By the time Arjun was sixteen, the whispers of the Devil had grown beyond Guntur.
He was no longer just the quiet boy from dusty lanes. He had become the mind behind matches, the unseen hand that moved teammates subtly, manipulated opposition behavior, and controlled the flow of games without ever appearing flashy. But even he had yet to truly lead a team.
The Andhra Pradesh under-19 captaincy had opened up. The previous captain had graduated to the national under-19 team, leaving a vacuum. Senior selectors wanted a player who could "command respect and inspire aggression," someone who would rally the boys and maintain morale. They looked at tall, loud, experienced batsmen first. But Rao—having witnessed Arjun's precision for years—argued quietly for him.
"Trust me," Rao said to the committee. "This boy does more than lead. He thinks five steps ahead, every time."
The selectors exchanged glances. A sixteen-year-old? They hesitated.
Arjun himself didn't campaign. He didn't make speeches. He didn't flaunt his results. But he sat quietly in the trials, noting who moved when, who panicked under pressure, who reacted to authority and who challenged it. By the time the selectors conferred, his choice was obvious—not because he asked for it, but because he had silently ensured every other candidate's weaknesses were revealed under the right circumstances.
When he was named captain, no one applauded. Not yet. It was a quiet acknowledgment, a procedural nod. But Arjun smiled faintly. The first move was his.
The first practice session as captain was revealing.
The boys were restless, some teenagers already accustomed to being treated as leaders in their schools or district teams. They tested him immediately. Sid, of course, was there, frowning.
"Captain, maybe I should…" Sid began, hinting he knew more than the rest.
Arjun simply shook his head. "You play as the team plans. Not as you think you should."
Sid's grin faltered. Others exchanged uneasy glances. For the first time, someone challenged Sid without raising his voice, and the effect was immediate.
Arjun spent hours during the first week observing, not shouting. He rearranged field placements silently, nudged bowlers toward subtle adjustments, and rotated strike patterns using barely perceptible hand gestures. His team did not notice the orchestration at first—they only felt the match seemed easier, safer, more "in their control" than before.
By the end of the first practice match, the under-19 squad had no doubt who was in charge. Not because of charisma or authority, but because of results.
That night, in his small room in Guntur, Arjun traced imaginary lines on the floor, mapping each player's strengths, weaknesses, psychological tendencies. The real game, he understood, wasn't just on the pitch. It was in the mind—the mental space between people, decisions, and the flow of energy.
From that night onward, he became more than a player. He became a commander, quietly moving pawns, anticipating moves, forcing opposition into predictable mistakes—all while appearing calm, almost absent.