The final day.
Siddanth woke up before his 5 AM alarm because of pure, unadulterated agony.
His 10-year-old body was staging a full-scale mutiny. The Stamina (D) attribute, which he'd seen on his status page, was no longer an abstract letter. It was a searing reality. His legs, from his calves to his hips, felt like they were packed with hot, wet cement. His left shoulder, the one he'd used to muscle that impossible 62, was a knot of dull, throbbing fire.
He sat up, his 10-year-old's high-pitched groan sounding comically tragic in the pre-dawn quiet.
"This," he whispered, his 30-year-old mind grim, "is the bill."
He knew this pain. This was the post-injury, "I-pushed-it-too-hard" pain that had haunted his late teens. Only now, it was worse, because his 10-year-old frame had none of the muscle-memory or conditioning to handle what he'd forced it to do.
He spent thirty minutes in a scalding hot shower, just to get his limbs to obey him. As he got dressed, he looked at his bat. The English willow was scarred, peppered with red leather marks. Trophies.
His mother, Sesikala, was already awake, her face a mask of anxiety. "Siddu, you look... You look pale. Are you okay? You don't have to go. It's just a game."
"It's not just a game, Amma," he said, his voice quiet. He managed a smile, but it felt like cracking plaster. "And I'm fine. Just tired."
His father, Vikram, was at the table, not with his newspaper, but just... waiting. He'd been at the grounds yesterday, a face in the small crowd of parents. He hadn't said a word when Siddanth got home, just put a hand on his son's head—a gesture of unspoken pride that had meant more than any lecture.
"Eat," Vikram said, pushing a plate of idlis towards him. "You'll need the fuel."
The bus ride was a tomb. The U-12 team was, to a man, exhausted. Arjun looked like a zombie. But when they pulled into the Gymkhana Grounds, the atmosphere was completely different.
There was a crowd.
Parents, students from other schools, and—most importantly—the entire HPS U-14 and U-17 teams, who had been knocked out, were lining the boundary. A small marquee had been set up for the presentation. This was it. The big one.
Their opponents were the reigning champions, St. Mary's V.C. They were a machine. They hadn't just won their matches; they'd disassembled their opponents. They were warming up, and it was a terrifying sight. They were all tall, their whites were pristine, and they had a fast bowler, a kid named Praveen, who was already 5'10" at 12 and was bowling fast.
"Right, HPS!" Coach Narendar roared, his voice thick with emotion. He gathered them in a tight huddle. "Look at them. They're big. They're the champions. They're supposed to win." He paused, his eyes finding each of his players. "But they haven't played us. They haven't played you."
The toss. Rohan, the HPS captain, spun the coin. The St. Mary's captain called tails. It was tails.
"We'll bowl," the St. Mary's captain said, a smirk on his face. He'd seen Siddanth limp off the bus. He wanted to break them, fast.
Coach Narendar's face tightened. "Rohan, Deva, pads on. You're opening. He's bringing his monster, Praveen. See him off. Just... see him off."
Siddanth's 30-year-old mind corrected him. See him off? No. There's no 'seeing him off' in a 20-over final. This isn't a Test. We're batting first. We have to set a total.
"Coach," Siddanth said, his voice low.
"Not now, Deva, just pad up—"
"No, Coach," Siddanth insisted, his 10-year-old eyes burning with a 30-year-old's conviction. "I'm not 'seeing him off.' I'm taking him on."
The First Innings: The 10-Year-Old God
Siddanth and Rohan walked out. The St. Mary's team, in their dark blue caps, looked like giants. Praveen, the fast bowler, was tossing the new, bright-red cherry from hand to hand.
Siddanth took guard. His legs were shaking, not from fear, but from muscle failure.
Stamina (D)... you're a cruel mistress, he thought.
Praveen charged in. He was genuinely quick. The ball, a blur, pitched short and reared at Siddanth's face.
It was a test. A threat.
Siddanth's Reflexes and Hand-Eye Coordination flared. His body was too slow to hook, too sore to pull.
So he just... watched.
He arched his back, his Acrobatic Instincts taking over, and let the ball whistle past his nose.
The keeper took it with a slap at head height.
"Welcome to the final, little man!" the keeper chirped.
Siddanth just smiled. You're too short, he thought.
Ball 2: Praveen, annoyed, overcompensated. Full, fast, and on the stumps.
Siddanth didn't move his feet. He just presented the full face of the bat. It was a classical, perfect block.
THWACK.
The sheer pace of the ball sent it racing back past the bowler for two runs. He hadn't hit it; he'd redirected it.
Praveen was furious.
The first three overs were a brutal, ugly war. Siddanth just survived. Rohan, at the other end, was terrified and was clean-bowled by a fast yorker.
HPS: 12 for 1.
Arjun walked in, his knees knocking. "Siddu, he's... he's..."
"He's a kid, Arri. Just a kid like us," Siddanth lied, his hands stinging from the vibration. "Block. And run when I tell you."
The St. Mary's captain, seeing HPS in survival mode, made a fatal error. He took Praveen off the attack to save him for the death overs.
"Thank you," Siddanth whispered.
The first-change bowler, a gentle off-spinner, trotted in.
Siddanth's 30-year-old brain and his aching body screamed in unison: RELEASE.
Ball 1: The spinner floats it up. Siddanth danced down the track, his 10-year-old legs finding a sudden spring. He met the ball on the half-volley and sent it sailing over the long-on boundary.
SIX.
It landed in the U-17s' spectator area, who roared.
Ball 2: The spinner, panicking, darts it in flat. Siddanth, his 360° Field Awareness active, was already waiting. He went down on one knee. Reverse-sweep. Four.
Ball 3: The spinner, completely broken, dropped it short. Siddanth rocked back and pulled it, with a grunt of pain and effort, for four more.
16 runs from three balls. The game had changed.
For the next ten overs, Siddanth Deva was a surgeon. His body was a wreck, so he couldn't rely on power. He relied on gaps.
He used his Innovative Shot-Making not for sixes, but for boundaries in impossible places.
He lapped the medium-pacers over short-fine-leg.
He reverse-paddled the spinners.
He guided balls between point and gully with just a turn of the wrist.
He and Arjun, who had settled into his role as "the guy who gives Siddanth the strike," built a massive partnership.
Siddanth brought up his 50. He was barely running his singles; his legs were cramping so badly.
The St. Mary's captain was in despair. He had no answer.
HPS: 130 for 1 after 15 overs.
Siddanth was on 78. He was dying on his feet. The St. Mary's captain brought Praveen back. It was time for the final showdown.
"One last push," Siddanth muttered.
Praveen charged in, his face a mask of thunder.
Ball 1: A perfect, searing yorker. Siddanth, his reflexes on fire, jammed his bat down at the last millisecond. He'd been waiting for it. He didn't just block it. He opened the face. The ball squirted past the keeper for four.
It was the shot from the quarter-final. Praveen screamed in frustration.
Siddanth was 82.
Ball 2: Praveen goes short. Nasty. At the body. Siddanth, his Acrobatic Instincts firing, jumped, swiveled, and helped the ball on its way. It was a horizontal-bat pull, all wrist and timing.
SIX. Over fine-leg.
Siddanth was 88.
Ball 3: Praveen hurls a length ball, pure rage. Siddanth, his feet now planted like concrete, just swung. A pure "get-out-of-my-way" swing. The ball flew over mid-wicket for another...
SIX.
Siddanth was 94.
Ball 4: Praveen is broken. He just runs and throws. It's a full toss. A nervous, chest-high full toss.
Siddanth's Hand-Eye Coordination (B-) made it look like a beach ball.
He didn't hit it. He caressed it. A simple, elegant, wristy flick. The ball bisected the two fielders on the leg side and raced away. Four.
He was on 98.
The entire ground was on its feet. The U-17s were chanting "DE-VA! DE-VA!" Coach Narendar was pacing like a madman.
Ball 5: Praveen hurls the ball. It's on the stumps.
Siddanth went deep in his crease.
He scooped it.
A fast bowler, bowling at full pace, and a 10-year-old boy in agonizing pain just... scooped him.
The ball flew, high and fine, over the keeper's head. It bounced once. And hit the boundary rope.
Four.
ONE HUNDRED.
A century. In the final. Off 54 balls.
Siddanth didn't run. He couldn't. He just stood there, raised his bat to the heavens, and then to the HPS dugout. The crowd was a wall of noise.
He wasn't done.
The next four overs were not cricket. They were a massacre.
With his century achieved and his body completely numb, Siddanth Deva unlocked a new level of his 7% template. He was a 10-year-old god.
He hit sixes at will. He reverse-swept Praveen for six. He hit a one-handed six over cover.
He was finally out on the last ball of the 19th over, trying to hit a seventh consecutive boundary.
His score: 138.
Arjun, who had been a spectator, was out for 24. The rest of the team had just... watched.
The final score was a U-12 record that would never be broken.
HPS: 234 for 4 in 20 overs.
Siddanth didn't walk off. He collapsed at the boundary line. His teammates had to carry him to the bench.
The Second Innings: The Inevitable Collapse
"He... he scored 138," the St. Mary's coach said, his face ashen.
"Right," Coach Narendar said to his team, his voice cracking. He pointed at Siddanth, who was on his back, a wet towel on his face, his legs being held up by two U-17s to stop the cramps.
"He did that. For you. Now. Do. Not. Let. Him. Down."
It was a formality.
Chasing 235 is a psychological impossibility for 12-year-olds. They weren't just beaten; they were traumatized.
Their star batsmen, the ones who had dominated the tournament, came out swinging, blinded by rage and scoreboard pressure.
They hit. And they missed.
It was a parade. The St. Mary's team didn't just lose. They imploded. They were trying to hit sixes when they needed to survive. The pressure of Siddanth's 138 was a 12th man, a demon on their shoulders.
Their "star" fast bowler, Praveen, came in at #9. He was bowled for a golden duck by Arjun.
The final wicket fell. A simple LBW.
St. Mary's V.C. were all out. For 87.
HPS had won. By 148 runs.
The HPS dugout... exploded. They didn't run for the stumps. They ran for the bench. They piled on top of Siddanth, a screaming, crying, joyous mass of 10-year-old boys.
"DE-VA! DE-VA! DE-VA!"
He was laughing, he was crying, he was in so much pain, and he had never felt more alive, in either life.
The presentation was a blur. Siddanth was named Man of the Match. He was named Man of the Tournament. He was named Best Batsman. He was so tired, he just kept nodding, his small 10-year-old body dwarfed by the massive, gleaming silver cup.
The bus ride back was a party. The U-12s, U-14s, and U-17s were all singing, banging on the windows, and chanting his name.
Siddanth sat in the back, his head against the cool glass, the winner's cup in his lap. He just wanted to sleep for a year.
And then, the DING.
The blue screen filled his vision, a triumphant fanfare of text.
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: Win a U-12 Tournament by scoring 100+ and taking a wicket.]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "DAVID VS. GOLIATH" (Lead an underdog team to a dominant victory)]
[Host has displayed tactical genius, impossible willpower, and a skill level far exceeding the current vessel's limits. A truly dominant performance.]
[Congratulations, Player. This is your first true victory.]
[Issuing Major Quest Reward...]
[+3.0% TEMPLATE INTEGRATION]
Siddanth felt a rush of warm, golden energy. It wasn't like the 0.5% increments. This was a flood. The agonizing pain in his legs and shoulder didn't disappear, but it eased. The fire was banked, replaced by a deep, healing warmth.
[TEMPLATE: AB de Villiers (10.0%)]
[MILESTONE REACHED (10.0%)]
[NEW SKILL TREE UNLOCKED: "PHYSICALITY (LV. 1)"]
[Host can now assign Template Points (TP) to systematically upgrade the vessel's physical limitations.]
"Yes..." Siddanth breathed. This was it. This was the key. He could fix his stamina.
[Issuing Tournament Victory Bonus...]
[BRONZE LOTTERY SPIN (1)]
A new screen appeared. A simple, three-slotted bronze-colored roulette wheel.
"Okay," Siddanth's 30-year-old mind buzzed, "Come on. Give me a stamina potion. A recovery skill. Give me a bowling template. Give me anything I can use."
He willed the wheel to spin.
It spun. The slots blurred.
[Basic Fencing Skills]... [Ambidextrous Calligraphy]... [Minor Healing Potion (1-time)]... [Advanced Language Comprehension]...
"Come on, come on... healing potion..."
The wheel slowed.
Clack... clack... clack.
It passed the healing potion.
"No!"
It landed, with a final, mundane click, on a slot he hadn't even paid attention to.
[REWARD ACQUIRED: ADVANCED COOKING SKILLS (PASSIVE)]
Siddanth stared.
...
...Cooking?
The system, as if sensing his confusion, elaborated.
[Skill Acquired: Advanced Cooking Skills (Passive, Lv. 1). Host now possesses the equivalent knowledge of a professional-grade line chef, including knife skills, flavor theory, and food chemistry.]
Siddanth, the hero of the day, the man-child who had just scored 138, the U-12 legend, just... stared.
His 30-year-old self, the man who had lived on instant noodles and corporate cafeteria food, was speechless.
"Cooking?" he whispered in the back of the loud, celebratory bus. "I just won a war with a cricket bat, and you gave me a spatula?!"
He was in agony. He was a champion. And now, inexplicably, he knew, with sudden and absolute clarity, how to perfectly brunoise a carrot.
He didnt know whether to laugh or cry.
His 10-year-old body, making the decision for him, finally gave in. He slumped against the window, cup in his arms, and fell fast asleep, dreaming of sixes and, for some strange reason, a perfectly-seared foie gras.