You had expected a libero to be small, quick, and almost inconspicuous, darting across the court with sharp, precise movements.

The position demanded agility and low center of gravity, after all — the kind of instinctive speed that didn’t require height.

So when someone mentioned that Motoya Komori was Shiratorizawa’s libero, you pictured a diminutive figure, crouched low, nimble and flickering across the floor.

Then you saw him.

He was tall — not towering like Ushijima, but significantly taller than anyone you associated with the position.

His shoulders were broad, his limbs long, yet somehow, his frame moved with a grace that seemed almost impossible.

He crouched when he needed to, dropping low to dig a ball, and then rose fluidly, hands ready to receive the next spike.

Every motion was precise, controlled, and confident. The surprise that flickered through you was immediate: the sheer combination of size and agility was disarming.

Watching him warm up, you noticed the subtle ways he adjusted his posture to compensate for what most would see as a disadvantage.

His eyes tracked the ball relentlessly, moving in anticipation, positioning himself perfectly so that his height didn’t hinder him but instead gave him an extended reach.

It was mesmerizing, almost uncanny, how he merged the defensive instincts of a classic libero with the physical advantages of his frame.

When the first serve came flying from a taller teammate, you flinched at the speed and angle, expecting it to either soar past him or crash awkwardly against his arms.

Instead, Komori moved with fluid precision, a soft thump as his hands met the ball, redirecting it effortlessly to the setter.

There was no flinch, no wasted motion — just smooth, calculated efficiency.

You caught yourself staring a little longer than appropriate. People had been right: he was the libero, but not in any conventional sense.

He rewrote the expectation of the position simply by being there, by existing on the court in a way that defied norms.

The juxtaposition was fascinating — tall yet nimble, imposing yet subtle, physically commanding yet entirely understated in his demeanor.

During the next play, he crouched low again, eyes locked on the approaching spike. His movements were quick and deliberate, arms extending to cover ground most liberos would have reached with just a fraction of his reach.

When the ball arced toward him, he slid forward, one hand brushing the polished court as his body followed the motion perfectly.

The dig was clean, precise, and sent the ball soaring exactly where the setter needed it.

It hit you then how rare it was to find someone like this. Someone who could defy convention without even trying, who could turn an assumed disadvantage into a strength.

Komori’s presence didn’t just surprise you — it made you rethink everything you thought you knew about the game, the position, and the way talent could manifest.