "Donor Names"—the columns stretched downward for seven years. [serious]This was obtained from a former alumnus. After the Miyagi Cup incident—eight years ago, when irregular judging was exposed at an invitational tournament hosted by the Miyagi Prefecture High School Athletic Association—a club member left the promotion association. Someone who departed with doubts about the organization's inner workings. I spent half a year building trust with that person before receiving a copy of their accounting ledger. Gasshu traced the numbers with his finger as he continued. His voice was low, matter-of-fact. Not so much devoid of emotion as it was containing seven years of anger sealed within the numbers themselves. [serious]Look at this fiscal year. In the year before recommendation selections were held, donations to the promotion association spiked dramatically from specific households. And in the following year's selection results—look at the names of those adopted. They line up with the top donors. Kunimi took the papers in his hands. His eyes moved across the numbers. Gasshu was right. In one fiscal year, the donation amount from "Mikasa Construction" had increased by three million yen compared to the previous year. In the following year's adoption list, unfamiliar names appeared in sequence. The same year Keita Koshiba had his recommendation revoked. And at the end of the ledger, in the approval column. "Ikuo Mikasa." With a stamp beside it. The same name, in the same column, repeated for seven consecutive years. Kunimi couldn't look away from the paper. An impulse to shout rose and fell. These numbers weren't emotion. They weren't speculation. They were accumulated records. The flow of money proved the distortion of the system—that was all. [serious]From the beginning, I never kept this in the dorm. Gasshu spoke quietly. [serious]For three years, only the most important thing was kept elsewhere. That much I never compromised on. Kunimi couldn't respond immediately. Three years. A man who had never played in an official match, yet continued coming to this storage shed. --- They returned the ledger to the vinyl bag and left the shed. Within the Shiratorizawa Academy grounds, the summer sky past noon hung high, and the Washuoh Arena's exterior wall reflected the sunlight in brilliant white. From the volleyball court side came the unbroken sounds of players' voices and spike impacts. For Kunimi Akira, who had retired, there was no longer any right to return to that court. Gasshu slowed his pace on the path leading to the arena entrance. [serious]This afternoon, Chairman Mikasa will arrive. It's a scheduled inspection of the promotion association. I had the schedule confirmed. Kunimi listened without turning his head. [serious]I thought this was the opportunity. --- Ikuo Mikasa stood in the lobby on the first floor of the arena. Fifty-two years old. His short hair, a mixture of silver and white, was neatly styled. A gray suit, with a Shiratorizawa alumnus badge gleaming at his chest. He wasn't tall—slightly taller than Kunimi, around one hundred seventy-five centimeters—but his posture was different. His center of gravity was low, his bearing relaxed. The way someone accustomed to power used the air around them. Mikasa, who had been gazing at one of the championship trophies displayed in the lobby, turned at the sound of their footsteps. His cold gray eyes narrowed for just a moment. The look of someone who had already received information. Someone who knew they would come, knew they were on the grounds today, and had been waiting with full awareness—that was the look. But a thin smile played at the corners of his mouth. [cold]So you're the famous Kunimi from Idate Industrial. Quite the enthusiast, aren't you? His voice was calm. No anger, no pressure. Simply calm and courteous—which made it all the heavier. The voice of someone who could suppress others without using emotion. Kunimi stood directly before Mikasa. Mikasa's gaze drifted lightly across Kunimi's face—not so much an appraisal as a confirmation. A confirmation that amounted to: is this all? [serious]I have something I want to ask you. About Shiratorizawa's recommendation selection process. Mikasa's smile didn't waver. [cold]Ah, so that's what this is about. He took a step closer. Not threatening. Simply closer. Yet the air in the lobby shifted. [cold]Kunimi. You're earnest, and you have a strong sense of justice, I'm sure. That's not a bad thing. The smile at the corners of his mouth deepened slightly. [cold]But you see—when someone from a team that can't win says anything, no one listens. That's reality. That was all. There was no emotion. No shouting. No mockery. Speaking as though stating a simple fact, Ikuo Mikasa delivered those words. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the depths of the arena. His footsteps faded away. Kunimi didn't move. --- Summer light streamed through the corridor. In the distance, the sound of spikes. Someone struck, the floor rang, a brief instruction echoed. Inside the court, volleyball continued as always. The people from teams that could win stood in that place as though it were natural, as though it were their right. Kunimi remained motionless, watching where Mikasa had disappeared. He didn't think Mikasa's words were true. But Mikasa had spoken them without emotion, as though stating an obvious fact—and that certainty pierced deeper than anger could. (When someone from a team that can't win says anything) Multiple voices overlapped in his mind. Toru Oikawa's back, as he struck his head against the wall of talent yet refused to accept retirement until the very end. The silence of this storage shed, where Gasshu had spent three years analyzing matches from the bench. The night Keita Koshiba asked with a trembling voice, "My volleyball wasn't bad, was it?" All of it rose up as a silent refutation to Mikasa's assertion that "no one listens." They hadn't won. But they had fought. They hadn't given up. That wasn't a lie. Kunimi exhaled slowly. [serious]We'll do it at Grandi 21. His voice was low. Not a shout. Not trembling. Only an unwavering certainty. [serious]At the summer intensive joint practice session four days from now—where all the prefectural coaches, athletic directors, parent association members, and prefecture athletic association officials gather—I'll hand over the ledger copies and testimony directly. Gasshu didn't immediately object. His mismatched eyes watched Kunimi's face quietly. The golden left eye and the indigo right eye remained fixed on him, as though measuring the weight of those words. --- At Jolly Pasta Sendai East, in a booth at the back. A ten-minute walk from Idate Industrial—a place Kunimi had stopped by countless times on his way home from practice. Two cups from the drink bar sat on the table. Past three in the afternoon, the shop was quiet, the neighboring table empty. Gasshu confirmed the details. His voice was low, his speech methodical. [serious]I have copies of the accounting ledger. Separately, I have audio recordings of testimony from the affected players—including Koshiba, which I recorded directly in the old club building. They're stored in cloud storage with multiple backups. [serious]On the day, I'll hand them directly to the prefecture athletic association's board members. [serious]There are two problems. Gasshu furrowed his brow and raised one finger on the table. [serious]First, after the disclosure, Chairman Mikasa could take legal action against us for unlawful acquisition of private documents. If questions arise about how the ledger copies were obtained, it could affect the former alumnus. A second finger rose. [serious]Second—and this is the biggest problem—the ledger and audio data alone constitute circumstantial evidence. To set a formal investigation committee in motion, we need testimony from the actual victims. In other words, whether Koshiba can stand in public will determine the success or failure of the disclosure. Kunimi listened in silence, cradling the drink cup in his hands. Keita Koshiba. A first-year who had withdrawn from Shiratorizawa, now forced into silence by pressure on his father's work. A talented player selected as a candidate for the Miyagi Prefecture All-Stars, now possibly in a place where he wouldn't even answer his phone. [serious]I'll contact Koshiba. Gasshu's eyes narrowed slightly. [serious]There's no guarantee he'll respond. [serious]I know. But if we don't try, nothing changes. Silence fell. The BGM played low in the shop. Distant voices of customers. That was all. After a while, Kunimi turned to face Gasshu directly. [serious]Aren't you scared? Gasshu didn't answer immediately. His golden and indigo eyes fell to the table, remaining there for a moment. A water droplet from the cup traced slowly downward and fell. [serious]I'm scared. He said it simply. [serious]But there's a landscape I've watched from the bench for three years. There are hundreds of spike trajectories I've seen while unable to stand on the court. I don't want to make those a lie—that's all. Kunimi looked at Gasshu's face for a moment. Then he extended his fist across the table. Gasshu slowly brought his own fist to meet it. Not lightly. Slowly, as though confirming something. A moment heavier than words. --- At night, beneath the elevated tracks at Sendai Station East Exit. Three minutes' walk from the station, in a narrow space lined with concrete walls. Eight meters wide, twenty meters long. Gasshu had told him that Toru Oikawa had practiced here late into the night during his active years. Now Kunimi Akira came here alone. The ball struck the wall, the sound echoing beneath the elevated tracks. Strike. Rebound. Retrieve. Strike again. Mika