Three years Time Skip.
Siddanth Deva had been unmade and reforged. The 13-year-old prodigy was gone, replaced by a 16-year-old weapon. The adolescent growth spurt, which made most boys clumsy, had, for Siddanth, been a precise recalibration. He hadn't just grown taller; he had grown denser, quicker, and more efficient.
He was a lean 5'8", but every ounce of him was purposeful. His training was no longer about simple push-ups and running. It was a brutal, professional regimen of plyometrics, core stabilization, and flexibility drills, all designed with one purpose: to ensure the career-ending injury that was statistically looming just two years in his future would find no purchase, no weakness, no-fault line.
The system, as if acknowledging his new, semi-pro status, had granted him three more Bronze Lottery spins. They were, as always, a bizarre cocktail of the absurd and the divine.
Connoisseur of Fine Art (Passive): He now possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the European Renaissance. He could, with a glance, differentiate a Titian from a Tintoretto. Utterly, infuriatingly useless... until he realized the study of form, balance, and human aesthetics had subtly influenced his own batting stance. He'd become more classical in his defense, his movements possessing an unconscious, artistic grace.
Parkour Instincts (Passive): This was the upgrade he'd craved. His Acrobatic Instincts had been for diving; this was for movement. It was the art of efficiency. He no longer ran to a ball; he flowed around obstacles. Running between the wickets, he didn't turn; he vaulted, his center of gravity remaining perfectly level. In the field, he was a specter.
Kinetic Vision (Active - 10 seconds): This was the game-changer. For a 10-second duration, he could perceive the micro-twitches, the subtle tensing of muscles, the minute shifts in balance of an opponent. He could, quite literally, read their immediate future. A bowler's grip, a batsman's trigger—all laid bare.
He was no longer just a school hero. He was Siddanth Deva of the Hyderabad District U-19 team. And today was the final of the Andhra Pradesh Inter-District Championship.
The morning air was thick with the humid promise of a Warangal summer. Siddanth was in the modest guest house, his face a mask of cold, professional focus.
His father, Vikram Deva, walked in, not with a newspaper, but with two cups of filter coffee. Vikram had aged, but his eyes were sharper. The lawyer's skepticism had been replaced by a manager's intensity. He was no longer just a father; he was a stakeholder.
"It's a full house today," Vikram said, his voice a low rumble. He passed the cup to Siddanth. "Or as full as the S.R.R. District Ground gets."
Siddanth took a sip, the hot, bitter liquid grounding him. "Good."
"Good? It's chaos. But you're right." Vikram sat on the edge of the cot. "I was speaking to the convenor. It's not just local selectors today, Siddanth. The big three are here."
Siddanth stopped rolling. The "big three" were the head selectors for the Andhra Pradesh state Ranji Trophy and U-19 squads.
"They're not here for the team, Siddanth," Vikram continued, fixing his son with an unblinking stare. "They're here for you... and for Ramana."
Ramana. The name hung in the air. Ramana of Visakhapatnam. The 17-year-old fast-bowling prodigy. He was the only other player in the tournament spoken of with the same hushed awe as Siddanth. They were the two pillars, and the final was their collision course.
"This isn't about a cup, Siddu," Vikram said, his voice softening for a fraction of a second. "This isn't school. This isn't even the U-16s. This is the door. Today is the day you prove you've built a body and a game that can't be broken. Today is the day you knock that door down."
He looked at his father, the 35-year-old mind seeing the 50-year-old man, the years of sacrifice, the belief.
"I won't just knock," Siddanth said, his voice quiet. "I'll walk right through."
The S.R.R. District Ground was a cauldron. The temporary stands were overflowing, a vibrant, noisy mass of people. It was a true district final, a festival of cricket.
Siddanth saw them in the "Family" stand near the pavilion. His mother, Sesikala, was a nervous wreck, clutching a water bottle and fanning herself, her eyes darting between the crowd and the field. Beside her was Arjun. He wasn't just a friend; he was Siddanth's unofficial analyst, his notebook filled with arcane symbols and statistics he'd tracked himself.
And then there was Vikram. He was at the back, arms crossed, sunglasses on, unmoving. A statue of pure, focused intensity.
"Hyderabad, you win the toss," the match referee said.
"We'll bowl first," the Hyderabad captain, a tough U-19 kid named Rakesh, said, echoing the team plan. Let Siddanth and the seamers use the morning moisture. Let Siddanth chase.
It was the right call.
Visakhapatnam walked out, their openers confident. Their star, Ramana, was padded up, waiting at #4.
Siddanth took the new ball. It was a deep, dark-red SG Test, hard as a rock, the seam like a row of teeth. He weighed it in his hand. His Bowling Technique (B-) was now fused with his S-Rank Reflexes. He was a 120kph bowler who could put the ball on a coin six times in a row.
The Vizag opener, a stocky kid with a high backlift, took guard.
Siddanth stood at the top of his mark. He closed his eyes for a second.
Okay. Let's see.
He activated Kinetic Vision.
The world didn't slow down. It clarified. For ten seconds, he wasn't just looking at the batsman; he was reading him.
He saw the micro-twitch in the batsman's right shoulder. A tensing.
He saw the front foot's weight distribution, 70% on the toe, ready to push forward.
He's premeditated. He's expecting the in-swinger I've been bowling all tournament. He's going to drive.
The 10-second vision faded. Siddanth's plan, which had been to swing one in, evaporated. He now had the cheat codes.
You want the drive? Fine. Have it.
He ran in, his action smooth, classical. But at the last second, he changed his grip. He didn't lock his wrist. He let it break, just a fraction, cutting across the seam.
It wasn't an out-swinger. It was a leg-cutter, bowled at 120kph.
The batsman, seeing the ball pitch on the middle stump, went for his premeditated, glorious cover drive.
The ball, gripping the moisture, fizzed away. It beat the bat by an inch.
THWACK.
The off-stump cartwheeled, a beautiful, violent end.
The ground erupted. Siddanth just calmly walked to the keeper, took the ball, and shone it. Arjun, in the stands, was jumping, scribbling furiously in his book. Vikram... Vikram just nodded.
Siddanth's opening spell was a masterpiece of surgical cruelty. 5 overs, 2 maidens, 9 runs, 1 wicket.
But the real drama began in the 30th over.
A Vizag batsman, trying to accelerate, smashed a ball high over extra cover. It was in the gap. It was a certain four, maybe more, on the quick outfield.
Siddanth, at deep extra cover, saw it.
He didn't just run.
He flew.
His Parkour Instincts kicked in.
He sprinted, not to where the ball was, but to where it would be. He launched himself, parallel to the ground, a full-body extension. His right hand, inches from the grass, snagged the ball.
But he was going too fast. He was going to hit the hard, rope boundary.
No.
He didn't brace. He didn't tumble. He rolled.
In one seamless, fluid motion that defied the laws of 16-year-old physics, he hit the ground, tucked his shoulder, performed a perfect parkour-roll, and sprang back to his feet, holding the ball aloft.
The stadium was silent for a full second. Then, it exploded.
That wasn't a catch. That was a statement.
Even the selectors, the "big three," were on their feet, applauding.
Vizag, rattled and outgunned, managed to scrape together a respectable, but seemingly insufficient, 212 runs. Ramana, their star, had been run out for 12, a victim of Siddanth's lightning-fast throw from the point boundary.
The real battle was yet to come.
"Right," Rakesh, the captain, said in the dressing room. "213 to win. Good score. Their bowling is Ramana and 5 others. Be careful of Ramana."
The chase began. And it was a nightmare.
Ramana, the Vizag Viper, was not a 16-year-old boy. He was a 18-year-old force of nature. He was 6'2", all sharp bones and furious muscle, and he was bowling fast. Genuinely fast. 140kph fast.
The Hyderabad openers, brave U-19s, were rabbits in a hurricane.
First over: A 140kph bouncer that nearly took the opener's head off.
Second over: A 142kph yorker that crushed the #1's toes. LBW.
12 for 1.
Third over: The #3 batsman, Rakesh, the captain, got a brave edge. Caught at slip.
21 for 2.
Fifth over: The other opener, terrified, was bowled by an inswinger he never even saw.
28 for 3.
Siddanth Deva picked up his bat. The Hyderabad dugout was a tomb. In the stands, his mother, Sesikala, had her hands over her eyes. Arjun was chewing on his pen. Vikram was immobile.
Siddanth walked out. The Vizag team, smelling blood, closed in. The sound of 10,000 people had faded to a low, anxious hum.
He took guard. Ramana was at the top of his mark, pawing the ground like a bull.
"School's over, prodigy," the keeper sneered. "Welcome to the real game."
Ramana charged in. It was a 16-second-long, primal scream of an approach. He hurled the ball.
It was a bouncer. 143kph, aimed directly at Siddanth's helmet.
Siddanth's S-Rank Reflexes didn't just see a red blur. He saw the rotation of the seam. He saw the trajectory. He had, in his mind, an eternity.
His 16-year-old body, however, was still 16.
He didn't hook. He didn't pull.
He just... swayed.
It was an impossibly late, impossibly graceful, millimeter-perfect sway. His Connoisseur of Fine Art mind appreciated the form of the evasion. The ball hissed past his right ear, a red-leather assassin.
He didn't blink. He just stared back at Ramana.
The crowd let out a breath it didn't know it was holding.
Ramana was livid. He bowled faster.
A 144kph yorker. Siddanth's bat, guided by his A- hand-eye, came down like a guillotine, digging it out. Thud.
A 142kph outswinger. Siddanth's Parkour Instincts gave him perfect balance, and he just... left it.
Ramana's first over to Siddanth: 0 runs, 0 chances, 3 plays-and-misses (that Siddanth had meant to miss), and one terrifying bouncer.
Siddanth had survived. More than that, he'd downloaded the data.
This wasn't cricket. This was Mastery of Chess.
Ramana is the Queen. He's powerful, but he's all they have. Their spinners... are pawns.
My partner, an 18-year-old named Vamsi, is my Rook. He just needs to stay in his corner.
For the next 15 overs, Siddanth Deva did the most infuriating thing possible: he played boring cricket.
He blocked Ramana's next spell. He took singles, easy, soft-handed, singles, off the spinners. He used his Dancing Skills footwork to glide down and smother the spin, giving the bowlers no hope.
He calmed Vamsi down, talking to him between every over.
"Good block, Vamsi. Just watch the ball. Nothing else matters."
"He's giving us a run at third man. Just a tap. That's all I need."
The partnership built.
30 for 3 became 50 for 3.
80 for 3.
110 for 3.
Siddanth was on 45. Vamsi was on 20. They had weathered the storm.
The Vizag captain, in a panic, brought Ramana back for a third spell.
Equation: 90 runs needed from 12 overs.
"Now," Siddanth said to Vamsi. "Now, we play."
Ramana steamed in. He was tired, but furious.
Siddanth took guard. This is it. The selectors. My father. The game.
Activate Kinetic Vision.
The world clarified. Ramana's shoulder... a slight dip. His wrist... locked.
Slower ball. He's trying to trick me.
Siddanth's mind screamed with joy. His body tensed.
He didn't wait. He didn't just step out.
He charged.
He was two steps down the pitch before Ramana had even released the 115kph off-cutter.
The bowler, his eyes wide with horror, saw him coming.
Siddanth met the ball on the full toss.
It was not a block. It was not a drive.
It was an annihilation.
The ball flew, flat and hard, like a tracer bullet, past Ramana's head, and hit the sightscreen on the first bounce.
Four.
The silence was broken. Ramana was... scared.
Next ball. Ramana, in a blind panic, went back to what he knew. 145kph. Short.
Siddanth was waiting. He was already in position. He didn't pull. He didn't hook.
He ramped.
A 16-year-old in 2006, playing a shot that hadn't been invented.
He just angled the bat, used Ramana's pace, and the ball flew, fine and high, over the keeper's head for six.
Arjun, in the stands, fell off his chair. "HE DID IT! HE DID THE SHOT! HE DID THE SHOT!"
Vikram Deva's sunglasses were, for the first time, off. He was just... staring.
The dam was broken. Siddanth Deva was unleashed.
The next three overs were not a cricket match. They were a highlight reel.
He reverse-swept the spinner for four.
He used his Parkour instincts to run an impossible three, turning, vaulting, and diving, all in one motion.
He was a 10-year-old's dream, a 35-year-old's plan, and a 16-year-old's perfect physical vessel.
Vamsi, his partner, was bowled, but it didn't matter. Siddanth was farming the strike.
Equation: 10 runs needed. 1 over. Siddanth is on 94.
Ramana, spent, was out of the attack. A terrified 17-year-old medium-pacer was given the ball.
Siddanth was on strike.
Ball 1: A full toss. Siddanth just clipped it, easy, over square leg.
SIX.
Century.
He didn't celebrate. He just punched his bat and got back in his stance. The crowd was a wall of sound, but he was in a bubble of pure, cold silence.
4 runs needed. 5 balls.
Siddanth saw the field. Mid-on was too square. The selector was standing right behind him.
This is the moment.
Ball 2: The bowler bowled a decent ball on off-stump.
He didn't slog. He didn't defend.
He just... chipped it.
It was the most beautiful, elegant, arrogant, and perfectly timed shot of his life. A simple, wristy chip.
The ball floated agonizingly over the leaping mid-on's head.
It landed. And it rolled, slowly, to the boundary.
Four.
Hyderabad had won.
The game was over.
Siddanth Deva just stood there, leaning on his bat, his chest heaving, his mind finally, completely, at peace.
Then, the world descended.
The dugout emptied. His teammates, screaming, piled on top of him. He was buried under a mass of joyous, sweating, teenage boys. He was laughing, a real, genuine laugh.
He was pulled from the pile. Rakesh, the captain, was weeping. "You... you're not human, Deva. You're not..."
Siddanth just smiled, his eyes searching the stands.
He found them.
Sesikala was smiling, holding Arjun's shoulders, who was shouting his lungs out.
And then... Vikram.
His father was standing. He was not cheering. He was not clapping.
He just... looked at his son.
And as Siddanth met his gaze, Vikram Deva, the tough-as-nails lawyer, gave a single, slow, deliberate nod.
It was a nod that said, You did it.
It was a nod that said, The door is down.
It was a nod that said, That's my son.
Siddanth raised his bat. Not to the crowd. Not to his team.
To his father.
As his team lifted him onto their shoulders, carrying him off the field, Siddanth saw them. The "big three." The selectors. They weren't talking to each other. They were all on their phones, and they were all, every one of them, pointing right at him.
The next chapter had begun.