Monday morning at St. Peter’s High School carried a strange, electric current. The news of the 96-all-out massacre had spread like wildfire. When Rohan walked down the corridors, students actually stepped aside to let him pass. A few juniors even whispered, pointing at him in awe.
Rohan ignored the fanfare. His mind was entirely occupied by the looming shadow of Zoravar Singh.
When the recess bell rang, Rohan headed straight for the canteen. Ananya was already there, sitting at a corner table with two large plastic cups of cold coffee condensing in the warm air. She looked up from her physics textbook as he approached, her hazel eyes scanning him with that familiar, analytical sharpness.
"You look entirely entirely too calm for a guy who has to bowl to a human bulldozer on Wednesday," Ananya said, sliding one of the cups across the table.
Rohan took a sip, the cold, sweet caffeine hitting the spot. "I pay my debts, but I never turn down a free coffee. And I am calm because panicking doesn’t take wickets."
Ananya closed her textbook, leaning forward slightly. "I did some reading on St. Jude’s over the weekend. Mostly because Kabir wouldn’t stop spamming the class group chat with crying emojis. Zoravar Singh is averaging over a hundred this tournament. He uses a ridiculously heavy bat."
"1.3 kilos," Rohan confirmed. "He’s a pace-hitter. He camps on his back foot, waits for the bowler to do the hard work, and just uses their speed to deflect the ball over the boundary."
Ananya tapped her chin, a habit she had when solving complex equations. "It’s basic physics, Rohan. Force equals mass times acceleration. You’re supplying the acceleration, and he’s supplying the mass. But..." She pulled out her smartphone and opened a screenshot she had taken of Zoravar batting.
She zoomed in on his hands. "Look at his grip. I don’t know much about cricket coaching, but purely from a geometric standpoint, his bottom hand—his right hand—is choked tightly around the base of the handle. His top hand is loose."
Rohan leaned in, studying the image. His eyes widened slightly.
"If his bottom hand is that dominant," Ananya continued, tracing a line on the screen, "it means his swing arc naturally favors pulling across his body. Leg side. If you make him reach away from his body—to the off side—that heavy bat will become a pendulum pulling his center of gravity forward. He’ll lose his balance."
Rohan stared at her, genuinely impressed. "Ananya, you just reverse-engineered a state-level batsman using high school physics."
She offered a smug, brilliant smile. "Math and physics rule the universe, Roy. Even the cricket pitch. Don’t say I never gave you anything."
At 2:45 PM, Rohan walked into Coach Sharma’s cramped, dusty office in the sports complex. The walls were lined with faded photographs of teams from a decade ago.
Aryan was already sitting in one of the plastic chairs, arms crossed, staring at a stain on the carpet. The ’Giant Slayer’s Aura’ passive must have been working overtime, because the usual venom in Aryan’s eyes was completely absent when he looked up at Rohan. He just looked tired.
Coach Sharma sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples. A tactical whiteboard was set up behind him, with the name ZORAVAR circled heavily in red marker.
"Sit down, Rohan," Coach Sharma sighed. He didn’t sound like a tyrant today; he sounded like a man who knew his execution date. "We have a massive problem."
"Zoravar Singh," Rohan said, taking the seat next to Aryan.
"He hit an unbeaten 140 off 60 balls against Ryan International on Saturday," Sharma said grimly. "He destroyed their pace attack. Hit three fast bowlers out of the attack completely. Aryan, Rohan... I cannot afford for us to get slaughtered on Wednesday."
Coach Sharma picked up a marker and tapped the whiteboard. "Here is the strategy. We play defensive. Aryan, you bowl wide of the off-stump. Put a deep point and a sweeper cover, and just bowl slow, wide cutters. Make him reach. Rohan, you do not bowl fast. Drop your pace to 100 km/h. Bowl slow bouncers into the pitch. If we bore him, he might make a mistake."
Aryan nodded slowly. "It makes sense, Coach. If I bowl my normal pace, he’ll pull me into the parking lot."
"No."
The word cut through the dusty office like a whip crack. Coach Sharma and Aryan both snapped their heads toward Rohan.
Rohan was leaning back in his chair, completely relaxed, but his eyes were cold and uncompromising.
"If we bowl defensively, we tell him we are scared," Rohan stated, his voice steady. "If we bowl wide, he’ll step across his stumps and smash it over mid-wicket. If I bowl 100 km/h slow bouncers, he will wait on the back foot and hit me out of the ground."
Coach Sharma’s face flushed. "Roy, I know you had a good game against Oakridge, but Zoravar is a different beast! You cannot overpower a pace-hitter!"
"I’m not going to overpower him," Rohan said, standing up. "I’m going to surgically remove him from the crease. Aryan will take the new ball from the pavilion end to hold one end tight. I will open from the far end. I will give him all the pace he wants."
Aryan scoffed, a flicker of his old arrogance returning. "Are you insane? You pitch it fast on a length, and he’ll murder you."
"Let me worry about that, Captain," Rohan said, walking toward the door. "Meet me in the nets in five minutes. Bring your batting pads. I need to calibrate something."
The afternoon sun baked the turf practice nets. The rest of the squad was doing fielding drills, leaving the main net empty for Rohan and Aryan. Kabir was crouched behind the stumps, wearing a confused expression.
Aryan took his guard, looking visibly annoyed. "What are we doing, Roy? You want to practice getting hit for six?"
"Just bat," Rohan called out from his mark. "And assume every ball is coming at 125 clicks."
Rohan closed his eyes.
[Active Skill:] Intermediate Seam Control Blueprint
[Active Node:]Steel Cords & Silk Wrists
He focused entirely on his right hand. He placed the heavy red leather ball in his palm. His newly strengthened index and middle fingers clamped onto the pronounced white seam. He applied slightly more pressure on the index finger, angling the seam precisely 20 degrees toward the slips.
He didn’t just need to swing the ball; he needed late, venomous swing that started exactly when the batsman committed to the shot.
Rohan jogged in. The rhythm was flawless. The jump, the gather, the brace.
As his arm whipped over, his new wrist snapped with terrifying, unnatural flexibility. The amount of rotational force (RPM) he imparted on the ball was immense.
WHOOSH.
The ball left his hand at 124 km/h. It was pitched on a middle-and-leg line—the exact line Zoravar Singh loved to heave over the leg side.
Aryan’s eyes lit up. He saw the line, planted his back foot, and initiated a powerful flick shot, expecting the ball to come straight onto his bat.
But halfway down the pitch, the immense backspin and the angled seam caught the air resistance.
The ball suddenly, violently, swerved in the air. It pitched on middle stump, bit the turf, and darted away from Aryan’s body like a fleeing snake.
Aryan’s bat closed on empty air, a full foot away from the ball.
THWACK.
The ball smashed into Kabir’s left glove, ripping it backward with immense force. Kabir tumbled over, letting out a yelp. "Holy mother of—!"
Aryan was frozen in his follow-through. His eyes were wide, staring at the patch of turf where the ball had pitched, then looking at where it ended up in Kabir’s glove. The deviation was impossible for a fast bowler. It was the kind of turn a leg-spinner got, but delivered at 124 km/h.
"What..." Aryan gasped, looking at Rohan. "What the hell was that?"
[Delivery Analyzed.]
[Pace: 124.2 km/h]
[Deviation: 18 inches (Late Outswing). Result: Unplayable.]
Rohan caught the ball Kabir weakly tossed back to him. He looked at the seam, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. The Surgeon branch wasn’t a joke. He possessed a weapon that could tear through any defense in the school circuit.
"That, Captain," Rohan said quietly, spinning the ball in his hand, "is how we kill a tank. We invite him to pull, and then we take the edge."
Rohan walked back to his mark.
"Pad up tight, Aryan," Rohan warned, his eyes gleaming with a chilling focus. "I need to practice this fifty more times before Wednesday."