The letter arrived two days later.
Yuta was sitting at the kitchen table, eating rice with a fried egg—the usual breakfast—when Hoka came running down the hall with an envelope in her hand.
“Yuta! Yuta, Yuta, Yuta!” She skidded to a stop at the kitchen door, her ahoge bobbing like an antenna picking up a signal. “A letter came for you! A real letter! Made of paper! Who still sends paper letters?”
Yuta dropped his chopsticks.
The envelope was white and thick, with a weight ordinary letters didn’t have. In the upper-left corner was the blue logo.
Striker Ballet.
Yuta’s heart stopped. Then it took off. He tore open the envelope with both hands—no care, no delicacy, like a kid opening a present.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. Official Japanese Volleyball Union letterhead. Only a few lines, printed, no flourishes:
Yuta Tobi. You have been selected for Project Striker Ballet. Report to the address below on the specified date. Bring only what is necessary. There will be no immediate return.
Below it was an address in Tokyo. A Japanese Volleyball Union building. Date: five days from now.
Yuta read it three times. Four. Five. The words didn’t change. This wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a mistake.
He accepted me.
Joy surged through his chest like an explosion. Yuta shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his plate. His eyes shone. His hands trembled—but this time it was different from every other time. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was pure, absolute, uncontrollable happiness.
“I made it.” His voice came out hoarse, almost choking. “Hoka-nee, I made it. I made it into Striker Ballet!”
Hoka’s eyes went wide. She looked at the letter. Then at her brother’s face. And her smile—that sunny smile that lit up every room—spread all the way across her face.
“YOU MADE IT?!”
“I MADE IT!”
Hoka jumped on him. A bear hug that nearly knocked them both over. Yuta laughed—a loud, free laugh, the kind he hadn’t let out in months. Maybe years.
My volleyball career might be saved.
The thought came clearly, sharply, like a line drawn through the air. For the first time since he’d started playing, Yuta saw a path. Not a wall. Not a dead end. A path.
Shizuka appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her dark-blue hair hung loose, her eyes serious, a mug of tea in her hand. She looked at the two of them hugging. Then at the letter on the floor.
“Hmm,” Shizuka said.
And took a sip of tea.
The five days passed like five hours.
Yuta packed a backpack. Clothes, a toothbrush, a worn pair of volleyball shoes. He looked around his room—the posters, the magazines, the narrow bed. Everything seemed smaller than before.
There will be no immediate return.
The sentence from the letter echoed in his head. Yuta didn’t know exactly what it meant. Days? Weeks? Months? It didn’t matter. He was going.
On the morning he left, Hoka stood by the door.
Her eyes were red. The smile was still there—because Hoka’s smile never truly disappeared—but it trembled at the edges, like a candle fighting the wind.
“Yuta.”
“Hoka-nee, don’t cry—”
“I’m not crying!” The tears spilled out at that exact moment. She wiped them away with her sleeve, sniffed loudly, and grabbed both of Yuta’s hands in hers. “Promise me.”
“Promise what?”
“That you’ll win.”
Yuta looked down at his sister’s hands wrapped around his. Small, warm, squeezing with a strength that didn’t match their size.
“I promise.”
Hoka sniffed again. She let go of his hands. Then she slapped him on the shoulder—too hard to be affectionate, too weak to hurt.
“Go already before I change my mind and lock you in the closet.”
Yuta smiled. He turned toward the hall.
Shizuka was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her mug of tea in hand as always. Her eyes weren’t red. Her smile wasn’t trembling. She had only that serious, direct look that saw everything.
“Shizuka-nee.”
“Hmm.”
Silence. Yuta waited. Shizuka took a sip of tea. Then, without looking at him:
“Don’t come back the same.”
Four words. Yuta felt every one of them sink into his chest and stay there.
“…Okay.”
He walked out the door. The morning was clear. The air smelled like spring.
Yuta didn’t look back.
The Japanese Volleyball Union building was gray, wide, institutional—the kind of structure that made no attempt to impress anyone. Yuta stopped on the sidewalk and looked up. The Union emblem gleamed at the top of the facade.
This is it.
The lobby was cold. Marble floors, an empty reception desk, a security guard who pointed toward the elevator without saying a word. Second floor.
Yuta pressed the button. The elevator rose. The doors opened.
And Yuta froze.
The room was enormous. An auditorium. Rows of seats descended in steps toward a stage at the back, like an amphitheater. And every seat—in every single one—was a player.
Yuta counted the rows. Counted the seats. He stopped counting when he passed two hundred.
Three hundred. There have to be at least three hundred players here.
All high schoolers. All under twenty. Athlete’s bodies, young faces, hungry eyes. Outside hitters, opposites, middle blockers, liberos—Yuta could identify their positions from their physiques alone. The middle blockers were the tallest, towers of long arms. The liberos were the smallest, compact and twitchy. The outside hitters had broad shoulders and big hands. The opposites carried themselves like they were used to carrying their teams on their backs.
And among them, Yuta recognized faces.
That’s… No. It can’t be.
But it was. Players he’d seen in magazines. In broadcasts of national tournaments. High school stars who had led their teams to championships, who had stood out on youth national teams, whose names every volleyball fan knew.
They’re here. Every one of them is here.
Yuta felt his stomach drop. He looked at his own hands. The hands of a 5'8" outside hitter who had lost the provincial final with Shikaru. A player with no title, no recognition, nothing.
I’m the weakest one here.
The thought came cold, objective, merciless. Yuta swallowed hard and looked for a seat. He found an empty one in the back corner, where no one was looking.
He sat down. Waited.
The room buzzed constantly—three hundred players talking, sizing one another up, recognizing each other. Some laughed. Some sat in silence. Some looked around with the same expression Yuta wore: fear disguised as determination.
Then the lights dimmed.
The stage lit up.
And Kenzō Wakaba walked onto it.
The entire auditorium went silent. Not gradually—all at once. As if someone had pressed a button. Three hundred players, three hundred egos, three hundred hearts beating fast, and not a sound.
Kenzō looked the same. Dark jacket, long hair tied back carelessly, unshaven, black eyes that reflected none of the stage light. He stopped at center stage, looked over the auditorium, and said nothing for five seconds.
Five seconds of absolute silence.
Then:
“There are three hundred of you.”
His voice filled the room without a microphone. Deep and dry, like stone scraping against stone.
“Three hundred players selected by me. Every one of you was chosen for a reason. Not for your talent. Not for your victories. Not for your titles.”
A pause.
“For your egos.”
A murmur swept through the auditorium like a wave. Kenzō didn’t wait for it to die down.
“Japanese volleyball is dead.” He said it like he was announcing the weather. “Dead. Buried. Rotting. Do you know why? Because Japan produces cogs. Cogs in a machine. Players who serve the team, obey the system, make the right play. Perfect players.” The word came out with disgust. “And perfect players don’t win anything.”
A shiver ran up the back of Yuta’s neck. Kenzō’s words were the same ones he’d spoken that night in the park—but amplified, distilled, sharpened.
“Striker Ballet exists to create something different.” Kenzō walked across the stage. Slowly, unhurriedly, like a predator circling its prey. “Not a team. Not a system. Players. Individuals. Monsters who shine on their own. The best outside hitter in the world. The best middle blocker in the world. The best libero in the world. Not the best team—the best players.”
Beside the stage, almost invisible, a girl stood. Short—much shorter than any player there. Her hair was tied back, her posture timid, and she held a clipboard to her chest like a shield.
Yuta recognized her.
Chika Konoke.
The name flashed into his memory. Yuta had read about her in a sports magazine. An assistant coach who had led a high school team to win the national championship. Twice in a row. Sixteen years old the first time.
What is she doing here?
Kenzō continued.
“You will live here. You will not go home. You will not call your families. You will not see your friends. The volleyball you knew is over. Dead. From this moment on, you will learn a new kind of volleyball.”
The silence grew heavier. Yuta saw players shifting in their seats. Exchanged glances. Tight jaws.
“In exchange,” Kenzō said, and for the first time, something resembling weight entered his voice, “anyone who survives Striker Ballet earns the right to compete for Japan’s U-20 national team.”
The room exploded with murmurs. The U-20 national team. The gateway to a professional career. The dream of every high school player in that room.
Yuta felt his chest tighten. The U-20 national team. The words glowed in his mind like neon.
“But—”
The word cut through the murmurs.
“Anyone who loses in Striker Ballet loses the right to play professional volleyball. For the rest of their life.”
Silence.
Not the silence from before—that had been respect. This was terror.
Three hundred players. Three hundred dreams. And Kenzō had just said most of them would die here.
One player stood up. Third row, near the aisle. Tall, broad-shouldered, serious-faced. The kind of player who looked like he’d been a team captain since birth.
“With all due respect, Wakaba-san.” His voice was firm, practiced, the tone of someone used to giving speeches in locker rooms. “Volleyball is a team sport. Six players on the court. There is no volleyball without a team. This philosophy of selfishness… isn’t it the opposite of everything the sport represents?”
Several players nodded. Murmurs of agreement.
Kenzō looked at the player. No expression. No anger. No surprise. As if he were looking at an empty chair.
“What’s your name?”
“Morimoto. Captain of—”
“Morimoto.” Kenzō cut him off. “You just said exactly what every coach in Japan says. What every manual says. What every team captain says. Word for word. You didn’t think of that sentence—you repeated it.”
Morimoto opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Do you know what the problem with team volleyball is?” Kenzō turned his back on the player and faced the entire auditorium. “It works. It works well. Team-oriented squads win championships. They’re efficient, organized, beautiful to watch. But do you know what a team-oriented squad never produces?”
Silence.
“A player the entire world remembers.”
The sentence hung in the air.
“No one remembers the system. No one remembers the cogs. No one watches a game and says, ‘Wow, what a perfect serve rotation.’ People remember the player who did the impossible. The player who jumped higher than everyone else. The player who spiked a ball no one should have been able to spike. The player who looked at the block and said, ‘I’m getting past you.’”
Kenzō pointed at the auditorium.
“Ego. That’s what Japanese volleyball is missing. The hunger to be the best. Not the best team—the best player. The desire to stand out. To shine. To be remembered. To look at the guy across the net and think, ‘I’m better than you, and I’m going to prove it right now.’”
Yuta felt something stir in his chest. Something warm. Something born that night in the park, now growing, spreading, pushing against his ribs.
Ego.
“You were chosen because I saw something in every one of you. A spark. An arrogance. A hunger you hide because the world told you it was wrong. Striker Ballet isn’t going to teach you how to play as a team. It’s going to teach you to be yourselves. To burn alone. To shine so brightly that the team has no choice but to revolve around you.”
Kenzō stopped at center stage.
“Light your egos. To hell with everyone else. Chase victory as if it belongs only to you—because it does.”
The silence lasted three seconds.
Then, like a dam breaking, the auditorium roared.
The contract lay on a table in the lobby. A stack of white papers bearing the blue Striker Ballet logo and the Japanese Volleyball Union emblem. A pen sat beside it.
Three hundred players stood there, forming a mass of bodies and hesitation. No one moved. No one picked up the pen.
Yuta stood in the middle of the crowd. He felt the bodies around him—broad shoulders, heavy breathing, the smell of nervous sweat. He heard the murmurs.
“Lose the right to play for the rest of your life…”
“Is that legal? Can they do that?”
“The U-20 national team, man. The U-20 national team.”
“But what if I lose? What if—”
Yuta looked at the contract. Then at the players’ hands around him—still, clenched, trembling.
They’re scared.
And Yuta was scared too. The fear was there, real and solid, squeezing his stomach like a fist. Losing the right to play volleyball. For the rest of his life. Ten years of love, practice, and sweat—all wagered on a signature.
But…
The image came to him. The open lane. The ball in the air. The block forming. And Yuta changing his arm, choosing the safe attack, losing.
I already know what happens when I choose the safe path.
Yuta moved.
He didn’t walk. He ran.
He forced his way through the players—shoving shoulders, dodging bodies, his shoes pounding across the marble floor. Three hundred pairs of eyes turned toward him. Three hundred players watched a nameless 5'8" boy with no title and nothing to his name run toward the table as if his life depended on it.
Because it did.
Yuta grabbed the pen. His hand trembled. His heart thundered. He looked at the paper—the words, the clauses, the consequences.
And something happened.
Yuta’s eyes changed. His irises distorted—like a lens spinning out of focus and then snapping back, like something inside him adjusting, aligning, finding a frequency that had always been there but had never been tuned in.
He signed.
The scratch of the pen against the paper was the only sound in the lobby.
Yuta dropped the pen. He turned toward the auditorium. Three hundred faces stared back at him.
Silence.
One second. Two. Three.
Then a player in the back—a tall guy with a shaved head and the face of someone who never smiled—stepped forward.
“Damn it.” His voice was hoarse, almost a growl. “If this punk signed, then I’m signing too!”
He ran to the table.
And the dam broke.
“I’m signing too!”
“Get out of the way!”
“Give me that pen!”
“I’M SIGNING!”
Three hundred players moved at once. An avalanche of bodies, shouting, shoving, pens being snatched from hands. The lobby descended into chaos—the kind of chaos that only happens when three hundred egos decide they won’t be left behind.
Yuta was shoved aside. He ended up against the wall, watching the wave he had created. His heart was still pounding. His hands were still trembling.
But he was smiling.
On the stage, visible through the open auditorium doors, Kenzō Wakaba watched everything.
No expression. No surprise. Nothing.
As if he’d known all along.
The buses were white, unmarked, with dark windows. Yuta sat in a seat near the window and rested his forehead against the cold glass.
The city disappeared. First the buildings, then the houses, then the shops. Streets became highways. Highways became winding roads. The winding roads became mountains.
Yuta stared out the window without seeing anything.
What is ego?
The question spun through his head like a ball trapped in an endless rally.
Kenzō said to light our egos. He said Japanese volleyball needs egotistical players. But what does that mean in practice?
Yuta tried to imagine it.
Being selfish in volleyball would mean… not passing the ball? Forcing a spike even when the block is closed? Ignoring the setter and demanding the ball every time?
Images appeared in his mind like scenes from a game. Yuta saw himself on the court, receiving the set, ignoring the open teammate, and spiking alone. The ball slammed into the block. Point for the opponent.
No. That’s stupidity, not selfishness.
He tried again.
Would it be… wanting to be the best? Wanting everyone to look at me? Wanting the ball to come to me in the decisive moments?
Closer. But it still didn’t fit.
I’ve always wanted that. I’ve always wanted to be the guy who decides the game. But I’ve never said it out loud. Never admitted it. Because admitting it would mean…
It would mean being selfish.
Yuta closed his eyes. His forehead rested against the cold glass as the bus rocked around the mountain curves.
What is my ego?
The question went unanswered. Not because Yuta didn’t want to answer it—but because he genuinely didn’t know. Ten years of playing volleyball as the good boy, the team player, the cog that served the team. Ten years of burying every personal desire beneath “the team comes first.”
I don’t even know what I really want anymore.
No. I do know. I want to win. I shouted that in the park. I felt it when I called Kenzō.
But how do I win? By doing what? What is my way of winning?
Silence.
I’ll have to find out on my own.
The bus took the final turn. And Yuta saw it.
Blue.
A massive building planted in the middle of the mountains like something that shouldn’t exist there. Blue—not the blue of the sky or the sea, but an electric, artificial blue that shone against the green of the trees like a challenge. Modern and angular, with walls of glass and steel reflecting the clouds.
The bus stopped. The doors opened.
Three hundred players got off in silence.
The building’s entrance was a wide corridor lit by white lights that cast no shadows. Chika Konoke stood there beside a long table covered with folded uniforms.
Up close, she was even smaller than she had looked onstage. She barely reached Yuta’s shoulder. Her brown hair was tied into a loose ponytail, her large eyes avoided direct contact, and her small hands clutched the clipboard as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
“N-name, please,” Chika said when Yuta reached the front of the line. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.
“Tobi. Yuta Tobi.”
Chika checked the clipboard. Ran her finger down the list. Stopped.
“Tobi Yuta… here.” She picked up a uniform from the table and held it out to him. “Your uniform.”
Yuta took it. Unfolded it.
The fabric was light, dark blue, with the Striker Ballet logo on the chest. And on the back, in white:
299 Z
Yuta looked at the number. Then at Chika. Then back at the number.
“Two hundred and… ninety-nine?”
Chika nodded without looking at him. “The number is your current ranking. The letter is your team. Your room corresponds to the letter on your uniform. Corridor C, last door.”
“Ranking?”
But Chika was already helping the next player.
Yuta stood frozen in the corridor, clutching the uniform. 299. Out of 300.
I’m the second-worst.
The number weighed in his hands like lead.
Second-worst out of three hundred. Almost last. Almost at rock bottom.
Yuta clenched the uniform.
I’m going to climb to the top.
Corridor C was long and silent, with identical doors on both sides. Yuta walked to the end. The last door had a small sign:
Z
Yuta took a deep breath. Opened the door.
The room was larger than he expected. Six bunk beds pushed against the walls, a central space with a table, and a blank wall-sized screen at the back. Simple, functional, with no decorations. The kind of place that didn’t pretend to be welcoming.
And inside the room were six players.
The first one Yuta noticed was sitting on the top bunk, legs crossed, eyes closed. Tall—at least 5'11". Dark green hair, straight and falling over long, prominent eyelashes. Light-green eyes opened when the door creaked. Cold. Calculating. The kind of gaze that measured everything and approved of nothing.
The second was hanging upside down from the bunk, orange hair sticking out in every direction, a huge smile on his face. Short—very short. The kind of short that made Yuta feel tall.
“Hey! Another one!” the orange-haired boy shouted. “What’s up, man? What’s your position? Outside hitter? Opposite? Middle blocker? Libero? Say libero, please, say libero!”
“Outside hitter,” Yuta said.
“Oh.” The smile didn’t shrink. “That’s okay. I’ll destroy the outside hitters’ egos as soon as I steal their spikes, easy-peasy!”
The third was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his lean, defined body looking almost sculpted. Red hair, a beautiful face—absurdly beautiful. The kind of face that made girls stop in the street. He looked Yuta up and down with a lazy smile.
“Hey, rookie.” His voice was soft and carefree. “Serious question. What’s your type?”
Yuta blinked. “My… type?”
“Yeah. Type. Preference. What do you like?”
Yuta was completely confused. He had just entered a project that could destroy his volleyball career, he was in a room with strangers, he was 299th out of 300, and the first question he got was about girls.
“I guess… a girl who smiles and eats a lot?”
Silence.
The red-haired boy—Kalori Ken, according to his uniform—looked at Yuta with an expression that mixed pity and fascination.
“Dude. That doesn’t even make sense.”
I know it doesn’t make sense! Yuta felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple.
The fourth player was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was made of concrete. Muscular. Not gym-muscular—the kind of muscular that looked born to break things. He looked at Yuta without expression.
“Outside hitter,” the muscular boy said. His uniform read Toka Kayake. His voice was flat, mechanical. “Good. Another one to destroy.”
The fifth was bald. Completely bald. His smooth head shone under the room’s lights like a volleyball. He sat on the bottom bunk, legs crossed, eyes closed, hands on his knees. He looked like a monk meditating. His uniform read Iruka.
“Amen,” Iruka said without opening his eyes.
Yuta didn’t know whether it was a greeting or a prayer.
The sixth was lying on a bunk, staring at the ceiling. His uniform read Hiribi. When Yuta entered, he turned his head, waved once, and went back to staring at the ceiling.
Yuta looked at all of them. Six players. Six personalities. Six egos.
These are my teammates.
And my rivals.
Then Yuta saw the green-haired player’s uniform. The number was lower than all the others’. And the name on the back:
TAKEMERU
Yuta’s heart took off.
Takemeru. Takemeru. That last name…
The image came instantly. A sports magazine. A full-page article. A Japanese player with dark hair, a confident smile, and a La Rei uniform—one of the biggest volleyball clubs in the world, in the Spanish league. Dante Takemeru. Outside hitter. Eighteen when he was signed. Twenty now. Called up to Japan’s U-20 national team. A monster.
Is this guy… Dante Takemeru’s brother?
Yuta looked at the green-haired player. Waga Takemeru. Sixteen years old. Setter. The highest ranking on Team Z.
If he’s Dante’s brother… he must be just as badass. So he’ll be my setter. Great…
“Hey.” Yuta took a step toward Waga. “Your last name is Takemeru? Are you Dante’s—”
Waga’s green eyes opened all the way. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“Never mention that bastard’s name around me again.”
The sentence came out like a blade. No shouting, no emotion, no hesitation. Pure ice.
Yuta took a step back. The entire room fell silent.
Waga closed his eyes again. As if Yuta had ceased to exist.
…Okay. Forbidden topic.
Before anyone could break the silence, the wall-sized screen lit up.
Kenzō Wakaba’s face filled the screen. Black eyes, a stony expression, the same face as always.
“Attention.”
All six turned toward the screen. Even Iruka opened his eyes.
“The people in this room are your team. And they are your rivals.”
Kenzō spoke slowly, each word weighing like a block of concrete.
“The number on your uniforms is the live ranking of the three hundred Striker Ballet players. This ranking is temporary. It changes. It rises and falls depending on how you play, train, and compete. Now, look at your numbers.”
Yuta looked. 299.
“That is your place. For now.”
Kenzō continued.
“Striker Ballet is divided into blocks. Each block has five teams. The first block consists of Teams B through F—the best. The last block consists of Teams V through Z.”
A pause.
“You are Team Z. The last block. The last team.”
Yuta felt the weight of the sentence drop onto his shoulders.
The worst. We’re the worst in the entire project.
“The first selection will be a group stage.” Kenzō’s voice held no mercy. “The five teams in each block will play matches against one another. Everyone against everyone. And at the end…”
Kenzō’s black eyes seemed to look directly at every player in the room.
“The first- and second-place teams in each group will advance to the second selection in their entirety. Every player on those two teams advances.”
A pause.
“Of the three eliminated teams, only one player from each team survives. The best one. The ace. Everyone else loses everything.”
The two best teams advance intact. From the other three… only the best player on each survives.
Yuta looked at his roommates. Waga, eyes closed. Hakama, hanging from the bunk. Kalori, smiling. Toka, motionless. Iruka, meditating. Hiribi, staring at the ceiling.
If Team Z finishes first or second, all of us advance. But if we’re eliminated… only one survives. Only the best. The other five lose the right to play volleyball for the rest of their lives.
“You aren’t here to make friends,” Kenzō concluded. “You’re here to prove you deserve to exist. Light your egos. Create volleyball from scratch. And go after victory.”
The screen went dark.
The room fell silent.
Six players. Six rivals. Six dreams that couldn’t fit in the same space.
Yuta looked at the uniform in his hands. 299 Z. Second-worst. Last team. Last block.
Two out of six. Only two advance.
The fear was there. Real and heavy, squeezing his chest. Takame’s voice echoed in his memory: “What kind of outside hitter sends it deep on set point?” His coach’s voice: “There’s no soul in you.” Kenzō’s voice: “I don’t see any fire in you.”
Yuta clenched the uniform with both hands. He felt the fabric between his fingers. Felt the number 299 against his palm.
And he felt something else. That thing again. Warm, unfamiliar, frightening. The flame that had ignited in the park, grown in the auditorium, and now burned in his chest like something alive.
I’m 299.
I’m the second-worst.
I have no talent, no titles, nothing.
But I have one thing no one can take away from me.
Yuta lifted his head. His eyes shone. His irises distorted—that same twist, that same adjustment, like a lens finding focus.
I’ll win at any cost.