Karasuno struck first. After shutting down the Mad Dog's attack, they became the first to hit double digits.
"I'll take that point back," Oikawa muttered as he tossed the next ball. He set Kyotani again, this time aiming him at Tsukishima.
But Tsukishima had read him perfectly. He sealed the line, absorbed the spike, and turned it into another block point.
"Nice one, Tsukki!" Hayato grinned, smacking Tsukishima's back. "That was cool and steady!"
Tsukishima flexed his fingers, his palm stinging red. "Thanks… but man, that spike stings."
Hayato leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "Are you hurt? Don't push through if it's serious—we need you."
Tsukishima blinked at him, baffled. "Eh? It's just volleyball. Getting your hands red is normal. Why are you overreacting?"
But Hayato wasn't worried about normal. His chest tightened with thoughts of world-line corrections. Daichi's injury had been avoided, but what if fate shifted its target to someone else? He couldn't let that happen.
Hayato checked Tsukishima's palm carefully before finally relaxing—just surface redness. No injury.
Meanwhile, Kyotani's stubborn style betrayed him. Tsukishima adjusted his blocking position, baited him into the line again, and forced two straight errors.
Expose a weakness, and the other side will devour it.
Seijoh's coach saw enough. Timeout.
"Kyotani, if you want to stay on this court, calm down." His voice was hard.
Kyotani stood, sweat dripping freely down his chin. "Yes," he answered, but his flat tone betrayed no reflection.
Both teams had exhausted their tactics. It was down to skill and composure. If Kyotani couldn't stabilize, he'd have to be pulled. But Seijoh didn't have another attacker of his caliber. Unlike Karasuno, who had two Aces, removing Kyotani could tip the scales.
The timeout ended. Play resumed.
"That Seijoh #16 looks… off." Koyuki tugged her ponytail nervously in the stands.
"Koyuki-chan thinks so too?" Saeko asked.
Even as novices, they could see it—Kyotani's movements weren't steady. The Neighborhood Association members behind them explained: "He's too hot-headed. Same thing Hayato fell into during the first set when he tried to out-muscle him."
On court, Oikawa adjusted. He set to Iwaizumi in the back row instead. BOOM—point reclaimed.
But the next rally unraveled. A miscommunication between Oikawa and Kyotani. The libero tried to settle him with a pat on the shoulder. Kyotani shrugged him off violently.
There was no choice. Kyotani was subbed out. First-year Kunimi trotted in.
The Mad Dog walked silently to the bench. Yahaba, the flashy second-year who had teased him before the match, leaned over.
"No way out now. Pull yourself together."
"Shut up. Don't care what you say." Kyotani snapped, his usual prickly wall rising.
Matsukawa, the spiky-haired third-year, patted Yahaba's shoulder as he rotated in. "Don't blame him."
"…Sorry, senpai," Yahaba muttered under his breath. But I don't think I can let it go.
He turned back to Kyotani. "Getting hot-headed and outsmarted? Pathetic."
Kyotani's eyes flashed, sharp as fangs. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. You came back out of nowhere, got handed a spot, and people are supposed to just accept it? Some of us don't. Like me." Yahaba's voice dropped, harder now. "But the seniors put their trust in you. And your skills are real. You've shown that since coming back."
Kyotani stilled. His anger faltered.
"Act like you deserve that spot," Yahaba pressed. He stepped forward, grabbed Kyotani by the collar, and slammed him back against the wall. "If you dare tarnish the seniors' last stage—I won't forgive you."
Kyotani stared at him, stunned. "…I thought you were just some frivolous idiot."
"That's true." Yahaba's grin was sharp, but his eyes burned. "But even I respect my seniors. On court, every point—won or lost—belongs to the team. So I'm begging you. Play for them. Contribute."
Kyotani's thoughts reeled. Since middle school, teammates had never felt like teammates. His so-called team had no unity, no bonds. In high school, it was the same—until Oikawa and Iwaizumi took the reins. Even then, he had always stayed distant, a lone wolf.
But Yahaba's shove, his words—they struck deeper than Kyotani expected.
As the match raged on, he sat quietly, watching his teammates struggle. For the first time, he began to wonder what it meant to fight for the team.
On court, Oikawa steadied Seijoh with a set that Kunimi turned into a soft dump. But Kageyama read it—he knew Kunimi too well. Hayato dug the ball, Azumane finished the counter.
12–10. Karasuno's serve.
And at that moment, Kyotani stood. Number card in hand. Ready to return.
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