Chapter 42: Training Camp 5

In the matches that followed, Ushijima grew uncharacteristically restless.

Standing off to the side, Shirabu let out a quiet sigh. As Ushijima’s setter since their first year, he could hardly recall ever seeing Ushijima-senpai look anxious on the court.

The reason was obvious enough. Shirabu’s gaze shifted to the other side, where Ryosuke was silently saving ball after ball.

This kid wasn’t just receiving—he had already single-handedly blocked Ushijima three times.

Over on the Kamomedai side, Sachirō Hirugami was staring so intently at Ryosuke that his eyes practically stuck to him.
Known among countless IH fans as the “Immovable Hirugami,” he himself had never truly stuffed Ushijima’s spikes head-on in an official match.

Ushijima’s left-handed cannon carried terrifying force. Taking it straight to the arms or fingers was no joke—it could break bones in an instant.
That thick bang when the ball slammed into an arm sounded less like volleyball and more like fists landing in a fight.

Sachirō Hirugami’s teeth ached just thinking about it. He shuddered, memories resurfacing of all the times he’d been overwhelmed by Ushijima’s heavy artillery.

Kōrai Hoshiumi chewed on his fingernails, short brows knitted together, his face full of stubborn dissatisfaction.
“Hey, Gao Hakuba—between me and that guy, who do you think is better?”

Gao Hakuba rubbed his nose. “If we’re talking height, then you definitely lose.”

“Huh??!”

Kōrai Hoshiumi spun around and delivered a solid kick straight into Gao Hakuba’s calf.

Gao Hakuba yelped, clutching his leg and muttering under his breath,
“You’re the one who asked.”

Kōrai Hoshiumi clicked his tongue irritably.
“Just wait. In a couple of days, during the practice match, I’ll show you how I break through that drafty wall.”

He turned and walked off, his back not showing the slightest hint of attachment.

The final point of the match came off Goshiki’s spike. He put everything into it, desperate to break through Ryosuke.
But no matter how he hit, Ryosuke’s arms always arrived a split second earlier. And even if the ball slipped past, Reon was always waiting in the back to clean it up.

By the end of the match, Goshiki and Ushijima wore identical expressions—faces that clearly said, Just one more ball.

Ryosuke collapsed onto the floor, panting hard. His chest burned, sweat dripped from his cheeks into his collar as he sucked in air, his face flushed bright red.

Sakusa walked over carrying a jacket and disinfectant wipes. He stopped in front of Ryosuke, handed him the jacket, and offered the wipes.

Too exhausted to move properly, Ryosuke made a few indistinct sounds as he took them, sluggishly wiping his face while trying to steady his breathing.

Sakusa glanced at Ryosuke’s arms, noting the obvious signs of strain from the match.

Frowning, Sakusa briefly checked Ryosuke’s fingers, testing them once. Ryosuke didn’t react at all.

His hands had gone completely numb after enduring Ushijima’s relentless bombardment.

Since there was still training to get through, the coach shooed them away after the final game, saying they were seriously interfering with others’ practice.

The younger players stared longingly in their direction, all itching to get a chance to play a ball themselves.

Ushijima and Goshiki walked over. Goshiki crouched down, studying Ryosuke carefully.
With such a thin frame, how did he manage to stop Ushijima-senpai’s spikes? Goshiki’s small head—already full of volleyball—couldn’t wrap itself around how Ryosuke was this solid.

Ushijima spoke up beside him.
“Ryosuke, would you practice with me tonight?”

Sakusa paused for a moment, considering the plan.

Ryosuke was still replaying his receiving mistakes in his head. Hearing the question, he looked up and accepted without a second thought.
“Sure.”

Ushijima nodded in satisfaction. A proactive and diligent junior.

Sakusa stopped wiping altogether.
“Wakatoshi, take me along tonight too. I’ll bring Motoya Komori.”

Ushijima nodded—he had no objections. After all, sparring was the most important part of training camp.
And having Motoya Komori guide their juniors would make it even better.

Motoya Komori was Tokyo’s top libero, the real deal. Even though Ryosuke could handle Ushijima’s heavy shots, there were still plenty of areas where he fell short.
Those gaps needed further polishing, and Motoya Komori was perfect for that.

Ryosuke’s eyes lit up instantly. He grabbed Sakusa’s sleeve and asked,
“Is that the libero who won Best Libero at Spring High for two years straight?”

Sakusa thought about it. Komori did seem to have quite a few awards like that…
He nodded seriously.

The people watching nearby quietly started forming plans of their own. Maybe they could just happen to run into them tonight, and then happen to set up a 3v3. It sounded pretty good.

Kuroo rubbed his chin, silently calculating.

Kenma looked up and caught sight of that familiar expression on his childhood friend’s face. In the end, he couldn’t hold back.
“Kuroo, that look on your face is disgusting.”

“I’m not!”

Yaku nodded. “You’re definitely plotting something bad.”

“I said I’m not! Yaku, don’t just indulge Kenma in everything!”

Kuroo seethed in helpless rage. One was the untouchable libero big shot, the other was his precious setter. Only he ranked at the bottom. Kuroo shed tears of indignation.

Meanwhile, Sakusa pulled Ryosuke up from the floor.
“It’s cold. Don’t sit on the ground.”

Ryosuke stood up with Sakusa’s help, then absentmindedly wiped the sweat from his palms on Sakusa’s clothes once before moving away.

Sakusa’s face darkened as he glared at him. This shirt was done for. Dirty.

Ryosuke ran off after wiping his hands, completely unaware he’d done anything wrong.

Daishio Kazuki watched the whole thing clearly. Sakusa didn’t even throw the clothes into disinfectant to soak—what an obvious double standard.
Back when Daishio Kazuki had just joined the volleyball club, he’d accidentally brushed against Sakusa’s locker. The look Sakusa gave him back then was practically murderous.

Afterward, he’d even received a “thoughtful” gift from Sakusa: medical disinfectant.
To this day, Yū Nishinoya still couldn’t forget that smell. Absolutely terrifying.

After the brief 2v2 ended, the spectators gradually dispersed. In those short tens of minutes, Ryosuke had completely stolen the spotlight.
His presence on the court might have been subtle, but anyone who could receive Ushijima’s balls was anything but ordinary. The next time they faced Shiratorizawa, they might suffer badly. One by one, everyone hurried off to report this information to their own captains.

Coach Washijō, however, let out a quiet sigh.

As the one who had personally raised Ryosuke, he knew the boy’s most obvious flaw—he was too straightforward. Cheap tricks on the court never fooled him.
Ryosuke himself disdained that kind of play anyway. He never played in a slick, underhanded way.

At most, he’d shake off a few blockers and go head-on. It suited Shiratorizawa’s style well, but being too rigid could lead to breaking. Sooner or later, it would cost him.

The child he’d raised himself was different from the other players. When Ushijima and the others stumbled, Washijō let them adjust on their own.
But if Ryosuke took a hard fall here, Washijō could already imagine how deeply the boy would be affected afterward.

Sighing, Washijō clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked off, thinking of countermeasures.
He couldn’t let this kid learn the wrong things—but he also needed him to understand this side of the game.

What a headache… maybe it was time to find a school that could give him that experience firsthand…