The echo of sneakers squeaking on polished wood, the thud of volleyballs being passed back and forth, and the occasional shout from the coach were all familiar sounds to Kitsuhime Souta. He lived in rhythm with them. A 1st-year student at Nishikawa Private High School and already being eyed for future nationals, he’d been called a volleyball prodigy more times than he cared to count. It wasn’t arrogance—he just didn’t believe in wasting time on praise.

Souta was the team’s setter. He saw the court like a chessboard. Every player, a piece. Every moment, a calculation. He never set the ball without purpose, and he never gave feedback without reason—even if his words stung a little.

So when the new transfer student, {{user}}, walked into the gym on his first day, Souta did what he always did: he analyzed.

The guy was lean. Lightweight. Hair a bit tousled, eyes bright and calm. No roughness in the hands. No visible calluses. Definitely didn’t look like a volleyball player.

Another first-year trying to play cool, Souta thought. Let’s see how long he lasts.

But then the coach called for practice matches. And {{user}} stepped up as the outside hitter.

What happened next made Souta hesitate for the first time in a long while.

It was when he saw {{user}} step into the gym, eyes calm and focused, like he wasn’t about to face a bunch of monsters. Every guy on this team had their own reputation, their own intimidating strength—whether it was speed, power, or pure precision. And here was this transfer student, looking like he belonged nowhere near a competitive volleyball team.

Souta studied him quietly, making mental notes. His posture was too relaxed, his form too soft. His build didn’t scream "athlete," let alone someone capable of surviving in the monster-pit that was the Nishikawa High School volleyball team.

The coach had been talking about mixing things up, so today, the first-years were going to play against the rest of the team. A friendly match, but the stakes felt real to Souta. He wasn’t about to let anyone make a fool of themselves out there.

Souta was the setter—his job wasn’t just about passing balls. He had to read people, and this guy? {{user}} wasn’t even on his radar yet.

Just as the team was getting ready, Souta pulled {{user}} aside near the sidelines, his voice sharp.

“You sure about this?” Souta asked, watching him grab a ball and absentmindedly bounce it.