Chapter 67: Training Camp 30

The moment Kuroo finished speaking, Tendo and Ryosuke shifted two steps to the left in perfect sync.

Their movements were so uniform it was as if they’d been carved from the same mold. They jumped at the same instant, arms tensed, timing flawless.

Wakatsu Kiryū only heard the dull thud of the ball striking his arm, followed by the sound of it rebounding off the floor.

He didn’t even have time to pull back the ferocious expression he’d worn while spiking—shock flooded his face, disbelief written all over it.

“Whoa—nice one, Satori! Nice one, Ryosuke!”

Cheers erupted from the sidelines.

Tendo grinned as he slung an arm around Ryosuke’s shoulders and taunted Wakatsu Kiryū.

“Well? Even if you’re a bad-ball killer, we can still score off a block.”

Wakatsu Kiryū’s face darkened, but he didn’t say a word. Usuri, on the other hand, completely lost it.

“What is this supposed to be?! Are geniuses being mass-produced now?!”

One of the main reasons Mujinazaka had lost far more often than they’d won against Shiratorizawa in the past lay in the difference between their defensive systems.

Back then, Shiratorizawa’s main offensive pillar was Ushijima, but Reon was nearly just as threatening. The only real gap had been Tendo’s blocking—Mujinazaka simply couldn’t achieve the same level of precision.

They were frequently scored on, and at the height of those matches, the most intense exchanges were just Ushijima and Kiryū trading blows.

Now, with new blood added to the lineup, the gap between the two teams was steadily widening.

Only then did Wakatsu Kiryū realize that Mujinazaka could no longer keep up with Shiratorizawa.

They were still stuck at the level of their once-invincible year, never having made any real changes.

Keisuke patted Kiryū on the shoulder.

“It’s only one point. We’ll take the next one back.”

From there on, Shiratorizawa played with ease.

Ushijima hammered another spike. Bishin clenched his fists tightly, sweat pouring down his face.

They’d already dropped three points—the gap was getting too big.

Gasping for breath, sweat blurring his vision, Bishin thought desperately:

If I don’t get this one up, what kind of libero am I supposed to be? This is an insult to a libero’s pride!

The ball was about to hit the floor. Bishin stopped thinking and sprinted after it, legs pumping so hard it felt like sparks might fly.

He dove full force near the spectator seats, arms stretched as far as they’d go, palms scraping the ground. The ball struck the back of his hand and shot high into the air.

“Cover!” Bishin yelled at the top of his lungs.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked this miserable—an ugly dive, a clumsy save, nothing graceful about it at all…

But he was happy. Truly happy.

He’d kept the ball alive again.

A ball that broke the stalemate.

A ball filled with hope.

Ezota rushed forward without even looking back, stabilizing the first pass.

“Please—Keisuke!”

Keisuke didn’t answer. The determination in his eyes said everything that needed to be said.

Wakatsu Kiryū clenched his teeth and unleashed another spike, only for it to be touched by Tendo and Ryosuke’s block, drastically sapping its power.

In the end, Ushijima forced it through with sheer brute strength and scored.

“Beep—”

The whistle blew. Mujinazaka turned their heads to see their coach standing beside the referee, calling for a timeout.

They filed off the court.

Yaku sat on the bench with his legs stretched out.

“Not bad. Mujinazaka’s libero—the ‘only-me’ arrogance he used to have is gone.”

Everyone understood what he meant.

Two years ago, Mujinazaka had been practically unbeatable. Even if they never said it out loud, that faint sense of pride—bordering on disdain—had been obvious to everyone watching.

Getting knocked down like this might actually be a good thing for them.

In Oita Prefecture, Mujinazaka stood head and shoulders above the rest, but in the eyes of teams accustomed to the national stage, they still weren’t quite enough.

Especially when Shiratorizawa was steadily improving.

Kuroo nodded in agreement.

“If Mujinazaka loses the second set, that’s basically it. Man… that’s rough.”

Fukunaga leaned against Kenma and reached over to mess with Kuroo’s hair.

“Fukunaga, stop pulling on Kuroo’s hair—you’ll make him bald,” Kenma said, prying his hand away.

“But yeah. That libero really popped off at the critical moment. At least he didn’t waste the match.”

He was responding to Kuroo’s earlier comment.

“Popping off” referred to a sudden breakthrough—something often seen in big tournaments, when a player’s performance exceeds their usual limits.

Kenma pulled out his game console and started tapping away again.

Michiko looked at the group of dispirited boys standing in front of her. She’d raised them all herself, and seeing them like this made her heart ache.

She placed both hands on Wakatsu Kiryū’s shoulders.

“Baldy, don’t be afraid. A loss is just a loss. Win it back next time. Get your mindset straight.”

She didn’t say much more.

In the past, she’d strongly disapproved of Coach Washijō’s training methods, feeling like he was drilling soldiers instead of teaching students.

Now she could see it clearly—the biggest difference between Mujinazaka and Shiratorizawa was mentality.

No amount of lecturing could ever compare to what the kids experienced for themselves.

When the second set began, everyone remembered Michiko’s words—but Wakatsu Kiryū’s agitation was obvious to the naked eye.

This block couldn’t be avoided or bypassed. Tendo and Ryosuke were like they’d installed tracking devices on the ball—wherever it went, they were already there.

Either the spike was stuffed, or it got touched.

And even if it was touched, Yamagata was waiting behind to pick it up, send it to Ushijima, and force a breakthrough for the point.

It was a perfectly sealed loop.

The second set ended with no suspense. Mujinazaka fell into complete silence.

Shiratorizawa didn’t feel much better. Reon couldn’t help feeling sorry for her old rivals.

Maybe the high-intensity training during this camp had pushed everyone to grow at an incredible pace—there was no longer any sense of being evenly matched.

Reon lifted the net and looked at Wakatsu Kiryū, who hadn’t smiled since the first set. Her feelings were complicated.

“Baldy… people can’t afford to stand still. Changing always means losing something.”

This time, Kiryū didn’t tell Reon not to call him Baldy. He nodded, his eyes steady.

“I know, Reon.”

Wakatsu Kiryū’s greatest strength was his willingness to listen.

It was the glory of the past that had trapped the once-relentless version of himself.

Shiratorizawa’s match came to an end. Nekoma and Fukurōdani, who had just been watching and chatting on the sidelines, were up next.

Bokuto jumped to his feet, brimming with excitement.

“Hey hey hey! Kuroo, you definitely won’t stop me this time!”

A routine declaration of war. Kuroo was already used to it.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He took his precious setter off to the side to warm up. Akaashi grabbed Bokuto, who still looked like he wanted to keep talking, and dragged him along.

“Bokuto-senpai, it’s time to warm up.”

Goshiki and Yunohama stood beside Ryosuke, chattering excitedly about the previous match, thrilled beyond words.

Over the past two days of practice matches, the two of them had barely gotten any court time. One reason was that their skills still needed polishing; another was that there were simply too many middle blockers and setters.

Ryosuke’s blocking and defense were key assets—of course he needed to be on the court.

Coach Washijō walked over slowly and stopped in front of the three, his expression stern.

“Goshiki Tsutomu.”

Goshiki snapped to attention.

“Here!”

Coach Washijō glanced at Yunohama and Ryosuke.

“In the upcoming matches, I’ll rotate you in. Take it seriously.”

Even the usually unflappable Yunohama felt his blood surge.

What volleyball players feared most were injuries—and spending their entire careers stuck on the bench.

Neither of them said it out loud, but seeing Ryosuke, who’d enrolled at the same time as them, already playing alongside the upperclassmen naturally made them anxious.

Washijō’s words were like a stabilizing shot, instantly calming both of them.

After speaking, the coach left. Hearing what he’d said, several others came over from nearby.

Kawanishi slung an arm around Yunohama’s neck.

“Alright! Next match, you’d better set for me, Yunohama! And you too, Goshiki—give it everything!”

Within the team, compared to Shirabu and Semi, Yunohama as a setter was simply comfortable to play with—just the right amount of passion paired with meticulous care. Kawanishi felt their styles fit together perfectly.

The two of them had never played in the same match before.

Reon came over to congratulate them as well. Ryosuke stood to the side, smiling as he watched everyone.

How should he put it?

It was just… wonderful.

Ryosuke was genuinely happy for his teammates and looked forward to the day they would fight side by side on the court.