It can't be! Definitely not Shiratorizawa is wrong!
In the audience, murmurs of disbelief grew louder as some spectators even began arguing amongst themselves.
Yoshino Heiji furrowed his brows, staring at the court with confusion. "Shhh! That shouldn't have happened!" he muttered. "Shiratorizawa's libero is obviously quite good!"
"But how could they have fumbled that receive just now?"
"He's been consistent all match, and Karasuno's No. 7 didn't even use his full power. The ball wasn't even that fast!"
"This is just bizarre!"
"I'm afraid this isn't just a libero's mistake!"
Mitsuda Takesa stared at the scene, his brows deeply knitted.
"Shiratorizawa is one of the strongest teams in high school volleyball. There's no way all three players in the back row would fail to receive at the same time!"
"The issue must be with the spiker!"
"What?" Kunimura Naoto said in shock. "Isn't this just a simple reception error?"
"You're saying the fault lies with the attacker?"
"Hey, Musashi, have you ever seen him spike like that before?" Yoshino Heiji's curiosity piqued.
"Nope." Mitsuda Takesa sighed, feeling defeated.
"Why do I feel like a fake teammate?"
"I literally played a match with him, and I still don't know his real strength!"
"Am I really that weak? Not even worth his full effort?"
"Wait!"
Kunimura, usually the least perceptive, suddenly caught onto something.
"This kind of mistake..." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Doesn't this feel like it's due to spin?"
"Spin?"
The two beside him exchanged glances, puzzled.
"But under normal circumstances, when someone spikes with a left or right-handed hit, the trajectory naturally veers slightly in that direction."
"His shot, however, was perfectly straight—just an ordinary downward spin."
"Spin, spin, spin… libero…"
Kunimura mumbled under his breath, trying to grasp the thought slipping through his mind.
Takesa Mitsuda and Heiji Yoshino watched him shake his head in frustration before turning back to the game.
On the commentary bench, Arai was leaning forward, eyes sharp with intrigue.
With his trained eyes, he had caught the subtle irregularity in Akira's spike.
But he couldn't comprehend how Akira had incorporated such a spin into what should have been a straightforward downward smash.
It was something he had never seen before.
"Hey!"
Beside him, Yasuta Takano covered his mouth and muttered, "Even Shiratorizawa, coached by Washijo-sensei, is struggling?"
"How did that smash force an error?"
Arai turned to him, voice low. "Takano-san, please stay calm. This isn't an ordinary spike."
"Huh?" Takano's eyes widened. "You mean..."
"Yes! The problem is Karasuno's No. 7—the spiker!"
Takano turned back to the court, staring at Akira with newfound intrigue.
"The spiker, huh..."
BANG!
A resounding impact echoed through the gym as Yamagata Hayato attempted to receive another one of Akira's spikes.
"Phew!"
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he stared down at his arms in disbelief.
Why... why does it feel like this?!
Could it be… is he left-handed?!
No… that's not right!!
Yes… but also no!!
Cold sweat trickled down Yamagata's back. Even though his teammates in the front row hadn't scolded him, the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders.
And worse yet, he could feel it...
From the coach's bench, Washijo Tanji's piercing gaze bore into him like a knife.
Chirp!
A timeout was called, and Yamagata trudged toward the rest area, only to be intercepted halfway.
"Explain."
Washijo's voice was low, eyes still fixed on the game.
But that only made Yamagata's panic spike higher.
"His spike…" Yamagata swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. "It… switches hands."
He immediately regretted saying it.
Anyone watching could clearly see Akira had been using his right hand the entire time.
Yet he had blurted out such nonsense!
More sweat poured down his forehead. He braced himself for an outburst, but to his shock, Washijo only gave a slight nod and motioned for him to go back.
"Is… is he waiting until after the match to punish me?"
Yamagata trudged toward the rest area, feeling the eyes of the substitute players on him.
"What luck, dude!"
Semi Eita clapped a hand on his shoulder, looking almost proud.
"If this wasn't the finals, you'd be dead meat!"
"Whew! That scared me to death just now!" Yamagata exhaled.
"You have no idea what I just said to him!"
"Wait… you actually answered back?"
Semi stared at him like he had grown a second head.
"It wasn't meant to be defiance!" Yamagata protested weakly. "I was just trying to explain the situation!"
His teammates leaned in curiously.
"I told him… the spiker was alternating between his left and right hand…"
Silence.
Then—
"PFFT!"
"Ahem—cough—"
"Hah?!"
Choked laughter erupted around him.
Semi's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "You WHAT?!"
He snuck a glance at Washijo, sitting not far away, then turned back to Yamagata in horror. "Are you insane?!"
"I KNOW!"
Yamagata buried his face in his hands. "I realized the second I said it!"
"You're done for, dude."
Semi clapped his shoulder again, this time in sympathy. "You just insulted Washijo-sensei's intelligence. He's calm now, but I guarantee you—he's fuming inside."
"You're so dead after this match!"
"Yeah, Hayato, better start writing your will now!"
Yamagata groaned, bracing himself for the impending doom.
On the court, Akira adjusted his wristbands, completely oblivious to the chaos he had caused off the court.
The game continued, but one thing was clear to everyone watching:
This wasn't just another match.
This was something entirely new.