The air in Miyagi's prefectural gym was alive long before the whistle. From the moment the double-doors slid open, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the freshly polished court echoed like a call to arms. The overhead lights beamed down in perfect, harsh white, making the floor gleam like a battlefield waiting for the first step to be taken. The banners of both schools—Karasuno's bold "Fly" and Nekoma's proud crimson cat—hung opposite each other, two old rivals watching silently from above.
The crowd swelled steadily, the bleachers filling with a mix of students, parents, alumni, and a sprinkling of curious neutral fans who had heard the whispers: Karasuno is back. Nekoma is still standing strong. This isn't just a practice match—it's the revival of the legendary Battle at the Trash Heap.
Up in the stands, a small section was already rowdy—second and third years from Karasuno's class cheering loudly even though the players were just jogging their warm-up laps. Tanaka spotted them and grinned, throwing a mock salute. "Our royal fan club is in full attendance," he muttered to Nishinoya.
"Yeah, shame the city boys can't make noise like that," Nishinoya smirked, nodding toward Nekoma's more reserved supporters, who were clapping in time rather than yelling.
"Hey now," came a low chuckle. It was Kuroo, standing near the sideline as Nekoma warmed up. "We city boys prefer to let our volleyball do the talking." His grin was all teeth.
"Yeah?" Tanaka shot back instantly. "Better be ready to shout real loud when we're done with you."
From behind them, Tsukishima leaned on his knees, bored as ever. "Amazing. You've managed to make pre-match trash talk sound like a bad sitcom."
Aya, sitting on the bench with her clipboard, smirked. "Don't worry, Kei, Tanaka's been practicing all week. He's almost fluent in Bad Sitcom now."
Across the net, Nekoma's own manager, Yaku, and a few assistant coaches chatted while keeping one eye on their players. The Nekoma assistant coach—an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp memory—glanced toward Coach Ukai with a faint smile. "Feels like the old days," he said.
Ukai grunted, rolling his shoulder. "Yeah… but this isn't the same Karasuno you used to play against."
The assistant's eyes wandered briefly to the silver-haired, blue-eyed first-year jogging lazily behind Daichi. Akira moved with a deceptively slow rhythm, a little apart from the others, as if the warm-up was just an idle walk in the park. And yet… even from here, there was something in the way his gaze swept the court—calculating, unhurried—that made the man's brow furrow.
"You've got a dangerous one," the assistant murmured.
Ukai didn't deny it.
The alumni were trickling in now—old Karasuno players who had worn the black jersey before the team's slump. Nishinoya waved when he spotted one of his seniors from years back. Oikawa, leaning casually in the aisle with Iwaizumi beside him, scanned the court. He didn't shout or wave, but his eyes paused on Akira for just a moment, the faintest curve of amusement in his lips.
"That kid," Oikawa said. "He's the one, isn't he?"
Iwaizumi didn't answer—because on the court, Akira had just stopped jogging, tilted his head back slightly, and for one fleeting second the light caught in his silver hair and blue eyes so sharply that the gym seemed to hush.
Holy aura, Oikawa thought, recalling something Nishinoya had mentioned in passing. So that's what they meant.
Hinata and Kageyama were running through quick sets on their half of the court, drawing curious glances from Nekoma's defense specialists. Kenma watched from behind Kuroo, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. He had met Hinata and Akira only recently, in a far quieter setting, but the contrast was almost comical—Hinata bouncing on his toes like a spring, Akira stretching lazily like a cat.
Yaku muttered to Kuroo, "That number eleven first-year—he's not moving much in warm-up."
"That's because he's probably already dissecting our entire defense in his head," Kuroo replied.
Aya caught Kenma looking at Akira and smiled knowingly. "Better get used to that expression. Everyone who sees him play for the first time gets that face."
Kenma shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave Akira.
The referee's whistle pierced the hum of conversation. Both teams lined up at the net for the formal greeting. The managers stood at the edge, clipboards ready. The crowd's noise swelled to a low roar, echoing off the gym walls.
Ukai and Nekoma's head coach stepped forward, exchanging a handshake and a brief smile—more tension than warmth in it.
"Let's give them a match worth remembering," the Nekoma coach said.
Ukai's eyes narrowed just a little. "We're only just getting started."
And in that instant—before the ball was even tossed—there was the shared, unspoken understanding: the era of Karasuno's rise had just begun.
The gym was already a roar before the match even started, the sound rolling across the hardwood like waves crashing on the shore. Banners fluttered from the rafters—Karasuno's black and orange, Nekoma's crimson—and each side's cheering section was already trying to outshout the other. The court gleamed under the lights, a perfect stage for the match everyone in Miyagi had been talking about for days.
Akira stood near the edge of the warm-up area, silver hair catching the light, blue eyes lazily scanning the stands like he had all the time in the world. To anyone else he looked completely relaxed—borderline bored—but there was a faint undercurrent in the way his gaze tracked players, like a predator measuring the distance to its prey. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to Nekoma's captain, Kuroo Tetsurou, who was smirking mid-stretch, and to Kenma, who was already crouched in the corner of their court fiddling with the ball as if he'd rather be anywhere else.
Coach Ukai leaned on the scorer's table, eyes narrowing as he took in Nekoma's organized warm-up. "Looks just like the old days…" he muttered, half to himself. "Those cats haven't lost their knack for reading the game."
Beside him, Nekoma's assistant coach, Naoi, gave a chuckle. "And your crows still have that chaotic energy. The kind you can't quite predict… but that's what makes it dangerous." His gaze wandered toward Daichi, Nishinoya, and especially Akira. "That one's new. He wasn't in the footage we studied."
Ukai smirked faintly. "Yeah… you'll see soon enough."
Up in the stands, a small group of Aoba Johsai players had snagged prime seats. Iwaizumi leaned forward on the railing, scanning the court. "So this is the Nekoma–Karasuno hype match, huh? Kinda weird not seeing Oikawa in the middle of it."
Matsukawa nudged him. "Bet Oikawa's just mad we didn't get a chance to crush both of them before they met."
From behind them, Kyoutani just grunted, eyes locked on Akira as if trying to figure out what the kid was about. "Silver hair. Huh. Thinks he's cool."
Meanwhile, Tanaka had already found a victim—or perhaps a sparring partner—in Lev Haiba. The two of them were already talking smack across the net as they stretched.
"City boys don't stand a chance against country grit!" Tanaka bellowed.
Lev grinned, not missing a beat. "Country grit? You mean you guys still play with dirt courts or something?"
Kageyama, deadpan as ever, muttered, "We have indoor courts."
"Shut up, Kageyama," Tanaka snapped, still trying to one-up Lev's grin.
Off to the side, Nekoma's libero Yaku finally noticed Karasuno's two female managers—Aya and Kiyoko—passing water bottles to the players. He blinked twice, then leaned toward Kenma.
"…We don't have that level of… team spirit."
Kenma, without looking up from his phone, replied, "Maybe if you stopped scaring people off."
Aya caught Yaku staring and gave him a polite nod. Yaku, flustered, looked away quickly, muttering something about "focus on the game" while his ears burned red.
Akira noticed it all—the way Nekoma's players moved in sync even when just jogging to fetch balls, the way Kenma barely looked up during stretches but was already mapping the court with his peripheral vision, the way Kuroo's smirk didn't fade even when he made mistakes in warm-up. He filed it away quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a man waiting for a train.
Hinata bounded over, almost vibrating with energy. "This is it, Akira! The Cats vs. the Crows! The match everyone says is gonna be the biggest test for us so far!"
Akira tilted his head lazily. "Mmm. I just wanna see if their defense is as good as people say. Or if it's all hype."
Kageyama, overhearing, frowned. "Their defense is good. Kenma reads hitters like… like—" He paused, searching for a word.
"Like he's cheating," Akira finished for him, smirking faintly. "Yeah. I can tell."
On Nekoma's side, Kenma finally put his phone away and glanced up, eyes flicking toward Hinata—who was practically bouncing in place—and then toward Akira, who was leaning on the net post, arms folded. For a moment, Kenma's expression changed, ever so slightly. Interest. Like a gamer recognizing another player worth logging in for.
The referees signaled the end of warm-ups. The roar of the crowd swelled instantly, chants of "KARASUNO!" clashing against "NEKOMA!" like a battle drum. Alumni from both schools—old faces who had fought in previous Crows vs. Cats matches—were on their feet. The air felt heavy, but charged, like the pause before a thunderclap.
Ukai clapped his hands once, sharp. "Alright. This is it. Keep your heads, play your game."
Across the court, Coach Nekomata chuckled low to his team. "Don't underestimate the new blood… but don't get too caught up in their tricks. Read them, and the game will open up."
The players took their places. Akira adjusted his elbow pad, still wearing that calm, almost lazy smile, but inside, something was beginning to hum—like the faint whine of an engine before it roars to life.
The whistle blew.