### Post-Scrimmage Review
The gym was silent.
Sweat cooled on the backs of the Karasuno upperclassmen. Third-years, second-years—all of them looked like they'd just walked out of a warzone and realized they lost to a bunch of freshmen.
Coach Ukai, the original one—the grizzled, cranky old man with a permanent scowl and a voice like gravel—stood at the front of the gym with his bamboo sword resting lightly in one hand. His eyes scanned the group like a disappointed general surveying fallen soldiers.
He didn't yell. That would've been merciful.
"What in the seven levels of hell did I just watch?" he growled.
Silence.
"Daichi, future captain of the main team, huh? Didn't look like a captain today. You got read like a kindergarten picture book."
Daichi looked like he'd just been shot.
"And Asahi. Big guy. Your blocks? Might as well have been traffic cones. Actually, no—cones don't move and at least people swerve around them. You jumped right into every feint like a fish chasing shiny bait."
Asahi flinched.
"Sugawara. Smartest guy on the court, right? Why did I see you biting on every fake set like a dog chasing ghosts?"
Sugawara winced.
"Yukigawa. You're taller than a goddamn vending machine and still got stuffed by a first-year middle. Explain that."
"Uh—"
"Don't even."
Ukai turned his back to them and hobbled a few paces away. Then he pivoted with surgical precision.
"You're supposed to be the foundation of this team. You're the goddamn backbone. And you got wrecked. I'm not even mad that you lost. I'm mad that you didn't fight like you had something to lose."
Tanaka and Nishinoya snuck glances at each other. Ukai caught them.
"And you two clowns. Stop grinning. You won by dragging a kid in who didn't even want to play in the first place. Don't mistake luck for talent."
"Yes, sir," both replied in unison, suddenly very interested in the floor.
Ukai exhaled, then pointed his bamboo sword straight at Ryuido.
"You. Grass boy."
Ryuido blinked. "Grass?"
"Yeah. Kusa. Amakusa. You move like you've got roots in the court, but you bend without breaking. Calm like a damn breeze. But you're hiding something."
The gym quieted.
"You've got ace instincts. I see it. But you're holding back—worse, you're scared. What happened to you?"
Ryuido's expression didn't change, but his silence was answer enough.
Ukai nodded slowly. "Thought so."
"You've got three months of me coaching before I'm back to enjoy retirement and yelling at my grandson. I'm not wasting that time babysitting ghosts of players who used to be great. Get over yourself or get off my court."
He turned, started walking off, then tossed over his shoulder:
"And you better believe I'll be watching. Closely."
---
### Post-Roasting Session
The team was silent as they collected towels and water. Shimizu Kiyoko moved like a breeze—quiet, efficient, calm. Her long black hair was tied back, her eyes serene.
Ryuido took the offered water bottle, nodding in thanks. He looked at her like she was from another planet. the beauty from another planet.
"…Who are you again?"
Kiyoko paused.
"I'm Shimizu Kiyoko. Second-year. Team manager."
Ryuido blinked. "Manager?"
"Yes."
"…You manage *this* mess?"
She gave him a calm nod. "I do."
Ryuido looked around at the team—Tanaka massaging a shoulder, Noya talking animatedly to Narita, Asahi muttering apologies to himself.
"…Why?"
Kiyoko smiled faintly. "Someone has to."
He chuckled. "Fair."
---
### Post-Club Day
Ryuido lay in bed that night, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling of his small room. The moonlight crept in from the edge of the curtain.
His body ached.
Not in a bad way. Not like Earth.
Not like the time his knee shattered under the weight of a dream.
Here, it was fatigue—the good kind. The kind that reminded you you were alive. But still, the ghosts lingered. He saw the Tokyo gym every time he closed his eyes. Heard the pop of his own ligament echo in his bones.
"What if it happens again?" he muttered.
There was no one to answer.
"I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to get close just to fall harder."
He exhaled slowly, shifting on the futon. The shadows danced across the ceiling.
"I should just… be the bench guy. Stay out of the spotlight. Let them have the glory."
But the sound of the ball leaving his hand, the shock of Tanaka's spike landing, the way the gym erupted—that wasn't something he could forget.
His pulse quickened.
"…But I missed it. Damn it, I missed it so much."
What he didn't know was that this wasn't Earth. Not quite. This was a universe of fire-forged talent and near-mythical resilience. Injuries here didn't haunt the same way. In this world, volleyball didn't punish— it challenged.
He wasn't the broken boy from Tokyo anymore.
He was Kusa now. Grass. Laid back, unkillable.
Maybe… just maybe… he could rise again.
---
*End of Chapter 3*