Chapter Text
The first light of dawn didn't just filter into the small, sturdy farmhouse nestled deep in Miyagi’s quieter, wilder reaches; it was a signal. For Hinata Shoyo, the sun wasn’t just a pleasant warmth – it was a clock, a calendar, a relentless taskmaster that dictated the rhythm of his life. He was up before it crested the eastern ridge, a habit ingrained deeper than any classroom lesson. The air was still crisp with the last remnants of night, carrying the sharp, clean scent of pine, damp earth, and just a whisper of woodsmoke from yesterday’s hearth.
His alarm wasn't a buzzing electronic device, but the soft, insistent lowing of the dairy cow in the nearby barn, or the impatient clucking of the chickens. His room, Spartan and functional, held a scent distinctly different from his peers in the city: a subtle, permanent blend of gun oil, pine resin from chopped firewood, and the faint, musky tang of game animal that sometimes clung to his clothes even after washing. On a peg beside his bed hung a well-worn, camouflage jacket, its pockets heavy with practical tools – a compass, a small knife, a spool of fishing line.
Hinata stretched, a series of fluid, almost cat-like movements that rippled through his lean frame. Despite his deceptively small stature, every muscle was honed, forged by years of physical labor that most city kids couldn't even fathom. He moved with an efficient grace, pulling on sturdy work pants and a thick flannel shirt. His fiery orange hair, a beacon of perpetual energy, seemed almost at odds with the quiet intensity in his grey-blue eyes as he scanned his surroundings, even the familiar walls of his own room, a habit born of constant vigilance in the wild.
Breakfast was a quick, hearty affair prepared by his grandmother, who, despite her age, moved with an equally startling efficiency around their rustic kitchen. Thick slices of homemade bread, eggs fresh from their own coop, and a steaming mug of strong tea. Hinata ate methodically, not just to sate hunger, but to fuel the demanding day ahead.
“Shoyo, remember to check the traps by the old creek bed after you finish with the chickens,” his grandmother reminded him, her voice raspy but clear. “I heard tell of a fox nosing around the coop again last night.”
“Got it, Obaa-chan!” he chirped, his voice instantly lightening, the cheerful, sun-drenched persona effortlessly clicking into place. It was a well-practiced switch. Around his family, he was their earnest, hardworking boy. Out in the woods, or with a rifle in his hands, another aspect of Hinata took over—one of quiet focus, sharpened senses, and cold, practical resolve.
His morning chores were a ballet of purposeful movement. He fed the chickens, collecting warm eggs with deft hands, checking for any signs of illness or stress among the flock. He milked the cow, the rhythmic hiss of milk hitting the pail a familiar, comforting sound. Then, with a worn leather sheath strapped to his hip, holding a knife he’d sharpened himself countless times, he headed out to the forest.
The woods weren't just a collection of trees to Hinata; they were a living, breathing entity. He knew every game trail, every shadowed hollow, every babbling spring. He could read the subtle signs of disturbed earth, the broken twig, the faint scent on the wind, all hinting at what creatures had passed this way. He moved silently, his footsteps barely disturbing the fallen leaves, his senses alert. He wasn’t just walking; he was hunting, even when checking traps. His ears picked up the distant chatter of jays, the rustle of a squirrel, distinguishing them from the heavy tread of something larger. His eyes, naturally keen, darted through the undergrowth, seeking patterns, anomalies.
The fox trap was empty, much to his slight disappointment, but the tracking suggested it was still in the area. He reset it with care, using a technique his grandfather had taught him, ensuring it was camouflaged perfectly. His grandfather, a man of few words but immense skill, had been Hinata’s primary teacher in the ways of the wild. From him, Shoyo had learned how to identify edible plants, how to track game with astonishing precision, how to skin a deer cleanly, and how to field-strip and reassemble a rifle blindfolded. He’d learned the importance of patience, observation, and the cold reality that nature was beautiful but unforgiving.
By late morning, he was back, a few wild mushrooms in his foraging basket for Obaa-chan, but no game this time. He then spent the afternoon chopping firewood, the rhythmic thud of the axe against wood a meditation. Each swing was precise, powerful, leveraging his entire body weight. He might not have been the tallest, but his core strength and explosive power were phenomenal, built from years of physical labor, climbing trees, and hauling heavy loads back to the farm.
It wasn't until later, after helping his grandmother tend their small vegetable garden and repairing a loose fence post, that he had a moment to himself. As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Hinata found himself drawn to the small, static-filled television in the living room. It was usually only on for the evening news or a rare documentary, but today, his grandmother had left it on.
He was flicking through the channels, mostly finding uninteresting local programming, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. It was blurry, distorted by the old antenna, but something about it seized his attention.
A group of figures, impossibly tall, were leaping. Not just jumping, but soaring.
The screen showed a volleyball match. It was the National Spring High School Tournament. He’d never paid attention to sports on TV before. Sports were something you did out of necessity, like running down a rabbit or scrambling up a tree. But this… this was different.
A particular player dominated the screen. He was shorter than the others, maybe even shorter than Hinata himself, with an electric presence that crackled even through the grainy broadcast. He was number 10. And he was flying.
Hinata watched, mesmerized. The "Little Giant," the commentator called him. He moved like a blur, spiking balls with terrifying precision and power. He wasn't just hitting a ball; he was conquering the air, defying gravity, dominating the court despite his stature.
A primal spark ignited within Hinata. It wasn’t the thrill of the hunt, or the satisfaction of a well-aimed shot. It was something new, a desire to emulate that feeling of weightlessness, that power. He’d always used his jumps for practical reasons – to clear obstacles, to reach high branches, to gain a better vantage point. But this was… pure exhilaration.
He spent the next hour glued to the screen, his dinner long forgotten. Every spike, every block, every dive was absorbed with an intensity usually reserved for tracking wounded game. He saw the teamwork, the strategy, the explosive power. But mostly, he saw the Little Giant, a beacon of what was possible.
When the match ended, the screen went blank, but Hinata’s mind was anything but. He walked out onto the porch, the cool evening air doing little to calm the frantic beating of his heart. He looked up at the vast, star-dusted sky, a sky he usually associated with silent vigilance or navigation. Tonight, it felt like a boundless arena.
He imagined himself soaring, just like the Little Giant. He pictured the arc of a ball, the satisfying thud of his hand connecting. He could feel the latent power in his legs, the spring that had carried him up countless trees and over endless obstacles. What if he could use that power, not just for survival, but for something… more? Something thrilling?
He began to jump. Tentatively at first, then with increasing fervor. He leapt off the porch, landing softly on the grass, then turned and jumped again, trying to push higher, to stay in the air just a fraction of a second longer. He wasn’t thinking about form or technique, only about the raw sensation of flight.
His grandmother, watching him from the kitchen window, merely smiled. Her grandson had always been a boy of the wild, driven by instinct and boundless energy. Now, it seemed, he had found a new horizon.
Over the next few days, Hinata was a man possessed. He still did his chores, still checked the traps, still helped on the farm, but every spare moment was dedicated to his new obsession. He fashioned a makeshift volleyball out of an old, deflated soccer ball wrapped tightly in spare rags. His "court" was the dusty patch of ground behind the barn. His "net" was a clothesline strung between two trees.
He spent hours practicing his jumps, trying to mimic the Little Giant’s explosive power. He’d toss the makeshift ball into the air, then leap, trying to hit it at the highest point. His landings were initially clumsy, but with each attempt, he learned to control his body, to leverage his core, to explode upwards with more efficiency. He ran sprints up the steepest hills, imagining himself chasing down a loose ball. He’d spend ages just focusing on the ball, trying to track its movement with the same laser focus he used to track a deer through dense foliage.
He discovered that the precision he used in aiming a rifle, the minute adjustments of his body and breath, could be applied to hitting a ball. The explosive power needed to kick off for a high jump was akin to the quick burst needed to get to a spike. His innate spatial awareness, honed by navigating complex terrain and anticipating animal movements, made him surprisingly good at estimating trajectories, even if his actual technique was nonexistent.
His hands, calloused and strong from years of farm work and handling tools, quickly adapted to the feel of the ball, even a makeshift one. He punched it, slapped it, tried to mimic the smooth, powerful motions he’d seen on TV.
His grandfather, observing him from the porch one afternoon, chuckled softly. “That boy ain’t never been one for sitting still,” he mused to his wife. “Looks like he found something new to climb.”
Hinata, oblivious to their watch, continued his relentless practice. He wasn’t just playing; he was learning. He was absorbing, adapting. His hunter’s instincts, his farmer’s grit, his wild boy’s boundless energy—all of it was slowly, unconsciously, being channeled into this strange new game. He didn't know the rules, didn't understand the strategies, but he knew the feeling. The thrill of the jump, the satisfaction of a clean hit, the promise of soaring higher.
He knew, with a certainty that resonated deep in his bones, that he was going to play volleyball. And he was going to fly.