Chapter 49: Training Camp 12

Whenever practice matches were held, there were always plenty of coaches and players coming by to observe.
This training camp had gathered some of the very best schools around, and watching matches like these again and again was bound to be immensely beneficial.

Tsutomu Goshiki somehow pulled out a backpack stuffed to the brim with snacks, then took out a large handful of jelly candies and handed them around to everyone seated in the stands.
Ryosuke got two small pink jellies—strawberry-flavored. He tore open the wrapper, popped one into his mouth, and swallowed it in a single bite.

The match began, and both teams bowed to each other.
Ryosuke casually scanned the lineups and reserves of Itachiyama and Kamomedai.

Tsutomu Goshiki blinked.
“Ryosuke, there are so many people I don’t recognize. Can you explain this match to me?”

Tsutomu Goshiki was the classic single-celled organism—his technique was good, his skills were solid, but when it came to formations and player analysis on the court, he was unexpectedly hopeless.
Whenever it came to this, he always had to ask someone else. As his partner and close friend, Ryosuke had been tormented by Goshiki so often that he could practically recite player profiles from memory.

Goshiki was always muddle-headed; hearing something once was never enough for him.

Ryosuke finished both jellies, wiped his hands on Goshiki’s clothes, and only spoke after enduring Goshiki’s murderous glare.
“We literally just played Itachiyama. You don’t remember?”

Goshiki lowered his head awkwardly.
“Well… I only remember Sakusa and that setter, Tsukasa Iizuna. I didn’t really pay attention to the others.”

Yunohama sighed and patiently began explaining the players to Goshiki.
“You’re not wrong. The others really aren’t on the same level as those two. Your ability to focus on the key points isn’t bad—you locked onto their ace right away.”

Ryosuke tugged at Goshiki’s backpack again, pulled out two more jellies, handed them to Ushijima, and then continued where Yunohama left off.
“Itachiyama’s real strength is how ordinary the rest of their players are. No matter how average someone seems, their fundamentals are insanely solid.
Their facilities, team resources, and steady supply of strong recruits—that kind of foundation is terrifying. It’s way better than ours at Shiratorizawa. And because those players are so ‘ordinary,’ they practically don’t have weaknesses.
No one thinks about tearing down an ordinary person.”

Ryosuke said something surprisingly profound. Goshiki scratched his head, clearly not getting it.

“Tsukasa Iizuna is a setter. Back in his second year, he was once the top setter, but then he got overshadowed by those twin setters from Hyogo. He only held that number-one spot for a year before being pulled down.
After that, for reasons no one really knows, he went to train receiving with Komori and focused on ground defense. He ended up becoming one of Itachiyama’s defensive pillars.”

Reon, who was happily watching the excitement unfold, chimed in enthusiastically to explain things to Goshiki.

From the opening rally, the match was fierce. Sakusa’s spinning jump serve scored cleanly without a touch, instantly igniting the atmosphere and setting the tone for a head-on clash.

Watching Sakusa shine on the court, Ryosuke chuckled softly and began recounting his childhood friend’s illustrious record to Goshiki.
“Sakusa is the only second-year among the nation’s top three wing spikers.”

Goshiki immediately latched onto the key phrase.
“The nation’s top three wing spikers?”

Yunohama smacked Goshiki lightly on the head in annoyance.
“One of those top wing spikers is sitting right next to Ryosuke.”

Goshiki’s mouth fell open wide enough to swallow an egg.
“Senior Ushijima?! Then who’s the other one?”

Yunohama gave a small nod and tilted his chin.
“That loud, obnoxious owl. He might look like he doesn’t think much, but he’s a legit super ace.”

Goshiki sucked in a sharp breath.
“So the big shot was right next to me this whole time?”

Slouched back in his seat, Ryosuke continued talking about Sakusa.
“But Sakusa still can’t beat Senior Ushijima. He doesn’t have Ushijima’s absolute power or the advantage of being left-handed. He’s Japan’s second spinning ace after Senior Ushijima.
His receiving is incredible—Itachiyama’s receiving has always been strong—but Sakusa’s still only a second-year. His experience needs more time.”

Ushijima, having been mentioned, nodded in agreement.
“Sakusa’s spin is very strong,” he added flatly, enunciating each word.

Yunohama, his arm still wrapped in bandages, continued explaining.
“Next, we really have to talk about Sakusa’s cousin, Motoya Komori. A libero who’s rare at 180 centimeters, and the number one libero in all of Tokyo. Tsukasa Iizuna and the other seniors’ receiving skills were all developed under him.
Experience, results, training, rankings—Komori has everything. Time and again, he’s single-handedly lowered opponents’ scoring rates and firmly claimed the title of number one libero.
He’s won Best Libero at IH twice.”

Ryosuke sighed in admiration.
“Ah, Komori-senpai is just amazing. I admire him so much. The title of number one libero is way too dazzling.”
He fell silent for a long moment, staring at such an outstanding senior. His fixation on the libero position only deepened.
He thought that maybe one day, the title of IH’s number one libero would belong to him.

Goshiki was completely absorbed in everyone’s explanations. When Ryosuke stopped talking, he hurriedly urged him on.
“What about the others? What about the rest of Itachiyama?”

Yunohama let out a quick laugh.
“The others are interesting. At first glance, they look completely ordinary—nothing stands out. But once they’re on the court, they almost never make mistakes.
I’ve been watching them for days. Among their middle blockers, there’s one wearing number 3—Kaoru Kishimoto. Not a single mistake. He’s boosted Itachiyama’s win rate by a huge margin.”

Kawanishi and Reon Yamagata had arrived at some point without anyone noticing, leaning against the back of Ushijima’s chair and listening intently to the first-years’ commentary.

“Sharp observation,” Kawanishi said in surprise, praising Yunohama.

Yunohama’s expression stiffened for a split second, then he let out a proud little “Hmph.”

Seeing the tips of Yunohama’s ears turn red, Ryosuke couldn’t help laughing.
Yunohama shot him a vicious glare.

“Beep—”

The shrill whistle snapped everyone’s wandering thoughts back to the court.
Kamomedai was leading 18–16, and the teams switched sides.

Goshiki rubbed his eyes hard and grabbed Yunohama in disbelief.
“I didn’t see that wrong, right?! That short guy jumped higher than me?!”

Yunohama pulled Goshiki off him.
“You didn’t see wrong. He really did jump higher than you.”

“No way…”

Kawanishi smiled at the devastated Goshiki and spoke with complete seriousness.
“It’s true. I’m not lying.
That short guy is named Kourai Hoshiumi. He jumps higher than most people because he was born with an eighteen-centimeter Achilles tendon. That kind of physical gift lets him take off like he’s flying.”

Ryosuke and Yunohama turned back in surprise—Ryosuke wondering how everyone knew about that kind of physical detail, and Yunohama simply being curious about those eighteen centimeters.

“So jealous…”
Goshiki murmured blankly as he watched the small figure bouncing around on the court.

The quiet mutter went unnoticed, immediately drowned out by the surrounding voices.

Reon hummed in agreement.
“Kourai Hoshiumi is an incredible player. He’s just too short. If he weren’t exceptionally strong, going pro would be extremely difficult for him.
I heard he spent three years on the national youth team stuck on the bench without a single chance to play. No matter how amazing his talent is, height really is his biggest weakness.”

Ryosuke, typing on his phone without looking up, added,
“Kamomedai is even more legendary than Itachiyama. Three years in a row, fifteen appearances at nationals. It sounds like just a number, but it’s a terrifying one. Kamomedai has mercilessly crushed the national dreams of countless volleyball players.”

The group fell silent. So many people had been stopped just one step short of nationals by the massive wall that was Kamomedai.

In the end, Ushijima broke the silence.
“Survival of the fittest.”

Just those few words were enough to leave everyone sighing.

Ryosuke leaned against Goshiki, who instinctively shifted to make him more comfortable.
Ryosuke continued speaking in an even tone, describing Kamomedai.

“Kamomedai is kind of like a perfected Miyagi version of Date Tech—a team built around serving and blocking. They have youth national team players, a two-meter ace, and a national youth MVP middle blocker. Four top-tier weapons.
That kind of lineup would be a trump card anywhere. The only downside is that they don’t have a truly elite receiver, and their bench isn’t particularly flashy.”

“That lineup still has downsides? That’s straight-up a powerhouse. If they were in Miyagi, they’d be insanely dominant,” Yamagata complained loudly.

Reon frowned sharply and clamped a hand over Yamagata’s mouth.
“I know what you want to say, but don’t say it. The coach is right there.”

Following Reon’s gaze, everyone spotted Coach Washijō talking with Kamomedai’s Coach Aaron.
If Yamagata had been any louder, Coach Washijō would have looked up immediately.

Yamagata sighed in relief behind Reon’s hand. Coach Washijō hated people gossiping behind his back—if he’d heard that, extra training would have been inevitable.

“Just watch the match. I’ll explain slowly,” Ryosuke said quietly, glancing toward Coach Washijō.

The game was still deadlocked. It was the end of the first set, 23–23, and both teams were pushing hard for set point.
At this rate, it was bound to turn into a drawn-out battle.

“So which one has the edge—Itachiyama or Kamomedai?” Kawanishi asked suddenly.

Reon watched the court carefully and answered without hesitation.
“Kamomedai. Itachiyama was dragged into a match with us for over two hours.”

Kawanishi snorted, clearly enjoying it.

Sure enough, by the end of the set, Komori on Itachiyama’s side was visibly exhausted, his movements slower than before.
Kamomedai’s two-meter ace leapt lightly, his arm snapping like a whip as he smashed the ball straight over the two blockers and into the backcourt.

From the stands, the two middle blockers’ expressions visibly twisted.

“A two-meter ace…” Yunohama sighed. “That’s rough to deal with.”
He glanced at Ryosuke, who was staring intently at that ace, rubbing his chin as he evaluated him—probably already thinking about how to block Kamomedai the next time they faced them.

The high-speed spike shot into Itachiyama’s backcourt. Komori dove and barely got a touch on it, but the first pass wasn’t clean. Kaoru Kishimoto adjusted his position.
With the setter not yet in place, Kishimoto had no choice but to take the ball himself. He steadied it, popped it high, and sent it straight above Taichi Kunihiko—no extra steps needed.

Seeing this, Reon felt a wave of sympathy for his own team’s setters. Whether it was Shirabu or Semi, once they were on the court, they had to run everywhere to set.
After all that movement, Shirabu’s stamina as a setter was now better than even Tendo’s, that unreliable middle blocker.

As the ball dropped, Taichi Kunihiko lightly tipped it with his left hand, pulling off a surprise second attack. No one had expected their setter to have the nerve to do that at such a critical moment.

From the stands, Reon thought of Shirabu again. Shirabu was a sacrificial setter—he never fought for the ball and never showed any desire to score. His sole purpose was to deliver perfect sets to Ushijima.
Compared like this, Reon felt their own setter was just too straightforward—honest to a fault, with no tricks at all.

Semi was different. His entire presence was full of individuality; even his sets carried his personal style.
He loved cutting off the set and scoring with reckless second attacks. Two setters with completely different styles gave their teams entirely different feelings.

Reon forced himself to stop spiraling into those thoughts and continued talking about Kamomedai instead.

“You know Kamomedai’s blocker, right?”

Yunohama answered calmly, “Sachirō Hirugami?”

Reon nodded. Yunohama turned to look at Ryosuke with a probing gaze—he himself only knew the name, nothing else.

Ryosuke picked up on it and began explaining.
“Sachirō Hirugami—people call him ‘Immovable Hirugami.’ His blocking can be compared to Tendo-senpai’s, sometimes it’s even stronger.
The Hirugami family is basically volleyball royalty. As far as I know, he has an older brother named Fukurō Hirugami, who was the starting attacker on the previous national youth team.”

Reon was once again amazed by Ryosuke’s depth of knowledge.
“Yeah, that’s right. Ryosuke’s spot on. Sachirō Hirugami started playing volleyball very early because of his family.
Back in the national youth team, he was the MVP. He scored thirty points by himself in that match.”

“Wow, that’s incredible!” Goshiki exclaimed like a sheltered kid seeing the world for the first time.
“That’s amazing! When will I ever get that strong?”

Ryosuke patted Goshiki on the shoulder.
“No idea. But you definitely can.”

The seriousness in his voice made Goshiki realize Ryosuke wasn’t joking—he truly believed Goshiki could reach the level of the nation’s top five attackers.
A small sense of reassurance bloomed in Goshiki’s chest. He pulled out a bottle of mineral water and handed it to Ryosuke, his eyes full of happiness at being acknowledged.

Ryosuke took it, drank deeply, and let out a satisfied burp before continuing to explain, determined to drill all of this into Goshiki’s head. Know yourself and your enemy, and you’ll never lose.

“That two-meter guy is Gao Hakuba. His height and blocking are threatening, but his mentality isn’t great, and his offense and defense aren’t anything special.”

“How do you know that?” Goshiki finally asked the question everyone had been wondering.

Eyes from all directions locked onto Ryosuke. He swallowed and answered, confused.
“I can tell… Haven’t you noticed? Gao Hakuba’s already getting restless.”

Everyone turned back to the court to observe.
“His blocks aren’t as strong as before, and his jumps are starting to get lazy.”

“No way—just a few centimeters and you can tell that?”

Kawanishi threw an arm around Ryosuke’s neck and shook him violently.
“Senpai! Kawanishi-senpai?! My water’s going to spill!”

Only then did Kawanishi let go.
“I’m seriously jealous of you talented guys.”

He pretended to be angry and pinched Ryosuke’s cheek.
Ryosuke stared at him blankly, feeling more and more wronged as Kawanishi used a bit more force, pinching until his face turned red.

Ryosuke: This cat is about to be pinched to death.

Seeing Ryosuke’s flushed face, Kawanishi awkwardly released him.
Ryosuke rubbed his cheek, shooting Kawanishi an accusatory glare sharp enough to cut.