The name burned in Siddanth's vision, bright and promising: AB de Villiers.
In 2001, this name meant nothing. He was just some 17-year-old kid in Pretoria, unknown to the world, unknown to a 10-year-old in Hyderabad. But Siddanth Deva wasn't a 10-year-old. He was a 30-year-old cricket fanatic who had watched this very man redefine what was possible on a 22-yard pitch.
He wasn't given Tendulkar's perfection. He wasn't given Lara's flair or Ponting's aggression. He was given innovation. He was given athleticism. He was given the template for the most complete, versatile, and outrageously creative batsman the world would ever see.
This was better than Sachin. This was a cheat code for the future of cricket.
Siddanth's 10-year-old body, possessed by the unadulterated ecstasy of a 30-year-old man given a divine gift, did the only thing it could.
He began to jump.
"Yes! YES! YES!" he squeaked, his reedy voice cracking. He jumped on his cot, the old springs screaming in protest. He punched the air. He was a tiny, pajama-clad maniac, drunk on possibility.
The translucent screen flickered, as if accommodating his joy, before settling.
[Template Acquired: AB de Villiers (1%)]
[Integration Commencing...]
Siddanth stopped jumping, feeling a sudden, strange warmth spread from his chest to his fingertips. It wasn't painful. It felt... right. He stood straighter. He instinctively shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. He felt, for the first time in either of his lives, perfectly balanced.
The screen shifted again.
[Perks Unlocked (1%):]
+ Enhanced Hand-Eye Coordination (Passive)
+ Acrobatic Instincts (Latent)
+ 360° Field Awareness (Latent)
"Only 1%..." he murmured, his 30-year-old analytical mind kicking back in. "Latent... that means I have to work for it. It's not giving me his skills. It's giving me his potential."
He looked at his small, soft hands. They were still 10-year-old hands. But now, they were 10-year-old hands with the potential of a legend.
His mind was racing, building a new 20-year plan. The euphoria settled, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. The system was a tool, not a guarantee. The real enemy, the one that had ruined him, wasn't a bowler or a selector. It was his own body.
That was the first priority.
"Physical fitness," he said aloud. "Modern science. Core strength, flexibility, ligament reinforcement." He knew all about the exercises now. The planks, the stretches, the plyometrics that his 18-year-old self had ignored. "I will build a body that cannot be broken. I will not let that injury happen. Not this time."
"Siddu!"
The shout from the kitchen shattered his intense planning session.
"Siddanth! Breakfast is on the table! Stop jumping around in there, I can hear the bed complaining! Come now!"
It was his mother's voice. Sesikala.
It was a voice he hadn't heard in that specific, affectionately impatient tone in over a decade. In his 30-year-old life, their calls had become strained, full of unspoken disappointments and long-distance guilt. But this... this was the sound of home.
A lump formed in his 30-year-old throat. The system, the cricket, it all vanished. He was just... a son.
"Coming, Amma!" he called out, his voice wavering. "Just... 10 minutes!"
He scrambled to the attached bathroom, his new, balanced body feeling strange. He looked in the mirror. The 10-year-old kid looked back, his eyes wide.
The translucent screen was gone, visible only to his mind's eye. He splashed cold water from the tap onto his face, the shock of it grounding him. He brushed his teeth with a speed born of habit, the taste of simple Colgate powder a bizarre, nostalgic blast.
He walked out into the small living room.
His father, Vikram Deva, was already at the dining table. He was in his early forties, his hair still thick and black, his mustache neatly trimmed. He was already dressed in his crisp lawyer's whites, a black jacket hanging on the chair, The Hindu newspaper held up in front of his face like a shield. He looked... younger. Less burdened. The weary lines around his eyes, the ones Siddanth knew so well, weren't there yet.
His mother, Sesikala, bustled in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the pallu of her cotton saree. She was radiant, her face unlined, her energy boundless. In his 30-year-old's memory, his mother was a grey-haired, slow-moving woman who worried about his marriage. This woman was a force of nature.
"There you are," she smiled, ruffling his unruly hair as he sat down. The casual, loving touch sent a jolt through him. "Sit, sit. Eat. Your favorite."
She placed a steel plate in front of him. On it sat two perfect, puffed-up puris and a steaming, fragrant helping of aloo kurma.
His stomach rumbled. He picked up a piece of puri, his small fingers clumsy, and dipped it. The taste. It wasn't a memory. It was real. The spice, the tang, the warmth. He ate with a desperate, sudden hunger that was part 10-year-old appetite and part 30-year-old soul-deep starvation.
"Slowly, Siddu," his father rumbled from behind the paper, not looking up. "No one is stealing it."
"Leave him. He's a growing boy," Sesikala said, sitting down. "Now, listen. Siddu, after breakfast, we are going out. Summer holidays are almost over. We need to buy your new books and uniforms."
Siddanth paused, mid-chew. School. He'd forgotten.
"School starts in a week," his mother continued, "so we'll go to HPS today and get everything."
Hyderabad Public School. His 30-year-old mind braced for the familiar lecture. In his old timeline, this had been the flashpoint: the expensive school his father paid for versus the cricket dreams that had, in his father's eyes, led to ruin.
Vikram Deva finally lowered his paper, but instead of the stern, lawyerly gaze Siddanth expected, his father's eyes were... appraising.
"Yes, HPS is important," Vikram said, his voice a thoughtful rumble. "A good education is the foundation, Siddanth. A foundation is what you build on." He folded the paper and placed it on the table, a move that commanded Siddanth's full attention.
"That new bat in your room," his father continued, "it's a good one. Kashmir willow. But if you're serious... and I saw you practicing in the gully yesterday, that footwork is looking sharper... then you'll need more."
Siddanth stared, his puri halfway to his mouth. This was... new. This was not the script.
"Nanna?" (Nanna = Father)
"When we go to school today," Vikram said, a small, rare smile touching the edge of his mustache, "we'll stop at the sports shop in Abids. I think it's time we got you some proper pads. Can't become the next Tendulkar with bruised shins, can you?"
He winked. Winked.
The 10-year-old Siddanth would have been thrilled. The 30-year-old Siddanth was floored. The suffocating disappointment he remembered from his father... it wasn't here. Had his 30-year-old memory, clouded by the bitterness of his injury, painted his father wrong? Or had his new 10-year-old's vow, his 1% template, somehow... changed things?
"Yes, Nanna!" Siddanth said, his voice bright and, for the first time, completely genuine. "I'll study, and I'll practice! I promise!"
"Good boy," Vikram nodded, satisfied. He picked up his paper. "Just make sure you do both with your full effort. That's all I ask."
His mother smiled, and the world felt more than stable. It felt possible.
After breakfast, his father left for court. Siddanth found himself in the living room with an hour to kill before his mother was ready. He stood in front of the television, a massive, boxy BPL unit with a wood-grain finish. He pressed the 'On' button, and the screen crackled to life with a thwump.
He began to change channels, a clack-clack-clack sound accompanying each press of the hard plastic buttons. Doordarshan: some agricultural program. Gemini TV: a grainy, over-acted Telugu serial. Star Plus: a rerun of a show he vaguely remembered.
He couldn't remember what was on TV in 2001. His 30-year-old brain was full of Netflix queues and YouTube algorithms. This was ancient history.
And then, he found it. The iconic, swirling, black-and-white logo. Cartoon Network.
Tom and Jerry was on. Not the new, polite versions. The classic, violent, brilliantly animated originals. Tom was being flattened by a steamroller.
A wide, genuine grin split Siddanth's face. He sat on the cool, tiled floor, cross-legged. For twenty minutes, he wasn't a time-traveling, system-wielding, destiny-changing prodigy. He was just a 10-year-old kid laughing as a cat got hit with a frying pan. It was perfect.
"Siddu! I'm ready! Go change your clothes!"
He snapped out of the cartoon-induced haze. "Coming, Amma!"
He ran to his room. The system interface was gone, but he could feel it, a quiet hum in the back of his mind, a new awareness in his limbs. He looked at the Sachin poster, then at his SS bat in the corner. "Soon," he whispered.
He pulled off his pajamas and put on a cream-colored t-shirt and a pair of black shorts. He was ready.
The auto-rickshaw ride was a sensory assault. The 2001-era Hyderabad air was thick with dust, diesel fumes, and the sound of a thousand two-stroke engines. It was loud, chaotic, and utterly, wonderfully familiar.
They arrived at Hyderabad Public School in Begumpet. The sprawling campus, with its old, imposing stone buildings, looked exactly as he remembered. He'd spent eight years here in his original life.
His mother, a woman on a mission, navigated them to a large hall designated for book and uniform sales. It was a bedlam of parents waving lists and children complaining.
"You stay here, don't wander off," Sesikala instructed, before diving into the fray to get his booklist.
Siddanth stood by the door, feeling like a 30-year-old anthropologist studying a lost tribe. He looked at the kids. They were all... kids. Shouting, running, pulling at their mothers' sarees.
And then he saw him.
Near a mountain of fresh, crisp notebooks, looking bored and trying to subtly read a comic book hidden in his lap, was a scrawny kid with glasses too big for his face.
Siddanth's heart stopped.
Arjun.
It was Arjun. His best friend. The one who had sat by his hospital bed for hours after his surgery. The one who had endured his months of bitter, angry depression. The one who, in their late 20s, had fronted Siddanth the seed money for his first failed startup, no questions asked.
Arjun, who, in his 30-year-old timeline, he hadn't spoken to in three years, not since a stupid, unforgivable fight about that same, failed business.
Siddanth's 30-year-old guilt and 20 years of complex, unresolved friendship washed over him. He walked over, his legs feeling like lead.
"Arjun?" he said. His voice sounded small.
The 10-year-old Arjun looked up, blinking, and shoved the comic book away. "Oh, hi Siddanth! You're also in Section B? I'm in 5B."
Siddanth just grinned, a huge, watery, stupid grin. "Yeah. Me too. 5B."
He wanted to hug him. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to thank him for things he hadn't even done yet.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Arjun asked, suspicious. "Did you finish Harry Potter? I told you, you have to read it."
Siddanth laughed, a real, unburdened laugh. "Yeah, man. I'll read it."
Just then, their mothers found each other. "Aruna! How are you?" "Ah, Sesi! So good to see you! Our boys are in the same class!"
The mothers began a rapid-fire conversation. Sesikala reappeared, thrusting a heavy canvas bag into Siddanth's arms. "Here. Your books. Now, quickly, the clothes section."
The four of them walked, the mothers in front, chatting about school fees, the boys trailing behind.
"This is so boring," Arjun whispered, "I'd rather be playing Road Rash on my cousin's computer."
"I know, right?" Siddanth whispered back, and the simple, shared conspiracy felt like a healing balm.
After another hour of being measured for stiff, new uniforms, they were finally done. They parted ways at the main gates.
"Hey, Siddu," Arjun called out, "we're all playing at the St. John's ground this evening. A big match. We need an extra player. You have to come."
In his old life, Siddanth had been shy, hesitant. He'd have mumbled "maybe" or "I'll ask my Amma."
But this Siddanth had a 1% AB de Villiers template humming in his veins.
He looked at his oldest friend, the one he'd failed and the one he'd get to save, and he smiled. "What time?"
"5 PM sharp," Arjun said, impressed by his newfound confidence. "Don't be late. Rakesh's team is playing. They think they're the West Indies."
"I'll be there," Siddanth said, his voice steady. "Tell them to be ready."
At 4:45 PM, Siddanth walked out of his house, his 'SS' bat in hand. He'd told his mother he was "playing with Arjun," which was technically true.
The St. John's ground wasn't a real ground. It was a vast, dusty, uneven patch of land. The "pitch" was a strip of hard-rolled mud, as treacherous as a minefield. The "wickets" were three uneven sticks at one end and a stack of three large stones at the other.
But to the 20-odd boys, aged 10 to 12, this was Lord's.
Arjun saw him and waved. "Siddu! You came! We lost the toss. We're chasing. Rakesh's team scored 94."
Siddanth did the math. 12-over match. 94 runs. It was a massive score. The required rate was nearly 8 an over. The ball they were using was a tennis ball, but wrapped tightly in red electrical tape, making it heavy, fast, and dangerous.
"Who's Rakesh?" Siddanth asked, doing a few shadow-batting stretches. His body felt... coiled. Ready.
"Him," Arjun pointed. The bowler was a stocky 12-year-old who already had a faint mustache and an attitude. He was the one who'd scored 40 of their runs and was now warming up, his arm action a frankly terrifying chuck.
"Okay," Siddanth said, his 30-year-old mind calculating. "Who's opening?"
"Me and Sameer. You're one-down."
The chase began. It was a disaster.
Sameer, terrified of Rakesh's pace, was bowled first ball, a red-taped yorker that sent the stone-wickets flying.
0 for 1.
Arjun, at the other end, looked pale. Siddanth walked out.
Siddanth took his stance. Rakesh charged in.
The first ball was a bouncer. It was aimed right at his head. The 10-year-old Siddanth would have panicked and backed away. The 30-year-old Siddanth was terrified.
But the 1% ABdV... the 1% just saw.
+ Enhanced Hand-Eye Coordination.
The red ball, hurtling at his face, seemed... clear. He saw the seam. He had time. He didn't duck. He didn't flinch. He just swayed his head out of the way, his eyes never leaving the ball.
The "keeper" (a boy in flip-flops) fumbled it. The fielders "oohed." Rakesh stared. Siddanth had just... watched it go by.
"Lucky," Rakesh muttered.
The next ball was full, fast, and outside off. Siddanth's 30-year-old brain screamed "COVER DRIVE!" His 10-year-old body, however, was too small.
So the 1% template improvised.
His feet moved instinctively. He didn't plant his front foot. He just... glided. His bat came down, not in a classical arc, but with a sharp, wristy flick.
PING.
The ball raced past the fielder at point, who hadn't even moved. It was a boundary.
The field went silent. Arjun, at the non-striker's end, just stared. "Nice shot, Siddu..."
Siddanth looked at his bat, then at his hands. He hadn't even thought about that shot. It just... happened.
The chase was on. Arjun, emboldened, started blocking, rotating the strike. Siddanth... Siddanth was a revelation.
A ball was bowled at his legs. He didn't just flick it; he shuffled across his stumps and helped it on its way, fine, for four.
A short ball was bowled. Instead of pulling, his + Acrobatic Instincts (Latent) flared. He ramped it, getting on top of the bounce and guiding it over the keeper's head.
"What is that shot?" Rakesh yelled, his face turning red. "That's not cricket!"
"It's four runs!" Arjun yelled back.
But it couldn't last. Arjun was run out, a classic gully-cricket mix-up. 55 for 2. The new batsman was a kid named Ravi, who was just there to survive.
They limped. The overs ticked by.
It came down to the last over. 15 runs to win. 6 balls.
Rakesh, the mustache-clad demon, was bowling. Ravi was on strike.
Ball 1: Rakesh to Ravi. A terrified prod. They scramble a single. (14 off 5). Siddanth is on strike.
Ball 2: Rakesh steams in. He bowls a perfect yorker. Siddanth, his reflexes now buzzing, digs it out. They get a single. (13 off 4). Ravi is back on strike.
Ball 3: Rakesh to Ravi. A wild, blind swing. He misses. No run. (13 off 3).
Ball 4: Rakesh to Ravi. Another wild swing. He gets an inside edge. The ball rolls. "RUN!" Siddanth screams. They sprint. Ravi is safe. (12 off 2).
Siddanth is on strike. 12 to win. 2 balls. It's impossible. Two sixes are needed just to tie.
Rakesh is smug. He's spread the field. Everyone is on the boundary.
Siddanth stands at the crease. He's breathing hard. He closes his eyes. What would AB do?
AB wouldn't panic. AB would see the field.
+ 360° Field Awareness (Latent).
He opens his eyes. He sees it. There is no fine leg. Rakesh is too proud to put a fielder behind the keeper.
Rakesh charges in, aiming for the blockhole.
It's a fast, full ball, on leg stump.
Siddanth's 30-year-old brain says "It's over."
His 10-year-old body is terrified.
His 1% ABdV template says... "Now."
He shuffles. He shuffles way across his stumps, exposing all three. Rakesh's eyes go wide. Siddanth goes down on one knee. He's not just scooping. He's falling backward as he sweeps.
It's a shot that hasn't been invented yet. It's a shot of pure, unadulterated genius.
The bat connects. The ball flies, high and fine, over his own shoulder, over the stunned keeper's head, and one-bounces over the deep-behind-the-stumps boundary.
Four.
No, wait. The umpire (a 12-year-old from a neutral team) is signaling. He's raising both arms. The ground's "boundary" there is just a bush. It's... six? It's a gully-cricket six.
SIX!
6 runs off 1 ball.
The ground is in shock. Rakesh is apoplectic. "THAT'S NOT A SHOT! HE'S OUT! LBW!"
"He hit it!" Arjun screams from the sideline.
Siddanth just smiles. He gets back in his stance.
Rakesh is furious. He's not thinking. He's just... throwing.
Ball 6: Rakesh hurls the ball with all his might. It's a full toss. A nervous, chest-high, tape-ball full toss.
The red ball floats towards Siddanth. His + Enhanced Hand-Eye Coordination makes it look as big as a watermelon, and as slow as a cloud.
He doesn't think. He doesn't plan. He just reacts.
His body swivels. He's not on the ground. He's in the air. He jumps, and in mid-air, he connects. A full-blooded, horizontal-bat smash.
CRACK.
The sound is final. The ball rockets, flat and hard, like a tracer bullet. It's over the mid-wicket boundary before the fielder can even turn. It smashes into the wall of the community center, 20 yards behind the boundary line.
SIX.
They win.
There's a full second of stunned silence.
And then, the field erupts. Arjun and the rest of his team are sprinting, screaming. They don't just pat him on the back. They tackle him. He's at the bottom of a pile of 10-year-old boys, all yelling "SIDDU! SIDDU! SIDDU!"
He's laughing, breathless, the dust in his nose, the 'SS' bat still clutched in his hand.
Arjun pulls him up, his eyes wide. "Dude. That... that last shot. What was that? Where did you learn to bat like that?"
Siddanth Deva, a 30-year-old man in a 10-year-old's body, just grins, wiping the sweat and dust from his face.
"Just practicing," he says. "Just practicing."