The swimming pool. Late summer, high sun.
Light fractured across the water's surface, scattering into a million dancing shards. The air was thick with chlorine and sunscreen, with the bright, metallic tang of summer compressed into its final day. Laughter echoed off tile and concrete, punctuated by the sharp reports of cannonballs and the rhythmic splash of laps.
The students emerged from the changing rooms like actors taking the stage.
Kushida Kikyo moved with the unconscious confidence of someone accustomed to attention. Her swimsuit was chosen with care—not ostentatious, but perfectly fitted, accentuating curves that drew eyes despite her practiced modesty. Whispers trailed in her wake, a mixture of admiration and envy.
Ichinose Honami's selection was brighter, bolder—a design that captured her essence in fabric, equal parts cheerful and charming. She glowed with the same warmth she always carried, and the glances she received were warmer in kind.
Sakura Airi had encased herself in a full-body wetsuit, conservative to the point of invisibility. She moved at the edges of the group, seeking shadows even in this sun-drenched space.
Horikita Suzune's white swimsuit was an exercise in elegant minimalism. Against her pale skin, it created an effect of pristine coolness—a glacier drifting through tropical waters. She was aware of the glances but declined to acknowledge them.
The boys, liberated from uniforms, had already descended into their natural state of roughhousing and competitive splashing. Their eyes, however, repeatedly strayed to the more scenic elements of the poolscape.
Kushida's gaze swept the assembled group, her brow furrowing with genuine puzzlement.
"Where is Yamauchi-san? He was just here a moment ago."
Ike Kanji's reaction was immediate—a flicker across his features, there and gone, but witnessed by those paying attention. His laugh was a beat too loud.
"Ahaha! Bathroom! Definitely the bathroom! You know how he is!" His eyes darted toward the distant commotion at the beach volleyball court, desperation lending inspiration. "Look over there! Something's happening! Let's check it out!"
Kushida's attention shifted, curiosity overriding her momentary concern. "You're right... what is that crowd?"
Ike exhaled. The crisis, for now, was deferred.
Ichinose Honami had dispersed her classmates with warm encouragement, but her own feet carried her not toward the water, but toward the growing throng. Her cheeks warmed with a secret she barely acknowledged to herself: she was looking for someone. A particular silhouette. A particular presence.
The crowd at the beach volleyball court had swollen to three-deep, a wall of spectators vibrating with barely contained excitement. Ichinose slipped between bodies, excusing herself automatically, until she reached the front.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
The scene before her defied comprehension.
Two figures occupied the court—one on each side—moving at velocities that seemed to ignore human limitation. The ball between them was not a sphere but a white blur, a screaming projectile that crossed the net with a sound like tearing silk. Each impact was a thunderclap; each return, a miracle of timing.
The spectators were not cheering. They were simply staring, jaws slack, eyes wide, caught between awe and disbelief.
"Is that... volleyball?" someone whispered.
"That speed... that reaction time... those aren't human!"
One of the players was a girl. Her silver hair streamed behind her like a banner of war as she launched herself across the sand, each movement explosive, each strike a detonation. Her form was impeccable, her aggression terrifying, her skill undeniable.
The other player—
Sakamoto.
He wore only simple black trunks, his torso bare to the sun. The physique revealed was not the bulk of a bodybuilder but the refined architecture of a classical statue—lean, powerful, every muscle group in perfect proportion. His abdominal muscles formed a topography of disciplined strength, each ridge and valley precisely defined. He moved with an economy that made the girl's explosive violence seem almost wasteful.
"Sakamoto! You're not bad! " The girl's voice cut through the rally, carrying equal parts challenge and exhilaration.
Sakamoto's return was calm, effortless, the ball already screaming back before her words faded. "Kiryuuin-senpai overestimates me."
Kiryuuin Fuka.
The name rippled through the crowd, recognition dawning. A second-year powerhouse, one of the few who operated entirely outside Nagumo Miyabi's sphere of influence. A legend in her own right, though most first-years had never seen her in action.
Now they understood.
The rally continued, impossible save that it was visibly, undeniably happening. The ball was a white blur; the players, dark streaks against golden sand. The crowd had stopped breathing.
Kushida watched, her perfect smile frozen into something genuine—genuine shock. Horikita's analytical mind had gone silent, overwhelmed by data that refused to compute. Ike's jaw hung open, his covert mission temporarily forgotten. Hirata's gentle expression had sharpened into focused attention. Sudo stood transfixed, his own athletic achievements suddenly feeling very, very small.
Ichinose watched Sakamoto's form—the perfect lines, the effortless power—and felt heat rise to her cheeks for reasons entirely unrelated to the sun.
Even Ayanokoji Kiyotaka's perpetual mask flickered. His eyes, usually deadened to the world's curiosities, had sharpened to points.
But Ike Kanji's mind was not on the match.
He had pressed a hand to his ear, activating the miniature communicator hidden there. His lips moved in a frantic whisper.
"Argus Two! Argus Two! Come in! "
Silence.
"The changing rooms are clear! It's now or never! Do you copy?! "
Nothing.
Ike scanned the crowd, panic rising. Where the hell had Yamauchi gone?
A familiar figure materialized at the edge of Ike's vision—pressed against the front of the crowd, eyes gleaming with fervent admiration, fists pumping as he shouted encouragement at the court.
Yamauchi Haruki.
Ike Kanji's vision tunneled. His eye twitched. He abandoned all pretense of subtlety, shoving through bodies with single-minded fury until he reached his target. His hand clamped onto Yamauchi's shoulder like a claw.
"You! " The whisper was barely controlled, seething. "The mission! Did you complete the mission?!"
Yamauchi didn't even turn. His attention was welded to the court, to the figure moving with impossible grace across the sand. Sakamoto. Again. Always Sakamoto.
The plan had felt dirty from the start. Taking candid photos of girls in swimsuits for some vague, sleazy purpose—Yamauchi had never been entirely comfortable with it. But watching Sakamoto now, witnessing this display of pure, transcendent athleticism, something crystallized within him.
This was youth. This was what it meant to live.
His hesitation became conviction. His conviction became certainty.
Before Ike could press further, the match reached its crescendo.
Kiryuuin Fuuka's eyes narrowed. She could feel it—the restraint in Sakamoto's play, the careful calibration of effort to match her own. He was holding back.
The insult was unacceptable.
Her offense detonated. Each spike was a cannonball, each angle an impossibility, each return a statement of pure, unfiltered will. She would force him to show her everything. She would accept nothing less.
The crowd gasped as shot after shot screamed past Sakamoto's defenses. He was diving now, contorting, reaching—a series of desperate saves that seemed to barely keep him in the rally. The momentum had shifted. Kiryuuin was unstoppable.
"Let me see it!" she shouted across the net. "Your true power, Sakamoto!"
Sakamoto straightened from a ground-skimming slide, sand cascading from his form. His eyes, behind those impassive lenses, narrowed almost imperceptibly.
"Secret technique…"
The words reached the front rows, soft but precise.
Kiryuuin launched her final assault—a spike aimed at the absolute dead corner, the one spot no human should be able to reach.
Sakamoto did not block. He did not dodge.
He leaned.
His body inclined backward with impossible slowness, a controlled fall that defied gravity's urgency. His right hand rose, fingers pressed together—not into a striking blade, but into a receptive surface. The softest part of his fingertips, the lateral pads, met the screaming ball at the exact apex of its trajectory.
Buzz.
The sound was not impact. It was absorption.
His fingers trembled—micro-oscillations at a frequency too rapid to track, each vibration bleeding kinetic energy from the sphere, converting its violent momentum into harmless heat. For a frozen instant, the volleyball hovered above his fingertips, suspended between destruction and rebirth.
Then he applied the spin.
The reversal was instantaneous. The ball, now wrapped in opposing rotational force, launched from his fingers not as a return but as a white-hot projectile, following an arc that seemed to violate Euclidean geometry—a golden spiral that kissed the net's top tape and curved away, landing precisely in the furthest corner of Kiryuuin's court.
THUD.
The ball struck sand and stopped. It did not bounce. It simply spun in place, once, twice, three times, before lying still.
Silence.
The crowd's breath had been stolen. Minds refused to process what eyes had witnessed. A volleyball match had just transcended into mythology.
Then—eruption.
The applause was volcanic, a release of held tension that shook the pool deck. Cheers erupted from every throat, first-year and upperclassman alike swept up in the impossibility they had just witnessed.
"Did… did that just happen?!"
"What was that?!"
"That's Sakamoto! That's our Sakamoto!"
Kiryuuin Fuuka stared at the stationary ball. For a long moment, she did not move. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her features—genuine, unguarded, almost warm.
"Exquisite." Her voice carried across the court. "I concede. Thoroughly and completely."
Sakamoto inclined his head, that signature gesture of elegant humility. His middle finger rose, adjusting glasses that hadn't shifted throughout the entire ordeal.
"Kiryuuin-senpai's skill is formidable. I was fortunate."
Yamauchi Haruki had lost his mind entirely.
He was jumping, shouting, pointing at the court with the fervor of a convert at a revival. "THAT'S IT! THAT'S YOUTH! THAT'S REAL YOUTH!"
Ike Kanji's hand was still on his shoulder, but it had gone limp. His voice was hollow.
"Yamauchi. The mission. Did you do it?"
Yamauchi whirled, eyes blazing with righteous fervor. "I DIDN'T DO IT! I COULDN'T DO IT!" He thrust a finger toward Sakamoto's retreating form. "LOOK AT HIM, IKE! THAT'S WHAT A MAN SHOULD BE! OPEN! HONORABLE! TRUE! Taking secret photos is disgusting! I want to live like HIM!"
Ike's face cycled through colors—pale, green, gray. His hand fell from Yamauchi's shoulder. He raised the communicator to his lips with the resignation of a soldier reporting certain defeat.
"Argus Two… has voluntarily abandoned the mission. Repeat. Mission… failed."
Across the crowd, Ayanokoji Kiyotaka's expression flickered—the barest micro-movement that, on him, counted as astonishment.
He turned to Horikita, his voice its usual flat monotone. "The contingency appears unnecessary. The plan has self-destructed."
Horikita followed his gaze to the rapturous Yamauchi, then back to the court where Sakamoto was accepting congratulations with serene composure. Understanding dawned.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say.
On the periphery of the crowd, Sakura Airi lowered her camera.
The screen glowed with an image that transcended documentation. Sakamoto, mid-technique: body arched in that impossible lean, fingertips kissing the volleyball, sunlight sculpting every line of his form into living art. The background was a blur of motion and light, the sand a golden haze. He seemed suspended between heaven and earth, a celestial dancer caught in eternal motion.
She was studying it, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips, when a voice spoke from directly behind her.
"Exquisite composition."
Sakura jumped. Her camera nearly flew from her hands.
She spun—and found herself facing a petite girl with silver curls arranged in an elegant style, leaning on an ornate cane. Despite the heat, despite the crowd, she radiated a cool, refined presence that seemed to create its own atmosphere.
Sakayanagi Arisu. Class 1-A. A figure as legendary in her own way as the man in the photograph.
Sakayanagi's smile was pleasant, her eyes fixed on the camera screen with genuine interest.
"Would you be willing to share that image with me? I find myself… unexpectedly appreciative of the aesthetic."
Sakura's mouth opened. No sound emerged.
Behind Sakayanagi, the pool continued its joyful chaos. The match was over. The legend had grown. And in the margins, new connections were quietly forming—threads that would, in time, weave into patterns none of them could yet foresee.