The air in the gym felt heavier now. Every player could sense it — that strange, electric tension that comes when the balance shifts and the game starts playing out on the edge of instinct rather than strategy.
Akira bounced the ball twice. Not fast, not showy — but each bounce echoed in the stillness before the serve. The Karasuno fans were leaning forward; the Nekoma fans were fidgeting, muttering under their breath.
The serve was a missile again, but this time Yaku got it up — barely. His arms shook from the force, but he held steady. Kenma sprinted to set, masking his target until the very last second. Fukunaga went up — and Tanaka's hands met him in the air. The block landed clean. Karasuno finally had the lead.
Akira's smile widened.
The next serve was no less vicious, but Nekoma had adjusted. Inouka dug, Kenma set quick to Kai, and Kai tipped it just over Tsukishima's fingertips. The ball dropped, and Nekoma's bench erupted, slamming their palms on the court.
11–12, Nekoma's serve.
Kai's float serve came low and spinning, and Nishinoya had to dive sideways to save it. "Got it!" he barked, popping the ball high to Kageyama. Kageyama didn't even glance at Hinata — he went straight to Akira.
The set was high, almost lazy-looking, but the spike was anything but. Akira came in late, almost too late, forcing the ball crosscourt through the smallest gap between Kuroo and Kai's block. It landed on the sideline with a crisp thunk.
The referee barely had time to signal before the crowd's roar swallowed the whistle.
Kuroo jogged back, smirking at Akira. "You've got good aim for a demon."
Akira's reply was quiet, almost friendly: "I wasn't aiming."
The next rally started with Hinata's speed, but Nekoma had been watching. Kenma had Kai cheat half a step inside, and the block swallowed the quick completely. The rebound shot past Kageyama before he could react. Nekoma reclaimed the lead.
The rallies started getting longer. Balls were being saved inches from the floor, blockers were reading each other two moves ahead. Every point felt like it took minutes, both teams trading blows like boxers in the final round.
Oikawa in the stands leaned toward Matsukawa from Aoba Johsai. "See that? He's not just swinging anymore — he's reading Kuroo now. This is when he's dangerous."
By 18–18, the crowd was no longer cheering politely between points. They were yelling during the rallies — gasps when Nishinoya flew past the net to save a ball, groans when Kenma dropped a perfect set from a full sprint, shrieks when Hinata managed a midair twist to slam a quick.
Then came the moment Nekoma thought they had him.
Kenma baited a free ball from Tanaka, set to Kuroo, and Kuroo hit a heavy spike right at Akira's zone. It was the perfect trap — spike hard enough to force a messy dig, then clean up the point.
Akira didn't dig it. He caught it in a controlled pancake, the ball rebounding perfectly to Kageyama's hands. And without a beat of hesitation, Kageyama sent it back to him.
The jump was higher than it should've been this late in the set. The ball was hit harder than a ball should've been hit at that angle. It tore through the triple block like paper and slammed into the court, bouncing high into the stands.
Demon mode had arrived again.
The next few rallies were chaos — not because Karasuno lost control, but because the pace Akira set pulled everyone along with him. Hinata's quicks turned sharper, Tsukishima started reading Kenma faster, even Tanaka was hitting like his life depended on it.
Nekoma didn't back down. Yaku was everywhere, Kenma was threading impossible sets, and Kuroo was blocking Hinata with a grin that said he was enjoying every second of the fight.
The score crept up. 20–20. 21–21.
By now, both benches were on their feet. The alumni from both schools were shouting like they were back in their jerseys. The managers exchanged wide-eyed looks every time the ball changed hands.
Kenma sent a sneaky dump over the net for 22–21 Nekoma. The Nekoma fans roared. Akira stepped back to serve for 22–22.
The serve knifed the air, kissed the top of the tape, and dropped dead just over. Yaku lunged but couldn't get there. Karasuno's side erupted, but Akira's eyes didn't soften.
Oikawa was standing now, arms folded. "That's game face. They don't come back from that."
23–22 Karasuno.
Nekoma fought for the next point with a long rally — saves, digs, blocks, resets — until Kuroo stuffed Tsukishima for 23–23. The crowd was losing its mind.
Kageyama set to Hinata for the match point attempt. Nekoma read it, triple blocked. The rebound went back to Kageyama, who — without even looking — shot a quick to Akira at the opposite pin.
Akira's last spike wasn't the hardest, but it was the cruelest. Sharp cross, barely kissing the line. The whistle blew. 24–23.
The final rally was a blur — Yaku's desperate dig, Kenma's perfect set to Kai, Tanaka's one-man block, Nishinoya's save, Kageyama's set… and Akira, airborne one last time, smashing it straight down through Kuroo's hands.
The scoreboard flashed 25–23. The gym exploded.
Akira exhaled slowly, the demon's fire fading back into calm blue. Kenma, catching his breath across the net, was still staring — not with frustration, but with something new. Interest.
On both benches, the coaches exchanged the kind of look that only meant one thing: this was just the beginning.