The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly cut Bermuda grass and expensive leather.
Yashvardhan Ahuja, the golden boy of Oakridge International and the State Under-16 prodigy, walked out to the middle. He didn’t just walk; he swaggered. His customized Gray-Nicolls bat swung loosely in his grip, and his tailored whites gleamed in the morning sun. A smattering of applause echoed from the Oakridge pavilion, where parents and elite alumni sat sipping imported coffee from porcelain cups.
To them, this wasn’t a competitive match. It was a warm-up session. A minor inconvenience before the semi-finals.
Rohan stood at his bowling mark at the pavilion end, carefully measuring out his run-up. Fifteen strides. He dragged his spikes across the lush turf to mark his starting point.
Yashvardhan reached the crease and took guard. He looked up, squinting at Rohan, before turning to the umpire—a seasoned local official in a white hat.
"Umpire," Yashvardhan said, his voice loud enough to carry to the St. Peter’s dugout. "Check his spikes, will you? These public school kids sometimes wear metal studs that tear up our premium pitches."
The umpire looked slightly embarrassed but walked over to Rohan anyway. "Show me your soles, son."
Rohan silently lifted his foot, displaying the standard rubber studs of Monu Bhaiya’s faded blue turf shoes.
"Rubber studs. He is fine," the umpire called out, jogging back to his position. "Play!"
Yashvardhan smirked, tapping his bat aggressively on the green pitch. "Alright, medium-pacer. Let’s get this over with. Put it on my pads, I want to warm up my flick shot."
Behind the stumps, Kabir crouched low, his hands trembling slightly inside his oversized keeping gloves. He shot Rohan a nervous look.
Rohan didn’t look at Kabir. He didn’t look at the mocking Oakridge players on the boundary. His dark eyes were locked entirely on Yashvardhan’s front pad.
He inhaled slowly. The air filled his newly expanded lungs, his 31 Stamina making the breath feel impossibly deep and clean. He visualized the Beginner’s Bowling Action Blueprint.
Let’s see what a 31 Physique actually feels like on a live pitch.
Rohan started his run-up.
The moment he pushed off, the difference was staggering. In the past, his legs felt heavy, dragging him toward the crease like an exhausted cart horse. Now, he felt like a coiled spring unspooling. His strides were long, powerful, and utterly silent on the grass. The kinetic energy gathered in his core like a pressurized storm.
He hit the delivery stride. The jump was higher, perfectly balanced. His back foot landed, his front arm pulled down violently, and his right arm whipped over in a blur.
WHOOSH.
The red SG ball rocketed out of his hand. He didn’t even use Adrenaline Overdrive; this was purely his new baseline strength.
The ball pitched on a good length just outside the off-stump. Yashvardhan, expecting a looping medium-pace delivery, casually leaned forward to defend it.
But the ball didn’t loop. It skidded off the live grass, picking up terrifying pace after pitching. It slammed into the top of Yashvardhan’s bat handle, jamming his fingers violently before dropping dead onto the pitch.
Yashvardhan hissed, shaking his right hand and dropping his bat. The condescending smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sheer bewilderment.
THUD.
The sound of the ball hitting the bat handle echoed sharply across the quiet ground.
[Delivery Analyzed.]
[Pace: 124.5 km/h]
[Result: Defended (Uncomfortably).]
In the St. Peter’s dugout, Coach Sharma nearly dropped his clipboard. 124? Without straining?
Rohan walked back to his mark, his face an emotionless mask. He caught the ball tossed back by a wide-eyed Kabir.
"Didn’t look like a flick shot to me," Kabir chirped from behind the stumps, finding a sudden burst of courage.
Yashvardhan picked up his bat, glaring daggers at Kabir. "Fluke. The pitch is green, it skidded. Shut your mouth, keeper."
Ball Two.
Rohan charged in again. The rhythm was intoxicating. He pitched this one slightly fuller.
Yashvardhan, eager to re-establish dominance, planted his front foot and threw his hands at a booming cover drive. It was a beautiful, textbook shot—but he was late.
The raw pace beat his bat speed. The ball caught the thick inside edge, narrowly missing the leg stump, and raced down to fine leg for a single.
[Pace: 126.1 km/h]
As Yashvardhan jogged to the non-striker’s end, he looked at Rohan with genuine caution. This wasn’t a medium-pacer. This was a genuine fast bowler, and he was getting faster with every ball.
The non-striker, a nervous-looking boy in oversized pads, took guard.
Rohan didn’t waste time on the weak. Ball Three, Four, and Five were an absolute clinic in fast bowling.
• Ball 3: A searing yorker that the non-striker barely jammed out. (125.8 km/h)
• Ball 4: A sharp bouncer that struck the non-striker on the bicep, leaving a visible red welt. (127.2 km/h)
• Ball 5: A length ball that seamed away, beating the outside edge by miles. (126.5 km/h)
The Oakridge pavilion was dead silent. The polite clapping had ceased entirely. The elite parents were leaning forward in their plastic chairs, murmuring to each other in hushed, worried tones. This faded-shoe public school kid was tearing through their million-rupee infrastructure with pure, unadulterated pace.
Final ball of the over.
The non-striker scrambled a desperate single off a misfield by Aryan, putting Yashvardhan back on strike.
Yashvardhan’s chest was heaving. His pride was severely bruised. He had faced five balls and looked completely ordinary. He tapped his bat, his eyes burning with anger.
I am a State player, Yashvardhan told himself. I am not getting bogged down by a nobody.
He stepped out of his crease slightly, signaling his intent to smash the next ball over the infield.
Rohan saw the trigger movement. His eyes narrowed.
A blue window flickered at the edge of his vision.
[Tactical Analysis Available]
• Target: Yashvardhan Ahuja
• Intent: High Aggression / Ego-driven drive.
• Optimal Delivery: Outswinger (Full length) on the 4th stump line. Let the pitch do the rest.
I don’t need a system to tell me how to destroy an inflated ego, Rohan thought. I’ve been watching it my whole life.
Rohan turned and began his run-up. He poured every last ounce of his 31 Physique into his stride. The ground seemed to shake beneath his boots. He hit the crease with a massive leap.
He didn’t just want a wicket. He wanted to break the spirit of the entire Oakridge team.
He released the ball, snapping his wrist violently, keeping the seam perfectly angled toward the slips.
The red leather projectile hissed through the air.
[Pace: 129.4 km/h - New Personal Record!]
It pitched full, right in the driving zone.
Yashvardhan’s eyes lit up. This was the ball he was waiting for. He lunged forward, throwing his entire body weight into a vicious, lofted cover drive meant to send the ball into the parking lot.
But as his bat swung down in a beautiful arc, the ball hit the green turf and bit hard. The pronounced seam and the perfect wrist position caused the ball to nip away late—just a fraction of an inch, but at 129 km/h, a fraction was fatal.
Yashvardhan’s bat swiped through thin air.
SNICK.
A thick, unmistakable wooden edge.
The ball changed trajectory, flying quickly to the right of the wicketkeeper.
Kabir, who had been struggling with his nerves all morning, saw the red blur flash toward his right shoulder. Instincts, honed from years of catching taped tennis balls in the chaotic alleyways of their colony, took over.
Kabir threw himself horizontally, completely parallel to the lush grass, extending his right glove to the absolute maximum.
THWACK.
The ball stuck in the webbing of the oversized glove. Kabir hit the ground hard, tumbling over twice before leaping to his feet, holding the ball high above his head in absolute delirium.
"HOWZAT?!" Kabir screamed, his voice cracking with pure adrenaline.
The umpire didn’t even hesitate. He slowly raised his index finger to the sky.
OUT.
The Oakridge pavilion was a graveyard. The electronic scoreboard blinked: Oakridge - 2/1. Y. Ahuja - c. Kabir, b. Roy - 1.
Yashvardhan stood frozen at the crease, his bat resting on the ground, staring back at the umpire’s raised finger. His state-level swagger, his expensive kit, his double centuries—none of it mattered against a 129 km/h piece of leather on a green track.
Slowly, painfully, he tucked his bat under his arm and began the long, humiliating walk back to the pavilion.
The St. Peter’s dugout erupted. The boys poured over the boundary rope, screaming and cheering. Aryan stood at mid-off, his jaw hanging completely open, staring at Rohan as if he were a monster disguised as a schoolboy.
Rohan stood in the center of the pitch, calm and completely still as Kabir barrel-rolled into him, screaming in triumph.
A golden light flashed brilliantly in Rohan’s vision, drowning out the noise of the cheering.
[Ding! Quest Update: The Giant Slayer]
Objective 1 (Take the wicket of Yashvardhan Ahuja): COMPLETED.
Current Match Impact: Oakridge Int. Team Confidence heavily fractured.
Rohan smiled, a cold, predatory curve of his lips. He looked toward the silent Oakridge pavilion, then at the terrified new batsman walking out to the middle.
One down, Rohan thought, tossing the ball to the umpire. Nine to go.