Deva slowly lowered his willow. He reached up with a gloved hand, unbuckled his helmet, and pulled it off, letting the Southampton breeze hit his sweat-soaked face. He raised both arms into the sky, his eyes closed.
He didn't have time to savor the moment.
From the non-striker's end, Rishabh Pant had taken off the instant the ball crossed the rope. The young wicket-keeper sprinted toward his captain, covering the twenty-two yards before launching himself forward and tackling Deva in a hug.
Deva staggered backward under the weight, a loud laugh escaping his chest as he wrapped his arms around the young batsman.
"We did it, Sid bhai! We did it!" Pant screamed, his voice hoarse, his arms around Deva's neck.
Before Deva could respond, the Indian dressing room balcony emptied.
Virat Kohli, his face red with adrenaline, sprinted onto the pitch, leading the charge. Jasprit Bumrah, Ravichandran Ashwin, Rohit Sharma, and the rest of the squad poured out of the pavilion, flooding onto the grass.
Kohli reached the group first, grabbing Deva by the shoulders and shaking him as he roared in celebration.
"You absolute madman! You absolute machine!" Kohli shouted over the noise of the stadium, his eyes shining with emotion. "A hundred and a five-wicket haul! In England!"
"Get off me, you're crushing my ribs!" Deva laughed, trying to stay upright as Ishant Sharma and Mohammed Shami joined the group, surrounding the captain.
They jumped around the center of the pitch, shouting, laughing, and releasing the tension of the pandemic era and the exhausting WTC cycle. The pressure had lifted.
Slowly, the group began to separate. The exhaustion of the six-day Test match returned, the players breathing heavily, slapping each other on the back, their white kits stained with dirt and grass.
The New Zealand players were devastated. They had fought a hard battle, using the conditions well, only to be beaten by a single player who had controlled the game with bat and ball. But the Black Caps were known for their sportsmanship.
Deva walked down the line, shaking hands with Trent Boult, offering a word of respect to Neil Wagner for his short-ball barrage, and exchanging a nod with Kyle Jamieson.
Finally, he reached the end of the line.
Kane Williamson stood there, his hands on his hips, a smile on his face. The New Zealand captain had played a gritty innings to keep his team in the match, but it hadn't been enough.
Williamson extended his hand. Deva took it, pulling the Kiwi captain into a firm half-hug.
"Well played, Sid," Williamson murmured, stepping back. "That batting display today... I don't think anyone else in the world could have played that spell from Trent and Tim like that. You took the pitch out of the equation."
"You made us bleed for every single run, Kane," Deva replied sincerely. "There is no other team I would rather play a final against. You guys are relentless."
Williamson offered a tired smile. "It doesn't make losing any easier, mate."
Deva held the New Zealander's gaze. A mischievous smile began to appear.
Deva leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only Williamson could hear.
"Consider it payback for Melbourne, Kane," Deva said softly. "The 2015 World Cup Final. You took the gold trophy from us that day. I'm just balancing the ledger."
Williamson froze.
His mind flashed back to 2015. Where New Zealand had broken Indian hearts, defeating them in the final to lift the ODI World Cup, with Williamson himself taking the Man of the Match honors.
For three seconds, Williamson simply stared at Deva.
Then the Kiwi captain threw his head back and laughed. The weight of the defeat was broken by the callback.
"You hold a grudge for a very long time, Sid," Williamson chuckled, shaking his head and patting Deva on the shoulder.
"I have a very good memory, Kane Mama," Deva smiled. "I'll see you in the hotel."
While the stadium in Southampton celebrated, thousands of miles away, a different celebration was taking place.
In the Shamshabad farmhouse, the evening had become a humid night. Monsoon rain lashed against the glass windows of the main living room, creating a quiet, sheltered space.
The large OLED television mounted on the wall was broadcasting the live feed from England.
The atmosphere in the room over the last two hours had been tense. The required runs had slowly ticked down, but the threat of the Dukes ball swinging late had kept the family on the edge of their seats.
Vikram sat forward in his armchair, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles were white. Sesikala sat on the sofa, her eyes closed, silently praying, unable to watch the screen.
Krithika sat on the edge of the woven rug. She had a throw pillow clutched to her chest, her eyes wide as she watched Trent Boult run in for the final delivery.
On the screen, Deva stepped back and punched the ball through the covers. The camera tracked it toward the boundary.
The moment the ball hit the ropes, the farmhouse erupted.
Vikram leapt out of his armchair, throwing his hands into the air.
"YES! YES!"
Sesikala's eyes snapped open. Seeing her husband celebrating, she let out a breath of relief, pressing her hands to her face as tears filled her eyes.
Krithika dropped the throw pillow. She covered her mouth with both hands, watching Deva take off his helmet and raise his arms. He had conquered the biggest prize in Test cricket.
The sudden shouting from Vikram had another effect.
Playing near the back of the living room, unaware of the television, were the twins. Rishi and Aadhya were engaged in a dispute over a set of wooden building blocks.
Hearing the noise, they both stopped and turned toward the adults.
Aadhya dropped her block. She waddled over to the television, tilting her head back to look at the screen.
The broadcast had just cut to a slow-motion close-up of Deva's face as he was being hugged by Rishabh Pant.
Aadhya's eyes widened. She recognized him despite the sweat and messy hair.
She pointed at the television. She began bouncing on her toes, looking back at her mother.
"NANA!" Aadhya shrieked, thrilled to see her father on the screen.
Rishi, sitting on the rug, noticed his sister receiving attention. He immediately scrambled to his feet, abandoned his blocks, and ran over to stand beside her.
He looked up at the screen. He saw Deva.
Not to be outdone, Rishi raised his hand, pointed at the television, and shouted even louder.
"NANA!"
Aadhya frowned and pointed with both hands, raising her voice.
"NANA!"
"NANA!" Rishi yelled back, stepping closer to the screen.
Krithika watched her toddlers get into a shouting match over who could identify their father on television the loudest. She burst into laughter, as Vikram and Sesikala chuckled.
"Yes, that's Nana," Krithika smiled, walking over and scooping both children into her arms, kissing their cheeks.
Back at the Rose Bowl, the post-match presentation was being assembled on the outfield.
The grey clouds had parted, allowing a faint evening light to reach the stadium. The presentation podium was constructed, flanked by branding boards and local dignitaries.
After the match officials and the runners-up medals were awarded to the New Zealand squad, the broadcasters called Siddanth Deva forward.
Nasser Hussain and Harsha Bhogle were managing the presentation.
"Siddanth," Harsha began, his voice echoing over the stadium speakers. "We have run out of adjectives in the commentary box. To score a century in these conditions, to take a five-wicket haul with the Dukes ball, and to anchor a Day Six run chase... it is a performance that will be talked about for fifty years. How did you process the pressure out there today?"
Deva stepped up to the microphone. He looked exhausted. His white uniform was stained with dirt, his hair was messy, but his posture remained composed.
"You don't process the pressure, Harsha," Deva answered, his deep voice carrying across the stadium. "You just accept it. The Dukes ball was doing things today that were difficult to handle. Tim and Trent bowled phenomenal spells. But Test cricket isn't about hitting the perfect shot; it's about surviving the imperfect ones."
Deva turned slightly, gesturing toward his squad.
"The numbers next to my name are just a byproduct of the men standing over there," Deva stated firmly. "Cheteshwar Pujara took blows to his ribs for two hours to blunt the new ball. Virat played a gritty knock to build the partnership. Ishant and Jasprit bowled their hearts out. We've been traveling away from our families for two years to reach this final. This victory belongs to the resilience of the Indian dressing room."
Nasser Hussain nodded. "A true captain's perspective. Siddanth Deva, on behalf of the cricketing world, I present to you the inaugural World Test Championship Mace."
An official stepped forward, carrying the prize.
The handle was wrapped in gold ribbon, leading up to a silver and gold globe encircled by a laurel wreath.
Deva took the Mace in his hands. He felt the cold metal against his palms. He turned toward the photographers and broadcast cameras.
He hoisted the Mace into the air.
The crowd roared. Flashbulbs went off across the stadium.
Deva held it there for two seconds.
Then he lowered the Mace. He turned and walked toward his squad.
Deva walked straight up to Shubman Gill and Rishabh Pant, the two youngest members of the playing eleven.
He pushed the Mace into their hands.
Gill and Pant grabbed the Mace, their faces breaking into grins. As they hoisted the trophy together, Deva stepped backward, moving out of the center of the frame.
He moved to the far right edge of the squad, standing next to Ishant Sharma.
The confetti cannons exploded, raining gold and silver paper over the squad as they celebrated.
By midnight, the strict protocols of the bio-bubble were relaxed. The tour was over, the trophy was secured, and the players were finally allowed to breathe.
The Indian squad had taken over a private lounge on the top floor of the Hilton hotel adjoining the Ageas Bowl.
The atmosphere inside the lounge was chaos. The disciplined athletes who had played through a six-day Test match had disappeared.
Punjabi music was blasting from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner. The bass vibrated through the floorboards.
In the center of the room, Rishabh Pant and Shubman Gill were engaged in a dance battle. Pant was attempting a Bhangra move, while Gill was laughing too hard to keep up.
Virat Kohli was moving around the room, fueled by adrenaline. He was hyping up the fast bowlers, clapping his hands and shouting the lyrics to the song.
"Jassi! Let's go!" Kohli yelled, grabbing Bumrah by the arm and pulling the usually quiet fast bowler into the center of the room. Bumrah offered a shy smile before attempting a two-step, which drew cheers from the squad.
On a leather sofa near the back of the room, the older players had established a quieter corner.
Rohit Sharma was sitting deep in the cushions, holding a glass of sparkling water. Ravichandran Ashwin sat beside him, trying to explain a tactical detail of his bowling spell to Cheteshwar Pujara, who was nodding while eating a slice of pizza.
Deva stood near the edge of the sofa, leaning against a wooden pillar, a glass of water in his hand. He was wearing track pants and a team T-shirt.
He watched his team.
Deva stayed in the lounge for another hour, participating in the banter and sharing jokes. He didn't rush them or tell them to sleep. They had earned the night.
But as the clock passed 1:30 AM, his muscles felt heavy, carrying the ache of facing a 145 kmph pace attack.
He quietly excused himself, offering tired fist-bumps to the players near the door, and slipped into the quiet hotel hallway.
He took the elevator to the executive floor and walked toward his private suite. The silence was a contrast to the music he had just left behind.
He swiped his keycard. The oak door clicked open.
Deva stepped into the suite. The room was dark, save for the glow of the city lights through the windows. The World Test Championship Mace, which the team management had delivered to his room, sat in its velvet-lined case on the central table.
Deva closed the door and locked it.
He dropped his room key onto the console table. He walked to the edge of the king-sized bed and sat down.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and let his head drop into his hands. He let out a long, exhausted breath.
The adrenaline was gone. There was no one left to perform for. No cameras. No teammates relying on his confidence. He was simply a man whose body had been pushed to its limits.
He closed his eyes, preparing to drag himself into the shower before collapsing.
A notification pulsed in his peripheral vision.
SYSTEM ALERT: MILESTONE ACHIEVED
OBJECTIVE COMPLETE: CONQUER THE ULTIMATE FORMAT (WORLD TEST CHAMPIONSHIP)
STATUS: ALL MAJOR GLOBAL CRICKETING PINNACLES SCALED (ODI WORLD CUP, T20 WORLD CUP, WORLD TEST CHAMPIONSHIP)
The golden text dissolved, shifting into a new notification box.
REWARD GRANTED: THE GOLDEN BOX
OPEN NOW? [YES / NO]
Deva didn't hesitate. He mentally selected 'YES'.
The golden box slowly unlocked. A burst of warm light spilled into the dim hotel room.
The final text resolved on the screen.
NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: EXPERT TEACHING SKILL (PASSIVE - MAX TIER).
MECHANICS: You are an expert teacher, the kind a protagonist would encounter mid-way through their journey to learn an essential skill from you before leaving and forgetting about you. You are incredibly skilled at imparting your knowledge and skills to your pupils, you could pick any old farmboy and turn him into a fine warrior.
Deva slowly pushed himself upright on the bed.
The golden interface vanished, leaving the room in darkness.
A satisfied smile spread across Deva's face in the dark.
He stood up from the bed, walking over to the curtains and pulling them back.
He looked out over the quiet city of Southampton. The rain had stopped, and a few stars were visible through the breaking clouds. He had conquered the world. The legacy was secure.
Now, it was time to build the players who would follow him.