The gym smelled of sweat and polished wood.
Arata had never felt nervous before. Not like this. Not since the day he held the worn volleyball in his small room and promised himself he would rise higher than anyone.
He tightened his grip on the ball. He felt its familiar weight. Around him, other kids, shorter and taller, all of them buzzing with excitement, were stretching, chatting, and warming up. The volleyball club coach, a lean man with piercing eyes and a clipboard, scanned the room like a hawk.
"Alright first-years," the coach barked. "Lets see what you have got."
The words should have made him anxious. But they did not.
Because he knew.
He had trained alone for months. Every toss, every spike, every jump, he had perfected them all. What these kids saw as talent was just a shadow of what he carried in his hands.
The first drill was simple. Serves. One by one, the students stepped up. The ball arched neatly over the net, landing where the coach pointed. Most were fine. Some hit the net. A few sent the ball careening out of bounds.
When it was his turn, Arata walked to the line with quiet confidence. The gym seemed to still.
He tossed the ball into the air. His hand met it perfectly. The motion was fluid. Almost effortless. The ball soared high, spinning with precision, and landed exactly where the coach had marked.
A pause.
Then murmurs.
The coach raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Not bad."
That alone would have been enough for any other kid to feel accomplished. But Arata was not satisfied. Not yet.
Next came spikes.
He watched the setter, a timid first-year, toss the ball upward. The gym felt slow. Everything moved in slow motion. He jumped, reaching higher than anyone else had that day. The spike left his hand and smashed into the opposite court with a thundering crash.
Heads turned. Whispers floated. Who is that.
Again and again. Each spike, each movement, displayed a level of control, power, and instinct that the coach had not seen in years from someone this young.
Finally, the coach leaned forward, gripping his clipboard tightly. His voice was calm, but there was an edge. "Stop. Who are you."
Arata smiled faintly. "I am just someone who wants to play."
"Someone who wants to play huh." The coach's eyes narrowed. He scribbled something on his clipboard. "You have got potential. Freakish potential. You will be joining the team."
The words felt surreal. Already.
But Arata did not let himself revel in it. Not yet.
Because he knew this was only the beginning.
This was his first step toward becoming the Ace of Japan.
And he would climb every rung. Leap over every obstacle. Until no one, not Hinata, not Kageyama, not anyone in this world, could surpass him.
The gym echoed with the sound of balls being tossed and spiked.
But he could hear only one thing. The rhythm of his heartbeat.
The rhythm of the game he would live for.
And with that, he began his journey.