Passes That Clipped Through Models and an Aboveboard Corporate Spy

The middle-aged man in the skintight sportswear looked irritated. Being provoked by a group of high schoolers—especially that brat with a chive-like hairstyle—had clearly struck at what little adult pride he had left.

He stepped behind the service line and, instead of bouncing the ball to find his rhythm like before, simply tossed it high into the air.

A run-up, a jump, a swing.

The motion flowed in one go, without any flashy feints—just a pure release of power. This serve was heavier than any of the previous ones. The volleyball flattened into an oval in midair and tore toward their court with a screeching rush of wind.

"I've got it."

Iwaizumi Hajime's voice was quiet, but its reassuring solidity was like tank armor. He did not make any large movements, merely sliding one step to the left and bringing his arms together as he pressed them down.

"Thump!"

The sound of the volleyball slamming into his forearms was as dull as a drumbeat. The tremendous impact made Iwaizumi's feet pause for a moment, but his upper body did not budge. He forcibly absorbed all the ball's spin and momentum with those muscles forged through countless repetitions.

The ball bounced high, tracing a perfect arc toward the three-meter line in front of the net.

"Nice receive!" Oikawa Tōru had already run beneath the landing point.

At the same time, Kunimi Akira moved. This First Year, who usually looked as though he were sleepwalking, had a startlingly fast start. He cut in from the left wing and jumped at exactly the right moment, perfectly catching the instant the opposing block formed.

The two middle-aged men on the other side had clearly been fired up as well. Their double block sealed off every route for a hard spike.

In midair, Kunimi did not put power into a spike. Expressionless, he looked at the two large hands before him, flicked his wrist lightly, and "tapped" the ball with his fingertips.

The volleyball lightly struck the tips of the blockers' middle fingers, rebounded backward, and wobbled back down onto Aoba Johsai's side of the court.

A soft touch, using the block to create an opportunity for a second attack.

"Cover it!"

Though Kindaichi usually looked rather slow-witted, his reactions were not slow. He threw himself forward and, before the ball hit the floor, bumped it with the back of his hand. Instead of flying toward the net, the ball soared high into the air beyond the three-meter line.

A broken play.

At times like this, they would usually have no choice but to use an adjustment attack or simply bump the ball over the net.

But Oikawa Tōru was smiling.

He had already jumped the instant Kindaichi touched the ball. Not at the net, but near the three-meter line. In midair, he stretched out his body, his gaze lingering on Iwaizumi Hajime on the left for a full half-second.

The opposing blockers' attention was instantly drawn toward that Heavy Cannon.

Yet at the instant he contacted the ball, Oikawa Tōru's wrist flicked to the right as though defying physical inertia.

As if it had been fitted with a navigation system, the volleyball traced an incredibly flat straight line, crossing half the court as it flew directly toward the back row on the right.

That was where Lu Ren was making his approach.

Lu Ren had originally only been making a tactical run according to the "NPC Code of Conduct." He had never expected the ball to come to him. After all, this was a broken play, and ace Iwaizumi Hajime was already in position.

But as he took the final step of his approach, the yellow-and-blue volleyball appeared abruptly yet precisely right in front of his eyes, as though it had calculated the timing.

Not too high or too low—it was at exactly the highest point where he could hit it after jumping.

He did not even need to reach for it, nor did he need to tuck in his abdomen to adjust. The ball simply hung there, as though telling him: Press the attack button. Now.

Before Lu Ren's brain could react, his body's Muscle Memory had already taken over.

Jump. Draw back his arm.

His view in the air was exceptionally wide. Thanks to Oikawa Tōru's earlier eye feint, the opposing blockers' center of gravity had shifted entirely to the other side. The middle-aged man who hurried over to block him only had time to stick out one arm.

Lu Ren saw it clearly.

That arm was like a highlighted weak-point hitbox in a game.

He did not choose to smash it with brute force. His current physical stats did not support that kind of violent output. Fixing his eyes on the outside of that arm, he lashed out with his palm like a whip.

"Smack!"

The volleyball did not crash into the floor. Instead, it slammed hard into the outside of the blocker's forearm, abruptly changed direction, and ricocheted into the spectator seats out of bounds.

Out of Bounds.

The referee's whistle blew. Point.

Lu Ren landed and watched the volleyball roll away, his palm still retaining the thrilling comfort of that last hit.

That feeling was too strange.

Back when he played games, having good control meant responsive button inputs and no frame drops on-screen. But in that instant, it was as though the real world had stopped dropping frames too. The ball had been fed straight to his mouth—he did not even need to chew. He only had to swallow.

"Nice—kill!" Oikawa Tōru's voice came from beside him, carrying that distinctively flippant lilt.

Lu Ren turned and looked at the brown-haired setter who was high-fiving Iwaizumi Hajime, and the alarm in his heart rose to its highest level.

This guy named Oikawa Tōru had definitely turned on cheats.

If Kageyama Tobio's sets were precise but violent mechanical arms that forcibly stuffed the ball into your hands, then Oikawa Tōru's sets were a top-tier smart assist system. He did not need you to adapt to the ball—the ball automatically adapted to all your stats.