The stadium was alive.
Not loud—alive.
Aarav Malhotra stood near the boundary rope, hands resting on his hips, eyes fixed on the pitch as the players took their positions for the final over. The floodlights bathed the ground in harsh white, yet beyond them, the night felt endless.
India needed fourteen runs.
Fourteen.
It wasn't an impossible number. It never was. But cricket had taught him something cruel over the years—numbers meant nothing when pressure decided otherwise.
He adjusted his gloves slowly, deliberately, forcing his breathing to remain steady.
This was his world. The roar of the crowd, the smell of grass, the tension thick enough to taste. He had spent his entire life chasing moments like this.
And yet…
Why did it still feel incomplete?
The bowler began his run-up. Aarav's eyes narrowed, reading every micro-movement. The grip. The wrist angle. The field.
Fuller ball. Wide yorker.
He reached for it, timing near perfect, but the bat met the ball half a fraction late. The shot sped toward deep cover instead of the boundary.
Two runs.
The crowd groaned.
Aarav didn't react. Inside, something shifted—an old, familiar feeling. Not panic.
Regret.
He had learned too late.
That was the truth he never admitted out loud.
Talent hadn't been his problem. Discipline hadn't either. What he lacked was time. The understanding of what mattered and what didn't—knowledge that only came after wasting years learning it the hard way.
The next delivery came slower.
A misjudgment.
The ball climbed off the pitch, kissing the edge of his bat, floating gently into the air like a betrayal.
For a moment, everything stopped.
He knew.
Before the fielder even moved.
As the catch was taken, applause erupted—sympathetic, respectful, hollow. Aarav removed his helmet and looked once at the sky before turning toward the pavilion.
He wasn't angry.
He was tired.
Tired of "almost".
Tired of realizing things when it was already too late to change them.
As he crossed the boundary rope, a sudden tightness gripped his chest. His vision blurred, the noise fading into a distant echo.
His last thought wasn't fear.
It was a wish.
"If I could start again…"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
"Aarav… Aarav!"
The voice pulled him upward.
He gasped sharply, air rushing into his lungs as though he had been drowning. His eyes flew open, staring at a spinning ceiling fan that squeaked with every rotation.
For a few seconds, he didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't think.
The room felt… wrong.
Smaller. Simpler.
The walls were familiar in a way that made his heart pound violently.
"No…"
He sat up slowly, his body responding too lightly, too easily. His hands—thin, smooth, unscarred.
Child's hands.
Aarav stumbled off the bed and rushed to the mirror fixed to the cupboard door.
A boy stared back at him.
Ten years old. No beard. No lines of exhaustion etched by decades of pressure. Just wide eyes filled with disbelief and a depth that didn't belong to a child.
The memories hit him like a wave.
Mumbai.
School mornings.
Early cricket dreams.
The year surfaced clearly in his mind.
2001.
His knees buckled, and he sank onto the edge of the bed.
"I… came back?"
This wasn't imagination. The details were too sharp. The emotions too real.
A second innings.
Not just in cricket.
In life.
---
Breakfast unfolded quietly.
His mother moved about the kitchen, younger than he remembered, humming under her breath. His father sat at the table, newspaper open, eyes sharp as he scanned business columns and market trends.
Aarav watched them in silence.
In his previous life, his father had remained capable—but cautious. Opportunities taken too late. Risks avoided when they should have been embraced.
This time would be different.
Cricket demanded timing.
So did business.
"Aarav," his father said, folding the newspaper. "Academy trials are next week. Still want to go?"
Aarav met his gaze steadily.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
---
The moment he stepped into the quiet of his room again, something stirred deep within his mind.
Not a sound.
A presence.
A calm, structured awareness settled into place, as if it had always been there—waiting.
[Cricket Template System Initialized]
Aarav didn't flinch.
He listened.
[Primary Template Unlocked]
[KL Rahul – Foundational Batting Template]
There were no flashing lights. No overwhelming rush of information. Just clarity.
Balance.
Shot selection.
Patience.
Not power.
Not dominance.
Foundation.
Aarav closed his eyes slowly.
"So… we build properly this time."
[Sync Rate: 1%]
[Growth Condition: Training, Matches, Discipline]
He smiled faintly.
That suited him perfectly.
---
The academy ground lay a short walk away, nestled between old buildings and open space that echoed with the sound of leather on willow.
Aarav stood at the boundary, observing.
Kids swung wildly, chasing power shots. Others froze under pressure, technique collapsing the moment a coach watched them too closely.
He didn't judge.
He remembered being one of them.
When his turn came, he walked into the nets calmly.
The bowler ran in.
Short of length.
Aarav let it go.
The next ball was fuller. His front foot moved naturally, bat coming down straight, meeting the ball beneath his eyes.
A clean push.
Not spectacular.
Correct.
Ball after ball, he repeated the process—defense, rotation, controlled aggression. The KL Rahul template whispered subtle adjustments, refining movements rather than forcing them.
A coach stopped talking mid-sentence.
"This boy…" he muttered. "He's not trying to impress."
Aarav finished his session quietly and stepped aside.
As he picked up his kit, another presence stirred—heavier this time. Sharper.
Waiting.
Not yet, he thought.
Soon.
Very soon.
Outside, the sounds of Mumbai carried on as always—chaotic, relentless, full of possibility.
Aarav looked back at the academy once more.
This was only the beginning.
And this time, he would not just rise.
He would dominate—from the ground up.