The roar of the crowd at the S.R.R. District Ground was a physical thing. It was a wave of sound, raw and unpolished, that washed over the makeshift podium.
Siddanth stood there, his body a symphony of aches. His legs were numb, his shoulder throbbed from that 145kph bouncer, and his hands were raw from the bat-handle. But he was alive.
A local politician, whose name he'd already forgotten, was droning into a crackling microphone.
Siddanth just smiled and nodded. He didn't listen to a single thing.
"And now... a young man who needs no introduction... the Player of the Tournament, with 412 runs and 11 wickets... from Hyderabad... SIDDANTH DEVA!"
The name echoed, distorted, from the speakers, and the crowd surged with another roar. He walked up, shook the man's hand, and was presented with a comically large, gold-plated trophy. It was heavy. The weight felt good.
He saw them. The "big three." The state selectors. They weren't in the stands. They were on the edge of the field, near the pavilion, clipboards in hand. They weren't clapping. They were watching. Studying. One of them, a famous ex-Ranji captain, caught Siddanth's eye and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was the same nod his father had given him.
The door was open.
The bus ride back to Hyderabad was a rolling party. The U-19 team, high on their impossible victory, was singing, drumming on the seats, and re-living every shot of Siddanth's final over. Rakesh, the captain, was trying to explain the "parkour roll" catch to a bewildered team manager.
Siddanth sat in the back, his window seat a small island of peace. He let the noise wash over him, his eyes closed, the heavy trophy at his feet. He was the hero. He was the focus. And he had never felt more alone. They saw the what. Only he knew the how.
He let his head rest against the vibrating glass, and as the bus hurtled down the highway, the DING he'd been anticipating arrived.
It was not a small sound. It was a triumphant, internal fanfare. The blue screen was brighter, the text almost golden.
[Host has performed beyond all projections, demonstrating mastery over a high-pressure environment, tactical genius, and supernatural physical control. The vessel's integration with the template is now ready for the next phase.]
[Issuing Major Quest Reward...]
[+10.0% TEMPLATE INTEGRATION]
Siddanth gasped. Not 2%. Not 3%. Ten percent.
He hadn't been expecting it. The system, for all its absurdity, was rewarding his risk and his victory at a scale he hadn't thought possible.
It wasn't a gentle warmth. It was a surge. He felt it like a jolt of electricity, a shot of pure, uncut adrenaline. The screaming ache in his shoulder? Gone. The fiery cramps in his quads? Subsided, replaced by a deep, healing warmth. The fog of exhaustion lifted from his mind, his thoughts sharpening to a razor's edge.
He felt... light. He felt new.
[TEMPLATE: AB de Villiers (70.0%)]
[MILESTONE REACHED (70.0%)]
[ATTRIBUTE UNLOCK: "PREDATOR'S FOCUS (Lv. 1)" (Passive ability to enter a flow-state at will, filtering all external distractions and heightening sensory input.)]
[NEW SKILL TREE UNLOCKED: "POWER HITTING (Lv. 1)"]
This was it. This was the key to the next level. The "flow state" was what he'd been unconsciously chasing. Now, he could control it.
[Issuing Tournament Victory Bonus...]
[SILVER LOTTERY SPIN (1)]
The old, clunky bronze wheel was gone. In its place was a sleek, polished silver interface, the slots moving with a silent, fluid grace. This, Siddanth thought, is a pro-level reward.
He'd given up hoping for a "stamina potion." His Connoisseur of Fine Art skill had proven the system's humor was stranger than his own.
"Just... give me something interesting," he whispered.
He activated the spin. The slots blurred.
[Acoustic Guitar Mastery]...
[Basic Accounting]...
[Mnemonic Palace (Memory Technique)]...
[Minor Regeneration (Slow-burn)]...
"Come on, regeneration..." he prayed.
The wheel slowed. Clack... clack... clack.
It passed Regeneration. It passed Mnemonic Palace.
It landed, with a soft, expensive-sounding click, on a skill he hadn't even processed.
[REWARD ACQUIRED: SLEIGHT OF HAND (PASSIVE, Lv. 1)]
Siddanth stared.
Sleight of Hand. The art of the magician. Of the card sharp. Of the pickpocket.
He felt a new, alien dexterity tingle in his fingertips. His A+ reflexes and his new 70% template integrated it instantly.
He looked down at the "Player of the Tournament" medal hanging around his neck. He unconsciously palmed it, a movement so quick his own eyes barely registered it. He opened his hand.
It was gone.
He flexed his wrist. It was back.
He did it again. Gone. Back.
"Okay, system," he chuckled, "Okay. I see what you're doing."
He was a 16-year-old prodigy with the template of a 360-degree god, and now, the hands of David Copperfield.
The world was simply not ready for him.
The Deva household was not a home that evening. It was a festival.
Vikram Deva, the stern, pragmatic lawyer, had been transformed. The moment Siddanth walked in the door, trophy in hand, Vikram had done something Siddanth hadn't seen in either of his lives: he'd beamed. It was a high-wattage, unrestrained, blindingly proud smile.
"He's home!" Vikram had roared to the assembled crowd.
The small living room was packed. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors he hadn't spoken to in years—all were present. And in the center of it all, handing out jalebis and samosas like a woman possessed by joy, was Sesikala.
"My son!" she'd cried, rushing to him, ignoring the massive trophy to pull him into a hug that smelled of cardamom and rosewater. "My raja! Look at you! So thin! You're not eating! Here, eat this laddoo!"
She stuffed a sweet in his mouth before he could protest, her eyes shining with tears.
The party was for him, but it was about his parents. He watched his father, glass of whiskey in hand, holding court. Vikram was re-telling the story of the final, a story he'd only watched, but which he now narrated with the flair of a man who had bowled every ball and hit every six.
"...and then Ramana, 145kph, mind you, 145, bowls a bouncer... and my son... he just sways. Like this!" Vikram demonstrated, a clumsy, 50-year-old sway that nearly made him spill his drink, to the roaring laughter of his cousins.
Siddanth smiled, finding a quiet corner.
The party swirled around him. It was loud, it was chaotic, it was joyful. For the first time, Siddanth didn't feel out of place. He felt... good. He was home.
The buzz lasted for three days. Three days of relatives "just dropping by," of his mother making payasam until the milk ran out, of his father re-reading the small article in The Hindu's sports section a dozen times.
Siddanth, for his part, was already back to his routine. The 70% integration meant his body craved the physical load. He was in his room, doing advanced, one-handed plank-holds, when the phone rang.
It was the landline. The old, beige, rotary-dial phone that sat in the hallway.
Its ring was a shrill, demanding sound, a relic from a different time.
"Siddanth! Get the phone!" his mother called from the kitchen, her hands covered in atta.
He unfolded himself from his plank, his new Predator's Focus making the transition from intense exercise to complete calm a matter of a single breath. He walked into the hall and picked up the heavy receiver.
"Deva residence."
"Yes, hello, may I please speak to Mr. Vikram Deva? Or... or Mr. Siddanth Deva?" The voice was male, professional, and had an authoritative weight.
"This is Siddanth," he said, his heart giving a single, hard thump.
"Ah, Mr. Deva. Siddanth. This is K.M. Sridhar, from the Andhra Pradesh Cricket Association."
Siddanth's 35-year-old mind went into overdrive. It's happening. Stay calm. Be 16.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said, his voice polite, steady.
"Good afternoon, son. I was at the final in Warangal. A... a hell of an innings."
"Thank you, sir."
"Yes. We... the selection committee, that is... we've been watching you for a while. And after that performance... well, there's no point in waiting."
Siddanth held his breath.
"We'd like to formally invite you to the state team selection camp. Not the U-19s. The main camp."
"The... the Ranji camp?" Siddanth asked, his voice, for the first time, betraying a crack.
"Not just the camp, Siddanth," the man chuckled. "We've already had our meeting. We're announcing the 30-man probable squad for the upcoming Ranji Trophy season tomorrow. Your name is on that list."
...
"Siddanth? Are you there, son?"
Siddanth's vision had gone narrow. The hallway. The beige phone. His mother, who had come out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pallu, her face a question mark.
Ranji. Probables. The injury. It's here. The future is here.
"Yes, sir," Siddanth said, his voice a low, hard whisper. "I'm here."
"Good. Excellent. Your father will get the official letter tomorrow. Be ready to report to the Gymkhana grounds on the 10th. And Siddanth?"
"Sir?"
"Welcome to the big leagues. Don't let us down."
The line clicked.
Siddanth stood, the receiver still in his hand, the dial tone buzzing.
"Siddu?" Sesikala asked, her voice trembling. "Who... who was that? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Vikram had come out of his study, hearing the silence. "Son? What is it?"
Siddanth slowly, deliberately, placed the receiver back in its cradle. He turned to face his parents.
"That was Mr. Sridhar. From the Cricket Association."
Vikram's hand went to his heart. "And...?"
"I'm in," Siddanth said. "I've been selected. For the Ranji Trophy probables."
Silence.
For a full, agonizing, three-second-long silence, the Deva household was a vacuum.
Then... pandemonium.
"AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEE!" Sesikala let out a shriek that Siddanth was half-convinced shattered a window. It was a sound of such pure, primal, ecstatic joy that it was almost terrifying. She didn't just hug him; she tackled him, weeping, laughing, and chanting "My son! My son! My son!"
Vikram Deva... broke.
The lawyer, the manager, the stern, calculating father—he disappeared. His face crumpled. His hand, the one not on his heart, reached out and gripped Siddanth's shoulder, his fingers digging in like a vice, as if to confirm his son was real.
"You... you... You did it," Vikram whispered, his voice thick, his eyes flooding. He pulled Siddanth into a fierce, suffocating hug, crushing his wife and son together.
"He did it, Sesi! HE DID IT! MY BOY!"
Sesikala was a blur, rushing to the pooja room, grabbing laddoos, and stuffing them in Vikram's and Siddanth's mouths, smearing sugar and tears and ghee all over their faces. "I have to call my sister in Karminagar! I have to call everyone!"
"I'll call the office!" Vikram roared, laughing as he wiped his face. "I'm taking the week off! We're celebrating!"
They were a whirlwind of pure, ecstatic joy, a 16-year-old's dream made manifest.
Siddanth was laughing, his mouth full of laddoo, being hugged and kissed by his hysterical, wonderful parents. He was happy. He was truly, deeply happy.
But as his mother ran for the phone, and his father poured himself a celebratory drink at 11 in the morning, Siddanth Deva's 35-year-old mind was already clear.
He was in the Ranji squad.
He was now in the same dressing room, the same field, as 28-year-old professionals. Men who bowled 145kph for a living. Men who lived and died by this.
He was walking into the lion's den.
Good, he thought, Let them come.