The Hidden Boss's Insight, Bad Strategy Intel, and a Giant Infantry Mine

The whistle sounded sharply.

Standing behind the service line was the first-year student Lu Ren had jokingly dubbed "Leek Head," Kindaichi Yutaro. The rhythm of his ball-bouncing was somewhat stiff, and his breaths came unevenly. Under the watchful eyes of so many seniors and unfamiliar high-level players, this newbie's tension meter was clearly overloaded.

He tossed the ball and swung his arm.

It was a perfectly standard overhand floater. The power was average, and it landed right in the opponent's first-pass sweet spot.

"Opportunity ball!"

The uncle across the court, wearing a faded athletic tank top, called out as he lightly stepped into position. With his knees slightly bent, he received the ball steadily. The motion was as practiced and natural as brushing his teeth and washing his face every morning. The first pass was perfect, delivered straight to the slightly chubby setter at the net.

The pace instantly sped up.

The wing spiker on the opposing left had already begun his approach and jumped. Though the uncle's receding hairline was a cause for concern, his jumping power had not declined much at all.

"Block!"

Oikawa Tōru's voice exploded beside them. He and Iwaizumi Hajime jumped almost simultaneously, four arms forming a towering wall before the net. The block was so tight that not even a fly could get through; any ordinary straight hit or cross-court spike would have been ruthlessly sent back to the floor.

But Lu Ren saw something different.

Half a second before the uncle swung, his shoulder made an extremely unnatural inward motion, while his wrist turned outward.

This wasn't a power spike.

The "enemy skill warning" in Lu Ren's mind instantly flashed red. This was a huge-angle sharp cross-court shot created through wrist technique, an experienced-player tactic specifically used to bypass tall blockers.

Trajectory assessment: far left sideline.

Predicted landing point: inside the three-meter line, a dead angle tight against the net.

His body moved before his mind did. Driven by adrenaline, Lu Ren kicked off hard, throwing himself toward the gap where the ball absolutely shouldn't have gone like a goalkeeper who had botched a sliding tackle.

Smack!

A crisp hitting sound rang out.

Sure enough, the volleyball did not strike Oikawa Tōru and Iwaizumi Hajime's palms. Instead, carrying strange sidespin, it slipped past the inside of the antenna beside the net and drilled into that empty zone at an absurdly tricky angle.

Everyone on the court thought the ball was dead for sure.

Everyone except Lu Ren.

He scraped across the floor with a piercing screech, barely bringing his arms together. A moment before the ball hit the ground, he viciously jabbed the underside of it with the hard bone of his wrist.

Thud.

The feel was terrible. His save had been far too desperate, and without proper first-pass training, although he had kept the ball up, it did not fly toward the setter's position. Instead, it went straight toward the backcourt.

"Sorry, I pulled the aggro too far away!" Lu Ren rolled across the floor to disperse the impact, inwardly cursing his body's insufficient agility. If he had been max level, he could have sent that ball steadily to the setter.

The ball flew high, its landing point near the baseline.

A ball like that could usually only be bumped over, or adjusted by a back-row player into a safe shot. Their attacking rhythm was effectively broken.

But a figure suddenly pulled back from the net.

Oikawa Tōru.

Without the slightest hesitation, he turned and sprinted toward the backcourt. While running, he looked up at the ball's trajectory, then jumped from an extremely awkward position. At that moment, his back faced the net and the attack line, his entire body suspended in midair.

What was he going to do?

Lu Ren had just climbed to his feet when he saw a sight that made his scalp tingle.

Oikawa Tōru did not look at the net, nor did he look at his teammate. In midair, he stretched his waist and abdomen, and the instant his hands touched the ball, his wrists softly and swiftly pushed backward.

A back set?

From there?

To whom?

"Iwa-chan—!!!"

Oikawa Tōru even had the presence of mind to shout that nickname in midair.

At the same time, a dark figure cut in from the left with an overwhelmingly oppressive gust of wind. Iwaizumi Hajime was like a heavy tank that had long since been filled with fuel; at the very moment Oikawa Tōru touched the ball, he stepped precisely onto his takeoff point.

No communication. No exchange of looks.

Only absolute trust.

The three uncles on the other side were clearly startled by this unconventional attack and hurriedly jumped side by side to block. Three pairs of arms sealed off most angles.

BOOM!

Iwaizumi Hajime's palm slammed heavily into the volleyball.

There was no fancy technique—only pure power, pure Aesthetic of Violence. Like an armor-piercing shell, the ball smashed through the fingers of the middle blocker and, carrying unstoppable momentum, slammed down in bounds.

Point.

Even the floor seemed to tremble.

"Nice kill!" Oikawa Tōru landed, turned around with a grin, and gave Iwaizumi Hajime a thumbs-up. "How was that set? Wasn't it overflowing with love?"

"Shut up. It almost went out." Iwaizumi Hajime shook his slightly numb hand. Though he cursed aloud, the curve of his lips betrayed his mood.

After the brief celebration, Oikawa Tōru's gaze passed over the crowd and settled on Lu Ren, who was dusting off his knee pads.

That look had changed.

It was no longer the teasing amusement he had shown toward an "interesting passerby." It had become the cold, sharp scrutiny of a predator examining its prey.