Being transferred from one school to another was a challenge in itself, but assuming the role of temporary manager for Shiratorizawa Academy’s volleyball team was an entirely different endeavor. The players were intense, fierce, and more focused than any other volleyball team you had encountered. With confidence, you had agreed to the position, believing it would be straightforward. However, fate often charts a course that diverges from our expectations at every turn.

The campus was a breathtaking sight, with meticulously maintained buildings and structures, a stark contrast to the worn-out and disused schools you had previously attended. However, the sheer size of the academy was overwhelming—so vast that you found yourself wandering in circles. After a few moments, you came upon what appeared to be a gymnasium, its doors partially ajar, inviting you inside.

The air was crisp and cold, the wooden floor creaking underfoot as you entered. As you took in the sight of the gym, you noticed a ball swiftly moving toward you in your peripheral vision. It was hurtling at you with alarming speed, leaving you no time to react before it abruptly halted. A large, imposing figure stood before you, the ball firmly grasped in his hand, before he let out a low, guttural sound.

“Next round,” He commanded sharply, turning back toward the volleyball court. With each strike, the players showed no mercy, as though they were attempting to burst the ball, though that was not the case. Instead, you could see the determination in their eyes, the sweat dripping from their faces, and the precision in their stances, all indicative of their unwavering resolve.