"Kazuki, you're still here?
Coach is about to lock up the gym!"
Hikaru's voice, the team's main middle blocker, echoed off the damp gymnasium walls.
The volleyball, which had just bounced softly from Kazuki's practiced receive, rolled listlessly at his feet. Sweat plastered his slightly oversized jersey to his back, an uncomfortable second skin. It was past seven in the evening, long after official practice had ended, but for Kazuki Shōra, these were the crucial hours. These were the hours he could practice without the condescending stares, without the cynical whispers that always accompanied the '0' on his jersey—a number that wasn't just an identifier, but a brand.
"Just want to get a few more receives in, Hikaru," Kazuki replied quietly, his voice barely a whisper, swallowed by the cavernous echoes of the bouncing ball. He picked it up, feeling its familiar weight in his palm.
"More receives? What for? You never make it into the line-up, Kazuki," Kaito, the team's setter, chimed in, his tone as chillingly dismissive as the gym floor itself. Kaito leaned against the net post, his phone screen glowing brightly in his hand, as if Kazuki's extra practice was nothing more than a tedious spectacle. "You'd be more useful helping to pack away the equipment, honestly."
Kazuki felt a dull ache in his chest. Not a physical ache from a spike or a fall, but an ache he knew intimately—the ache of being belittled, sidelined, ignored. For nearly two years, he had been a member of the Ikaruga Daini High School volleyball team, yet the bench had never felt cold to him. He was always there, warming it, watching his teammates play, struggle, and, more often than not, lose.
Ikaruga Daini High was far from a powerhouse team. In every regional tournament they entered, they were consistently eliminated in the early rounds, sometimes without much of a fight. Defeat had become an inherent part of the team's identity, just as Kazuki had become an inseparable part of the bench. Yet, somehow, those losses felt even more painful to Kazuki, who could only watch, hope, and never once be given the chance to try and change their fate.
"You know, Kazuki," Hikaru continued, now joining Kaito by the net, his voice shifting to a slightly pitying tone, which, inexplicably, stung more than outright mockery. "Coach... he has his own standards. He tends to prioritize 'legacy' players. Sons of alumni, or those who already made a name for themselves in junior high."
Kazuki lowered his gaze, his eyes fixed on his blurred reflection on the gleaming wooden floor of the gym. He knew it. He often overheard the whispers behind his back. Coach Tanaka was indeed known for his tendency to select players based on connections or reputation, rather than pure on-court skill. Kazuki, with his unremarkable background, hailing from a small town called Ikaruga on the outskirts of Osaka, was merely a question mark in the coach's eyes.
A brief flashback flickered through his mind. The moment had occurred six months ago when he had dared to approach Coach Tanaka after practice. He had been training relentlessly, feeling his receives grow steadier, his serves sharper. "Coach," he had said then, his voice laced with a desperate hope he tried to conceal, "could I possibly get a chance in the main line-up? I feel ready."
Coach Tanaka had glanced at him briefly, his eyes scanning the '0' on Kazuki's jersey. "Kazuki," the coach had replied in a flat tone, his words devoid of warmth, "you're diligent. I'll give you that. But… there's something missing in you. An aura. You don't have the aura of a main player." The words had pierced him, sharper than any needle. 'Lacked aura.' How could one train 'aura'? It wasn't a skill on a stat sheet, not something quantifiable. Since that day, Kazuki had retreated further into his solitary practices, desperately trying to find that invisible 'aura' in every bounce of the ball, every slam against the wall, every jump until his muscles screamed.
Despite knowing the bitter truth, Kazuki never missed his after-school solo training sessions. After everyone else had left, after the gym was empty and silent, that was where he found his freedom. He served against the peeling paint of the wall, jumped repeatedly until his legs ached, practiced receives from balls he tossed himself into the air. He was never given a chance, but he never stopped training. A painful irony.
"Look, Kazuki," Kaito's voice broke through his reverie. "Next week, this gym is going to be demolished. They say they're turning it into a futsal court. So, this is your last night here. You should just go home, get some rest."
Kazuki lifted his head, gazing around the old gym. Dust motes danced in the dim light, cobwebs hung in the corners, and the musty smell of decaying wood filled the air. This gym was the silent witness to every drop of his sweat, every ounce of his frustration, and every unspoken hope. It was the place where he could escape the label of "Number 0" that spectators always shouted from the stands—"Number 0 is here again!"—a taunt that felt like an indelible stigma.
"Well, good night, benchwarmer," Hikaru said, patting Kazuki's shoulder with an unreadable expression, before turning with Kaito towards the door. The sound of their footsteps faded down the corridor, and then the gym door creaked shut, leaving Kazuki in a familiar, enveloping silence.
Alone. Again.
Kaito and Hikaru's words, especially about the gym being torn down, swirled in his head. "Last night…" Kazuki looked at the ball in his hands, then at the net that stood firm despite its worn posts. A decision formed in his mind. If this was truly his last night here, in his quiet sanctuary, he would make the most of it. He would train. Until his body collapsed. Until he had no strength left. Maybe, just maybe, on this last night, something would change. Or at least, he could leave with a little less regret.
"Yes," Kazuki murmured to himself, his voice firmer than usual. "My last night here. I'll spend it training."
He placed the ball down, picked up a jump rope, and began to jump. One, two, three… the rhythm filled the silence, his heart pounding, eroding the pain from the words he had just heard. Tonight, he would train as if his life depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.
He focused on the rhythmic thump-thump of the rope against the worn wooden floor, a steady beat accompanying his racing heart. Each jump was a small defiance against the apathy of his coach, the mockery of his teammates, and the crushing weight of his own self-doubt. He pushed his body, faster and faster, until the air thickened around him, his lungs burned, and sweat poured down his face, blurring his vision. He wasn't just jumping; he was leaping away from the shadows of his past failures, hoping to ascend into a future where he wasn't defined by a number that signified nothing.
The gym itself seemed to breathe with him, exhaling years of stale air and forgotten glory. The faint scent of old leather and dust motes danced in the lone, flickering fluorescent light that hung precariously from the ceiling. He remembered countless evenings spent here, long after the main team had left, long after the boisterous laughter and sharp commands of the coach had faded. This place, rundown and neglected, was his haven, his secret training ground. Here, he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to face the judging eyes. He could just be.
He moved from jump rope to drills. He tossed the volleyball against the highest point of the wall, imagining it as the perfect set, then leaped, extending his arm to spike it back. Thwack! The sound echoed, stark and powerful in the emptiness. He repeated the motion, again and again, his muscles protesting, but his will unyielding. He envisioned himself airborne, hanging in the air, the ball perfectly positioned, the opposing blockers scrambling in vain. He pictured the roar of the crowd—not the mocking jeers, but a cheer for him.
Then came the receives. He stood in the center of the court, throwing the ball high, letting it drop, then adjusting his stance, forearms forming a solid platform, meeting the ball with a soft thump that sent it arcing perfectly back to his imaginary setter. He focused on the minute details: the angle of his forearms, the slight bend in his knees, the way his body moved fluidly to absorb the impact. He wasn't just catching a ball; he was perfecting a symphony of motion, a dance of precision.
"You lack aura," Coach Tanaka's words replayed in his mind, a constant, nagging refrain. Kazuki scoffed. What was aura, anyway? Was it the loud shouts of his teammates? The aggressive, fiery expressions they wore on the court? If so, then he probably didn't have it. He was quiet, introspective, focused. He analyzed opponents, anticipated plays, preferred precision over raw power. Perhaps his 'aura' was simply different, unseen by those who only looked for flash and aggression. But in a team that consistently lost, wasn't a different approach worth trying?
He remembered the endless string of defeats in the regional Volleyball Ladder League. Their school, Ikaruga Daini Kōkō, was stuck at the bottom, a perpetual underdog. Every match was a testament to their mediocrity, a cycle of frustration and resignation. He'd seen the despair in his teammates' eyes, the thinly veiled anger of Coach Tanaka, but he had never been given the chance to contribute, to offer the calm, analytical play he believed he could bring.
He dropped to the floor, transitioning to push-ups. One after another, his arms burning, his core screaming. He counted them, each repetition a small victory against the pain, against his own doubts. He pushed his limits, knowing that every single repetition, every drop of sweat, every strained muscle fiber, was a step towards becoming something more than "Number 0." He imagined the system supporting the national student athletes, the one that supposedly detected talent from a young age. Why had it never detected him? Was he truly so unremarkable?
The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of exertion and old wood. The gym had long since fallen silent outside the sounds of his breathing and the occasional bounce of the ball. He was utterly alone, yet in this solitude, he felt a strange sense of companionship with his own aspirations. There was no one to impress, no one to disappoint, only himself and the relentless pursuit of improvement.
He performed a series of agility drills, shuffling quickly between imaginary cones, practicing quick changes of direction. He moved like a shadow, light on his feet, his mind sharp, anticipating the next move. This was his strength, his quiet power – his ability to read the game, to predict, to react with subtle precision rather than explosive force. This was the 'aura' he was cultivating, an internal one, unseen by the casual observer, but potent nonetheless.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearing nine o'clock. He'd been at it for nearly two hours since Hikaru and Kaito left. His body ached, a deep, satisfying ache that spoke of effort expended, limits pushed. He dragged himself to the dusty, worn-out bench where he usually dropped his bag. He slumped down, his chest heaving, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
The thought of the gym being demolished gnawed at him. This place, with its chipped paint and ghostly echoes, had been his sanctuary. Where would he go to escape, to truly train without judgment? The school's main gym was always too crowded, too public, too filled with the silent accusations of his teammates' dismissive glances.
He closed his eyes, replaying the day's conversation. "Number 0." The insult still stung, a sharp jab at his self-worth. He had always been the invisible one, the last choice, the one who filled out the roster but never the court. His dream, to become the first ace server from Kansai to break into the Japanese National Team, felt impossibly distant, a cruel mirage.
But then, a flicker of defiance ignited within him. No. He wouldn't give up. Not now, not ever. Even if this gym, his sanctuary, was to be torn down, his resolve wouldn't be. He would find another place, another way. He would keep training, keep pushing, until that unseen 'aura' became undeniably visible. He would prove them all wrong. He would become a main player. He would become an ace server.
He slowly stood up, his legs trembling slightly from exertion. He walked to the center of the court, picked up the stray volleyball, and held it. The worn leather felt cool against his clammy palm. He gazed up at the high ceiling, then around the empty space one last time.
"Tonight is it, then," he whispered into the silence, his voice hoarse but determined. "My last night here."
He decided to end his session with a final, perfect serve. He took a deep breath, tossed the ball high, and leaped, focusing all his remaining energy into the contact. Thwack! The ball flew, straight and true, hitting the very center of the far wall with a resounding smack. It was a perfect serve, a testament to his dedication, a silent promise to himself.
He watched the ball bounce twice, then roll to a stop near the wall. As his feet hit the ground, his body, finally, gave out. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the dusty wooden floor, exhausted but strangely content. His muscles screamed in protest, every fiber burning, but a sense of profound satisfaction washed over him. He lay there, spread-eagled, staring up at the dim, flickering light, listening to the labored rhythm of his own breathing.
Then, just as his vision began to blur from fatigue, a faint, ethereal glow emanated from directly in front of his face. A transparent blue screen materialized out of thin air, shimmering softly. Strange, unfamiliar characters, almost like ancient calligraphy but digital, flickered across its surface.
"VolleyGod System detected."