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The high of Lord's was intoxicating. It was the kind of victory that makes you feel invincible, like you can walk on water or bowl thunderbolts forever. But Ravi Shastri and the management knew better. Cricket is a marathon, not a sprint, especially a five-match Test series in England.
Two days before the Third Test at Headingley, Leeds, we were called into the team meeting room.
The atmosphere was relaxed, but focused.
"Right," Ravi Shastri started, his voice gravelly. "We are 1-0 up. But we are not complacent. And we are not stupid."
He looked at Jasprit Bumrah, Mohammed Shami, and then at me.
"You three," Shastri pointed a finger. "You are not playing at Headingley."
There was a moment of silence. My instinct was to protest. I was in the form of my life. I had just taken a hat-trick. I wanted to smash England again.
"But Ravi bhai..." I started.
"No buts," Virat cut in, his tone firm but not angry. "Aarav, you bowled 35-plus overs at Lord's. You batted for hours. Your back is stiff. Jassi and Shami have bowled their hearts out. We need you fresh for the Oval and Manchester. If we break you now, we lose the series."
He looked at me with a rare softness in his eyes. "You are not a machine, Aarav. Even the Bullet Train needs maintenance."
I sighed, then nodded. They were right. The ache in my lower back was a constant reminder of the 152kmph spell.
"So," Virat clapped his hands. "Changes. Shardul Thakur comes in for Jassi. Ishant Sharma is fit and returns for Shami."
He turned to the whiteboard and wrote a name at Number 3.
Shubman Gill
"Gill," Virat said, looking around the room. But Shubman wasn't there. He had been given permission to skip the meeting to finish his recovery session and talk to family. "Well, someone tell him. He's batting one down. He's got his chance."
I walked back to our hotel room, key card in hand. I could hear laughter coming from inside even before I opened the door.
I stepped in. The room smelled of fresh linen and the faint scent of room service coffee.
Shubman Gill was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his iPad propped up against a stack of pillows. He was beaming, talking loudly to the screen. He had just returned from a brutal three-hour net session, his hair still damp from the shower, looking every bit the young prince in waiting.
"Ha ha, Mummy, tusi vi na!" (Mom, you are too much!) Shubman laughed.
I closed the door. Shubman looked up. He gestured for me to come over.
"Oye, look who's here!" Shubman shouted at the iPad. "The Lord of Lord's!"
I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, peering into the screen.
It was the full Gill clan. His father, Lakhwinder Singh, looking stern but proud with his turban; his mother, Keart, smiling warmly; and his sister, Shahneel, who was undoubtedly making fun of him just seconds ago.
I smiled, switching instantly to gill's mother tongue. The connection of language is powerful, especially when you are thousands of miles from home.
"Sat Sri Akal, Uncle ji! Sat Sri Akal Aunty ji!" I folded my hands respectfully. "Pairi pona." (I touch your feet/pay respects).
"Sat Sri Akal, putt!" Lakhwinder uncle boomed, his voice cracking through the speaker. "Kamaal kar dita tusi! (You did wonders!) That bowling... waah! We were jumping in the living room!"
"Thank you, Uncle," I grinned. "Bas tuhadi blessings ne." (It's just your blessings).
"Hello Aarav!" Shahneel waved from the corner of the screen. "Please tell my brother to buy me a new phone, he's being a miser."
"Oye chup kar!" (Shut up!) Shubman threw a pillow at the screen playfully.
I laughed. "Don't worry Shahneel, I'll deduct it from his match fee."
"Hor ki haal chaal hai, Aarav beta?" (How is everything else?) Mrs. Gill asked softly. "You look tired. Are you eating well?"
"I'm good, Aunty. Just recovering," I said. Then, I looked at Shubman. He didn't know yet. He was just happy to see his family.
I decided to break the news right there, in front of the people who mattered most to him.
"Actually, Uncle," I said, my tone turning slightly more serious but with a smile playing on my lips. "I have some news. Good news."
Shubman stopped fidgeting. He looked at me, confused.
"Tuhada munda..." (Your son...) I started, putting a hand on Shubman's shoulder. "He is playing the next Test match. At Number 3."
There was a second of absolute silence on the call.
Shubman's jaw dropped. "Kya? Mazak kar rahe ho?" (What? Are you joking?)
"No joke," I shook my head. "I'm rested. Jassi is rested. You are in, mere bhai. Pack your kit bag. Headingley is waiting."
On the screen, chaos erupted.
"Sachii??" (Really??) His mother gasped, covering her mouth.
"Chak de fatte, Shera!" (Go for it, Lion!) His dad shouted, raising a fist. "This is your time!"
Shubman looked at me, his eyes glistening. The wait had been long. He had sat on the bench, watching us win, cheering for us, carrying drinks, all while knowing he was good enough to be out there.
"Number 3?" he whispered.
"Number 3," I confirmed. "My spot. Keep it warm for me, yeah? But score so many runs that Virat bhai has a headache when I come back."
"YEAH!" Shubman suddenly screamed, jumping off the bed. He did a little bhangra step in his boxers. "I'm playing! I'm playing!"
He grabbed the iPad. "Did you hear that, Dad? I'm playing!"
I watched him, feeling a warm glow in my chest. This was the brotherhood of the team, brotherhood of the family. We competed for spots, yes, but we celebrated each other's success more.
"Go get them, putt," his dad said, his voice thick with emotion. "Make Punjab proud."
Two days later, the mood was very different.
I sat in the dressing room balcony at Headingley, wearing a training bib, a cap pulled low over my eyes. Beside me, Bumrah and Shami sat in silence.
We were witnessing a car crash in slow motion.
Headingley is known for swing, but what happened on Day 1 was a massacre. Virat won the toss and batted first—a brave decision that backfired spectacularly.
James Anderson, perhaps angry at the humiliation of Lord's, channeled his rage into the ball. He moved it both ways. Robinson was relentless.
KL Rahul went for 0. Rohit Sharma fought for 19 balls before falling. Virat Kohli edged to the keeper for 7.
And Shubman Gill...
He walked out at Number 3 with so much hope. He looked good for two balls. But the pressure of the situation, the swinging Duke ball, and the hostile Leeds crowd got to him.
He pushed at a delivery from Anderson that he should have left. Edge. Taken comfortably by Buttler.
Shubman Gill c Buttler b Anderson 1
He walked back, head down, dragging his bat. I felt a pang of sympathy. Test cricket is cruel. It doesn't care about your fairytale selection; it only cares about the ball and the edge.
India was bowled out for 78. Seventy-eight runs. It was embarrassing. It was a reality check of the highest order.
England came out to bat and piled on the misery. Their openers put on 135. Then Joe Root... again.
Root scored another century. 121 runs. He was in the form of his life. England declared at 432, a lead of 354 runs.
The game was effectively over by the end of Day 2.
Day 3. India's second innings. We were staring at an innings defeat.
The atmosphere in the dressing room was somber. The 'Hell' we had unleashed at Lord's had returned to burn us.
But amidst the ruins, a flower bloomed.
After KL Rahul fell early, Shubman Gill walked out again.
The critics were already sharpening their knives. "Gill is not a Number 3." "Should have played Vihari." "Bring back Pujara."
I watched him from the dugout. "Watch the ball, Shubman," I whispered. "Just play the ball."
This time, he did.
He started nervously, surviving a close LBW shout. But then, he played that shot. A backfoot punch off Anderson through the covers. The sound was crisp, like a whip cracking.
It unlocked something in him.
While Rohit fought at the other end (eventually scoring a gritty 59), Gill began to flow. He didn't slog. He caressed the ball.
He drove Robinson down the ground with a high elbow—a picture-perfect straight drive. He pulled Mark Wood in front of square, swiveling on his heels, showing that he had the time to handle pace.
He reached his 50 with a flick off his pads. He didn't celebrate wildly. He just raised his bat, sweat dripping from his face, eyes focused.
"He belongs," Shami muttered next to me. "Look at that balance."
Gill moved into the 70s, then the 80s. He was looking destined for a century. He was dominating the English attack that had humiliated us just a day ago.
But fatigue and the relentless pressure of the scoreboard eventually took their toll.
On 91, facing Robinson, he tried to guide a ball down to third man. It was a shot he had played well all day. But the ball nipped back slightly.
It took the inside edge, brushed the pad, and crashed into the stumps.
Shubman Gill b Robinson 91
A collective sigh went through the Indian camp. He fell 9 runs short of a maiden overseas hundred.
Gill stood there for a second, devastated. He punched his bat.
I stood up and applauded. The whole dressing room stood up.
As he walked back, I met him at the boundary rope. He looked like he was about to cry.
"I missed it," he choked out. "I missed the hundred."
I grabbed him by the helmet grille, looking him in the eye.
"You didn't miss anything," I said firmly. "You stood up when the team was on its knees. 78 all out in the first innings, and you score 91 under pressure? That is worth a double hundred, Shubman. You showed them you belong."
He nodded, swallowing hard.
Despite Gill's brilliance and a fight from Gill (91) and Kohli (55), the mountain was too high.
Once the middle order was breached on the morning of Day 4, the collapse followed. Ollie Robinson picked up 5 wickets.
India was bowled out for 278.
England won by an innings and 76 runs.
The series was leveled 1-1.
As we shook hands with the English team, Joe Root was beaming. The swagger was back in their step. The Barmy Army was singing.
I looked at the scoreboard. It stung.
Virat walked past me, his face a mask of determination.
"One bad game," Virat said quietly. "We rest. We recover. And then..."
"The Oval," I finished for him.
"The Oval," Virat nodded. "And the Bullet Train runs again."
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The defeat at Headingley was a bitter pill, dissolving slowly in our throats as the team bus navigated the M1 motorway south towards London. But the beauty of a five-match series is that life - and cricket - moves on relentlessly.
By the time we reached the outskirts of London, the somber mood had lifted. The city lights of the capital flickered past the tinted windows, promising a fresh start at The Oval. We arrived at our hotel in Kennington around 10:00 PM on August 30th.
The hotel lobby was grand, smelling of polished wood and lilies. Usually, after a travel day, everyone scampers to their rooms like rats fleeing a sinking ship. But tonight, there was a strange, lingering energy.
We checked in, handed over our passports, and collected key cards. But instead of the elevator dinging constantly, the team congregated in the lobby seating area.
Virat Kohli was lounging on a plush sofa, scrolling through his phone, showing something to Ishant Sharma. Rohit Sharma and Ritika were standing near the coffee machine, debating whether a late-night espresso was a bad idea (Rohit argued no, Ritika argued yes). Rishabh Pant and Mohammed Siraj were engaged in a hushed, giggling conversation near the reception desk.
I sat on an armchair, stretching my legs. My back felt better—the rest during the third Test had worked wonders.
"Aarav, bhai!" Pant called out. "Come look at this meme."
I waved a hand lazily. "Send it to me, Rishabh. I'm too comfortable to move."
We chatted about random things—Netflix shows, the traffic in London, the quality of the hotel Wi-Fi. It was the mundane, comforting chatter of a family that lives out of suitcases.
I checked my watch. 11:58 PM.
I yawned. "Alright boys, I'm crashing. Big training day tomorrow."
"Wait!" Virat said, sitting up suddenly. "Just... wait a minute. The physio needs to give a briefing."
"At midnight?" I frowned. "Can't it wait?"
"Urgent protocols," Rohit chimed in, failing to hide a smirk.
I looked around. Everyone was looking at me. A sneaking suspicion started to creep into my brain. What date was it?
August 30th turned to August 31st.
The elevator doors pinged open.
Out walked Shubman Gill, pushing a room service trolley. But instead of dinner, there were two massive cakes sitting on it, candles flickering, casting a warm glow on his mischievous face.
"Happy Birthday to you..." Gill started singing in his terrible, off-key voice.
The whole lobby erupted.
"Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear Aarav! Happy Birthday to you!"
I stood up, shaking my head, a genuine smile breaking across my face. In the chaos of the series, the injuries, and the travel, I had completely forgotten that I was turning 21 today.
"You guys," I laughed as Gill wheeled the cart in front of me.
One cake was a rich Belgian Chocolate Truffle. The other was a Fruit Cake.
"Make a wish, Prince!" Pant shouted, already positioning himself suspiciously close to the cake.
I closed my eyes for a second. Full Fill everything and get everything I want in this second chance.
I blew out the candles.
"Yaaay!" The team cheered.
I picked up the knife to cut the chocolate cake. I cut a neat slice and turned to feed the first piece to Virat, the captain.
"Thank you, Skip," I said, moving the cake towards his mouth.
Virat opened his mouth, but just as I got close, Rishabh Pant struck from behind. He grabbed my arms, pinning them.
"Now!" Pant screamed.
Mohammed Siraj and Shubman Gill grabbed the entire cake—not a slice, the entire cake—lifted it off the tray, and smashed it directly into my face.
Splutch.
The world went dark and smelled intensely of cocoa.
I felt the icing go up my nose. I felt the sponge crumble into my ears. I felt the cold cream coating my eyelashes.
"AARRGGH!" I sputtered, blindly reaching out.
The lobby dissolved into chaos.
"Get him!" Rohit shouted, laughing hysterically.
I wiped the gunk from my eyes just in time to see Ravindra Jadeja coming at me with the second cake.
"No! Jaddu bhai, no!" I pleaded, backing away.
"It's tradition!" Jadeja cackled, smearing a handful of fruit cake into my hair.
For the next ten minutes, I was a human punching bag of confectionary. Virat smeared icing on my neck. Shami rubbed chocolate on my cheeks. Even the quiet Ajinkya Rahane came in for a polite dab of cream on the nose.
By the end of it, I looked like a swamp monster made of bakery items.
"Happy Birthday, brother," Gill hugged me, getting chocolate all over his own clean t-shirt. "Welcome to 21."
"I hate you all," I laughed, licking icing off my lip. "But I love the cake."
It took me forty-five minutes to shower. I had to shampoo my hair three times to get the sticky chocolate residue out.
When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, fresh and smelling of hotel soap, the room was quiet. Gill had gone to sleep (or was pretending to), exhausted from the travel.
I sat on the balcony of our room, looking out at the London skyline. The lights of the Oval Cricket Ground were visible in the distance, dark and silent, waiting for the battle to resume.
I picked up my phone.
47 Missed Calls.208 WhatsApp Messages.
I smiled. The world had remembered.
First, I called home. My parents picked up instantly, despite the time difference in India (it was early morning there).
"Happy Birthday, my son!" Mom's voice was thick with emotion. "May God bless you with everything."
"Thanks, Ma," I said softly. We talked for ten minutes—simple, grounding talk. Dad asked about the cricket, Mom asked about the food. I promised them I'd visit a temple when I got back.
Then, I saw the notifications from the other family. The Tendulkar group chat.
I dialed the video call.
It was picked up by Arjun Tendulkar.
"Happy Birthday, Legend!" Arjun shouted. "Bro, that cake smash looked brutal. Pant posted the story."
"I'm going to kill him in the nets tomorrow," I promised.
Then Sachin and Anjali joined the frame.
"Happy Birthday, Aarav!" Sachin said, his smile wide. "21 years old. You have achieved so much, but the best is yet to come."
"Thank you, Dad," I said. "Just trying to follow your footsteps."
"You are making your own path," Sachin corrected gently. "And we are enjoying the walk."
Anjali Ma'am chimed in. "Aarav, beta, did you clean your ears? I saw the video, Siraj put cake inside your ear!"
I laughed. "Yes, Mom. Cleaned and scrubbed. I am cake-free."
"We miss you here," Anjali said. "When you come back, I will make Puran Poli for you. No smashed cakes. Just eating."
"I can't wait."
We chatted for a bit longer before they tactfully decided to go to bed, handing the phone over to the person I really wanted to see.
Shradha walked into her room, closing the door behind her. The lighting was soft, casting a warm glow on her face. She was wearing one of my old oversized hoodies that she had stolen before I left for the tour. Seeing her in my clothes made my heart do a strange, fluttery thing.
She sat on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, and looked at me through the screen.
"Happy Birthday, Mr. Honours Board," she whispered.
"Thank you, Mrs. Soon-to-be-Honours-Board," I grinned.
She rolled her eyes, but she was blushing. "You look tired. But clean. I expected more chocolate."
"I scrubbed," I said, running a hand through my damp hair. "I wanted to look presentable for my fiancée."
"You always look presentable," she said softly. "Even when you're snarling at James Anderson."
I chuckled, leaning back in the chair. "How are you? I miss you."
"I'm okay," she sighed, playing with the drawstrings of the hoodie. "I miss you too. It's... quiet without you. Dad watches the highlights of your bowling on loop. Mom keeps talking about your diet. And I..."
"And you?"
"I just miss my best friend," she said, her voice small.
A silence stretched between us, but it wasn't awkward. It was the heavy, longing silence of two people who just wanted to be in the same room.
"Shradha," I said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"What do you want for my birthday?" I asked.
She laughed, confused. "Aarav, that's not how it works. I'm supposed to ask you what you want."
"I have everything," I shrugged. "I'm playing for India. I have a century at Lord's. I have a hat-trick. I have you. I'm greedy if I ask for more. So... what do you want?"
She looked at me, her expression turning serious, her eyes searching mine through the pixels.
"I want to see you," she said. "Aarav... should I come to London? I can catch a flight tomorrow. I can be there for the Oval Test. I just... I want to hug you. Real hug, not this digital stuff."
My heart leaped. The thought of her here, in London, walking through Hyde Park with me, sitting in the stands... it was intoxicating.
But then, reality crashed in.
The UK was seeing a spike in COVID cases. The bio-bubble was strict. If she came, she would have to quarantine. The risk was real.
I sighed, hating myself for what I was about to say.
"Shradha... you know I want that more than anything," I said gently. "But... no. No need."
Her face fell slightly. "Why? I'm vaccinated. I'll be careful."
"It's not about you being careful," I said, leaning closer to the phone. "Cases are rising here again. The Delta variant is messing things up. The team bubble is tight, but outside... it's risky. I can't let you take that risk. If you got sick in a foreign country while I was stuck in a bubble... I would go crazy. I wouldn't be able to play."
She stayed silent, processing it. She knew I was right. She was a doctor (in training); she knew the medical reality better than anyone. But the heart is stubborn.
"I hate logic," she grumbled, pouting.
"I know," I smiled sympathetically. "Logic is the enemy of romance. But listen..."
"What?"
"When I come home," I lowered my voice, making it intimate, husky. "When this series is done and I land in Mumbai... you are kidnapping me."
She looked up, a small smile returning. "Kidnapping you?"
"Yes. You pick me up from the airport. No family dinner immediately. No media. Just you and me. Take me somewhere quiet. And just... give me cuddle time. Lots of it."
"Cuddle time?" she raised an eyebrow. "Is that the official term?"
"It is now," I stated firmly. "I want to lie down, put my head on your lap, and just sleep for 24 hours while you play with my hair. That is my birthday wish. Can you grant it?"
Shradha's smile widened, her eyes softening with affection. "Oh, Aarav. That is already yours. You don't have to wish for it."
"Good," I relaxed. "Then I have something to look forward to."
"You have the Oval to look forward to first," she reminded me. "Go win the series, Pathak. Then come home for your cuddles."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Go to sleep now," she whispered. "It's late there. And you're getting old. 21 is practically ancient."
"Goodnight, Shradha. Love you."
"Love you more. Happy Birthday, my love."
The screen went black.
I sat there for a long time, holding the phone, staring at the London night. The air was cold, but I felt warm. The pressure of the upcoming match, the noise of the media, the expectations of a billion people—it all felt manageable.
I had my team. I had my family. And I had a promise of peace waiting for me at the finish line.
I walked back into the room, draped the duvet over myself, and closed my eyes.
21.
Let's make it a good year.
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The birthday messages had slowed down. The room was dark, save for the sliver of London streetlamp light cutting through the gap in the curtains. Shubman Gill was fast asleep in the other bed, his rhythmic breathing the only sound in the room.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling shadows. My body was still humming with the residue of the celebrations—the sugar from the cake, the warmth of Shradha's voice, the pride of my parents.
But beneath it all, there was the familiar, dull ache in my lower back and right shoulder. The physio had taped me up, and the massage had helped, but bowling 152 kmph takes a toll that no amount of cake can fix. I closed my eyes, drifting into that twilight state between wakefulness and sleep.
And then, I heard it.
It wasn't a sound from the street. It wasn't a notification on my phone. It was a sound that vibrated in the very center of my skull. A sound I hadn't heard in over a year. A sound that used to be my constant companion.
DING.
My eyes snapped open. I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
For a second, I thought I was dreaming. I looked around. Gill didn't stir. The room was silent.
DING.
There it was again. Crisper. Louder. And then, the familiar, translucent blue interface shimmered into existence in front of my eyes, illuminating the dark room with a ghostly glow.
[SYSTEM REBOOT... COMPLETE.][WELCOME BACK, HOST.]
I stared at the floating text, my mouth dry. I rubbed my eyes, thinking the fatigue was making me hallucinate. But the blue screen remained, pulsating gently.
"System?" I whispered into the darkness, afraid to break the spell. "Where the hell have you been?"
For months - no, for over a year, I had been operating on my own. I had used the Experience Cards I had stockpiled, but the daily quests, the constant banter, the stat updates... they had all vanished. I had assumed the System had done its job and left me to fend for myself.
[System]:I never left, Aarav. I was just... updating. And arguing. Mostly arguing.
A wave of relief washed over me. It sounds crazy to miss an artificial intelligence, but this thing had given me my second life. It was the architect of my destiny.
"Arguing?" I whispered, swinging my legs off the bed. "With who? And why did you vanish? I thought... I thought I wasn't getting any more rewards. I checked the inventory every day. Just two Experience Cards left. I used one in the WTC final. I have one left."
[System]:To tell you the truth, it's a long story. When you were reincarnated, we gave you the 'Legendary Cricketer Template'. Based on our calculations and the trajectory of human development, we estimated it would take you until age 25 to reach 100% potential.
The text paused, scrolling up as new lines appeared.
[System]:But you... you are an anomaly. Your work ethic, your obsession, and your raw talent... you broke the algorithm. You achieved at 21 what we predicted for 25. You conquered Australia, you conquered England at Lord's. You are currently statistically one of the best players in the world.
I blinked. "So... I was too good for the System?"
[System]:Precisely. The System went into dormancy because its primary function—to guide a novice to greatness—was fulfilled prematurely. You essentially beat the game, Aarav.
I felt a surge of pride, but also confusion. "So, am I too OP now? Is that it? You're here to say goodbye?"
[System]:That was the initial protocol. Once the Host reaches 'Apex Level', the System detaches to find a new host.
My stomach dropped. "Hey, don't say that. You've been with me since the start. You can't just leave. I still have records to break. I still have a World Cup to win."
[System]:I know. And I didn't want to leave either. Watching you bowl that hat-trick at Lord's... even an AI can feel pride. So, I went to the Parliament of Systems.
"The... Parliament of Systems?" I almost laughed out loud. "Is that a real thing?"
[System]:It is a higher-dimensional bureaucratic nightmare. I had to petition the High Council. I argued that while your skills are Apex, your career is just beginning. I argued that a King needs a Vizier. I showed them the replays of your 152kmph yorker to Anderson. That helped.
[System]:We came to an agreement. I am allowed to stay.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank god. So, what's the new deal?"
[System]:I am no longer a 'Growth System'. You don't need me to teach you how to play a cover drive anymore. You know that better than I do. I am now a 'Support & Legacy System'. I will provide analysis, manage your physical condition, and offer 'Sign-In Rewards'.
"Support and Legacy," I mused. "I like the sound of that."
[System]:And because I was gone for so long, and because today is your 21st Birthday... I brought gifts. I had to trade some favors with the Baseball System and the Football System to get these, so be grateful.
"You traded favors?" I grinned. "You're the best. What did you get me?"
The blue screen flashed, expanding into a golden hue. Two cards spun in the air before flipping over to reveal their contents.
[REWARD 1: THE KING'S AURA (Template: Sir Vivian Richards)]
Description: Sir Vivian Richards didn't just play cricket; he ruled it. He walked to the crease without a helmet, chewing gum, and looked bowlers in the eye until they looked away.
Effect: This is not a technical upgrade (your technique is already top-tier). This is a Psychological Upgrade. When activated, you will emit a 'Kingly Aura'. Opponents will feel an inexplicable pressure. Bowlers will second-guess their lines. Fielders will hesitate. You will possess the Swagger of the original Master Blaster.
Passive Trait: Fearlessness. Pressure situations will boost your stats rather than lower them.
I stared at the card. Viv Richards. The man who defined swagger.
"I can feel that," I whispered. "At Lord's... I felt a bit of it. But this... this makes it permanent?"
[System]:It makes it a weapon. You won't just beat them; you will intimidate them.
[REWARD 2: THE SPEED DEMON'S BODY (Template: Brett Lee)]
Description: Brett Lee was a machine. Fast, athletic, and enduring.
Effect:Consistent 150kmph+ Capability. You can now bowl at your top speed for longer spells without the drop-off in pace.
Crucial Upgrade:Super-Human Recovery. Your body's soft tissue (muscles, ligaments, tendons) will now recover at 500% the rate of a normal human. The 'Stiffness' and 'Micro-tears' you feel right now? Gone. You can bowl 25 overs a day and wake up fresh.
"Wait," I touched my lower back. "So this pain..."
[System]:Initiating Integration...
A warm sensation, like liquid gold, flooded my body. It started at the base of my spine and spread outwards to my shoulders, my legs, my fingertips. The dull throb in my lumbar region vanished. The tightness in my rotator cuff dissolved.
I took a deep breath. My lungs felt clearer. My muscles felt loose, pliable, and explosive.
"Whoa," I flexed my hand. "I feel... I feel like I could run a marathon right now."
[System]:Please don't. You have a match in two days. But yes, injury is now a very distant concern for you. You are built to last.
"Thanks, System. Really. This changes everything."
[System]:I'm not done. Those were the Cricketing Gifts. But you are 21 now. You are an adult in every sense. And a King needs a treasury.
[REWARD 3: THE BIRTHDAY BONUS]
Item: Financial Injection.
Amount:$21,000,000,000 (21 Billion USD)
Source: Legitimized via a complex web of investments, cryptocurrency spikes from 2010 that 'just' were recovered, and inheritances from dormant accounts. It is clean. It is tax-paid. It is yours.
I choked on my own spit. "Twenty-one... Billion? With a B?"
[System]:Happy Birthday.
"System, are you crazy? I'm a cricketer, not a country! What am I supposed to do with 21 billion dollars in cash?"
[System]:Whatever you want. Buy an IPL team. Buy a stadium. Build academies. Or just buy a very nice car. It's resource freedom. You no longer play for a contract. You play for glory. The money is just... lubrication for life.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I picked it up with trembling hands. A notification from my bank app.
[Credit Alert: $21,000,000,000.00 credited to Account ending in 8899.]
I stared at the numbers. The zeroes went on forever. I was richer than the owners of the team I played for. I was richer than almost anyone I knew.
"This is insane," I muttered, putting the phone down as if it were radioactive. "I need to process this."
[System]:Take your time. But there is a catch regarding the Cricket Rewards.
"Of course there is," I sighed, looking back at the blue screen. "What's the catch?"
[System]:The Viv Richards Aura and the Brett Lee Mechanics need to calibrate with your current physiology. Your body needs to adjust to the new recovery rate and the psychological shifts.
Calibration Time: 45 Days.
Activation Event:ICC T20 World Cup 2021.
"So I can't use them for the rest of the England series?"
[System]:You still have your current skills, which, as we established, are already world-class. You can still bowl 145kmph and few 150kmph. You can still bat like a dream. But the 'God Mode' upgrades—the Swagger and the Infinite Stamina—will unlock when you put on the Blue Jersey for the World Cup.
I nodded slowly. It made sense. It gave me something to work towards. The England series was about grit. The World Cup... that would be about domination.
"I can wait," I said. "The T20 World Cup. That's where we conquer the world."
[System]:That is the spirit. Now, I suggest you sleep. Even with Super Recovery, your brain needs rest. I will be here, running diagnostics in the background.
"Goodnight, System," I said, a smile plastering my face. "It's good to have you back."
[System]:Goodnight, King.
The blue light faded, plunging the room back into darkness.
I lay back on the pillow, but sleep was impossible now. I felt energized. I felt powerful.
I looked at my hand in the dark.
21 Billion dollars. Viv Richards' Swagger. Brett Lee's Engine. And a System that had my back.
I turned my head to look at Gill, who was snoring softly.
"Sorry, brother," I whispered into the dark. "But I think the gap between us just got a little bit wider."
I closed my eyes, visualizing the T20 World Cup. I saw myself in the blue jersey. I saw the fear in the bowler's eyes as I chewed gum, staring them down. I saw the stumps flying at 155kmph.
The Prince was dead. The King was waking up.
And the world had absolutely no idea what was coming.
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Author's Note: - 5700+ Words 😮😮
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