The morning sun filtered through Hinata's curtains, casting thin stripes of golden light across his room.
He lay sprawled on his bed, one arm draped over the volleyball cradled against his chest. His heart still pounded from the memory of last night.
That jump—that spike—it hadn't been a fluke. The instincts, the power, the precision of a pro weren't just some lingering dream.
They were real, alive in this fifteen-year-old body, waiting to be unleashed. The realization sent a thrill through him, hotter than any victory he'd known before.
High school was still weeks away, and Karasuno's tryouts were even farther, but he wasn't about to waste time.
Back then, losing to Kitagawa Daiichi had driven him to train like a madman, fueled by desperation. Now? Now he was ahead. And he'd use every second to sharpen his edge.
With a sudden burst of energy, he bolted upright, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with a grin. "Time to work," he muttered, his voice cracking but resolute.
He yanked on a ratty t-shirt and shorts, grabbed his volleyball, and slipped out before Natsu or his mom could nag him about breakfast. The court was waiting.
A crisp breeze nipped at his bare legs as he jogged through Miyagi's quiet streets. His breath came in rhythmic puffs, his body feeling strangely light—unburdened by the years of wear and tear from pro matches.
Each step was a reminder: this body had its limits, but it also had potential. More than he'd ever realized at this age. The thought sent an excited shiver down his spine.
The park court came into view, its cracked concrete and sagging net as familiar as ever. It was here, on this worn-down patch of ground, that he had once built his foundation.
But today, he wasn't just a kid dreaming of flying—he was a veteran refining his craft. Dropping his bag, he bounced the ball once, twice, letting the rhythm seep into his bones.
"Alright," he murmured, eyes narrowing. "Let's see what this body can really do."
He started with serves. Back in junior high, his serves had been weak, barely clearing the net. But now? He tossed the ball high, steady. His feet shifted, his weight balanced, and he jumped—higher than ever before at fifteen.
His palm struck the ball with a smack, sending it rocketing over the net, crashing into the far corner with pinpoint accuracy. Dust puffed up where it landed.
"Whoa," he breathed, landing lightly. That wasn't just better—it was unreal. He grinned, adrenaline surging.
Again. And again. Each serve was crisp, controlled—his V.League muscle memory guiding his arm.
He played with power and spin, sending jump floaters dipping unpredictably, topspin serves curving midair.
The ball obeyed him like an old friend, and with every strike, his confidence swelled.
But serving was just the warm-up. His real weapon had always been his ability to fly.
He stepped closer to the net, flexing his fingers as he imagined an invisible blocker. In his mind, it was Kitagawa Daiichi's towering wall, the hands that had once denied him.
"Not this time," he muttered. He tossed the ball, took a running start, and leaped.
The world slowed. His body soared, cutting through the air like a blade.
Muscles coiled, his arm swung, and the spike thundered into the ground, leaving a sharp dent in the concrete.
He landed smoothly, panting, eyes wide with disbelief. "That was a pro spike," he laughed, chest heaving. "No way I could've done that before!"
He didn't stop. He moved through every shot in his arsenal—cross shots, line shots, feints—visualizing defenders, reading their imaginary reactions, adjusting his angles mid-air.
His body responded with terrifying precision. This wasn't the frantic struggle of his past self, desperate to improve.
This was refinement. Efficiency. A pro, sharpening his blade.
Sweat clung to his skin, his legs trembled from exertion, but he grinned through it all.
He had years of experience locked in this body, and he was going to push it beyond anything his younger self had ever imagined.
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Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, heat pressing down on him, but he barely noticed. His stomach growled.
He ignored it.
He shifted into receiving drills, tossing the ball high and diving to meet it—low, controlled, precise.
Each pass fed into the hands of an imaginary setter. His younger self had been a mess at receives, but years with the Black Jackals had burned hesitation out of him.
Now, his movements were fluid, his forearms stinging but steady.
"Tsukki's gonna lose it when he sees this," he muttered, smirking at the thought of the middle blocker's inevitable scowl.
Next, stamina. He sprinted lap after lap, lungs burning, legs screaming. This body wasn't as strong as his pro one—less muscle, less endurance—but that would change.
He dropped into push-ups, sit-ups, squats, grinding through the ache.
"Gotta be faster," he panted. "Gotta be stronger."
Karasuno's gym flashed in his mind—the chaos of practice, the rivals ahead. Nekoma. AobaJohsai. Shiratorizawa. He'd faced them all before. This time, he'd hit the ground running.
By noon, he was sprawled in the dirt, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.
The volleyball rolled to a stop beside him, scuffed and warm from hours of abuse. He stared up at the sky, a grin tugging at his lips.
"This is unreal," he murmured, voice hoarse. "I'm not just some kid anymore. I've got everything."
But then—a flicker of doubt. Skills were one thing. Volleyball wasn't solo.
Karasuno's strength had never been just raw talent. It had been trust, instinct, the moments where Kageyama's sets met his spikes like lightning. Could he recreate that with this head start? Would it even be the same?
He sat up, brushing dirt off his hands.
"Doesn't matter," he decided, grabbing the ball. "I'll make it work. I've got time."
High school was still weeks away—weeks to hone this body, to push it past its old limits. He'd walk into Karasuno's gym a different Hinata.
Not the clueless shrimp who'd stumbled in, but a force they'd never see coming.
He spent the afternoon refining details. Footwork—quicker steps, sharper pivots. Timing—tracking the ball's arc like a pro.
Even his old freak quick felt smoother, faster, though he'd need a setter to test it. He practiced alone, calling out plays to imaginary teammates.
"Oi, Kageyama! Set it here!"
His voice rang across the empty court. He froze, face heating.
"Not yet," he muttered. "Soon."
As dusk settled, he dragged himself home, legs shaking but heart soaring.
His mom scolded him for skipping lunch, Natsu teased him for stinking up the house, but he barely heard them.
Dinner was a blur—rice and fish shoveled down while his mind replayed every move he'd made. He could still feel the ball's sting on his palm, the rush of each jump.
That night, he lay in bed, staring at the Little Giant poster above him. Once, it had been a dream—a distant star he'd chased with everything he had.
Now?
Now he'd lived it. Surpassed it.
And he was back to do it all again. Better.
"I lost to Kitagawa," he whispered into the dark, fingers curling into fists. "But that was the old me. This time, I'm not just gonna catch up."
His eyes burned with determination.
"I'm gonna leave 'em all in the dust."
Sleep came slow. His body ached, but it was the good kind—the kind that promised growth. Tomorrow, he'd train again. Harder, smarter.
Every day until Karasuno, he'd build himself into something unstoppable.
The court was waiting.
And this time, Hinata Shoyo wasn't just dreaming of flying.
He was already midair.
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Hinata Love Interest???
Kiyoko
Yes -->
Definitely Yes -->
No Love Interest -->
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Let me know if there are any mistakes
Also give me ideas too for the storyline
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