Wednesday morning brought a thick, unseasonal fog to Delhi, masking the city in a tense, suffocating blanket of grey.
The St. Peter’s High School bus rolled into the parking lot of the prestigious Karnail Singh Stadium. This wasn’t a school ground; it was a first-class domestic stadium with massive concrete stands, a sprawling outfield, and a central pitch crafted from black soil—notorious for extreme bounce and blistering pace.
As the boys stepped off the bus, the sheer scale of the arena swallowed their voices.
"Look at that," Kabir whispered, pointing toward the far end of the boundary.
The St. Jude’s Academy team was already warming up. They didn’t look like high school students; they looked like a collegiate rugby team. They were doing synchronized medicine ball throws and heavy sprinting drills.
Standing in the center of them was a boy who needed no introduction.
Zoravar Singh was a mountain of a teenager. He stood at six-foot-two, with a thick black beard and shoulders that looked like they belonged on a lumberjack. He was casually swinging his infamous 1.3-kilogram bat with one hand, looking bored.
Aryan Singhania swallowed hard, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Even Coach Sharma looked noticeably paler as he ushered the team into the locker room.
"Get padded up, Aryan. Toss in five minutes," Coach Sharma instructed, his voice lacking its usual boom.
Rohan sat on a wooden bench, slowly lacing up Monu Bhaiya’s blue turf shoes. He felt the familiar, powerful hum of his 36 Physique. His right wrist, upgraded by the Steel Cords & Silk Wrists node, felt incredibly loose and ready to snap like a whip.
Aryan walked back from the pitch five minutes later, his face grim.
"We lost the toss," Aryan announced to the silent dressing room. "Zoravar elected to bat. He... he told me they plan to finish the game by the 20th over."
Coach Sharma rubbed his face. "Alright. Stick to the plan. Aryan, you take the new ball. Keep it tight. Rohan, open from the pavilion end."
The St. Peter’s team walked out onto the massive field. The fog was lifting, revealing a smattering of spectators in the stands—mostly local scouts, parents, and players from other eliminated schools who had come to watch the carnage.
Zoravar Singh strode out to the middle to open the batting. His enormous bat looked like a club. He didn’t even bother wearing a thigh pad, exuding absolute, reckless confidence.
Aryan bowled the first over to St. Jude’s second opener, a nimble right-hander. Aryan, visibly shaking, managed to bowl a decent over, conceding only four runs, but he completely avoided making eye contact with Zoravar at the non-striker’s end.
Then, it was time.
Over 2. Rohan to bowl.
Rohan walked to his mark at the pavilion end. The crowd in the stands murmured, pointing at the skinny kid with the faded blue shoes.
Zoravar took his guard at the striker’s end. He aggressively scraped his spikes against the crease and looked up, locking eyes with Rohan.
"So, you’re the Giant Slayer," Zoravar’s deep, booming voice carried easily across the 22 yards. He rested his heavy bat on his shoulder. "Oakridge was a bunch of soft, rich boys. Let’s see how your little 130-click street pace handles a real bat, kid. Pitch it up."
A vibrant, crimson notification shattered Rohan’s vision.
[Ding! Elite Boss Encounter Triggered: The Pace Eater]
Raw strength meets mechanical perfection. The opponent feeds on kinetic energy.
Objective 1: Survive Zoravar Singh’s initial assault (Do not concede a boundary in your first 3 deliveries).
Objective 2: Take Zoravar Singh’s wicket.
Reward: +60 SP, [Intermediate Core Stabilization Blueprint], Permanent +3 Agility.
Failure Penalty: Severe localized muscle tearing (Right Shoulder). Recovery time: 3 Weeks.
Rohan blinked away the screen. Three weeks? If he failed, he would miss the finals. The System wasn’t pulling punches anymore.
"Kabir," Rohan called out, ignoring Zoravar entirely. "Stand back. Further."
Kabir, crouching behind the stumps, took three massive steps backward, his gloves trembling.
Rohan turned and started his run-up.
Ball 1: The Bait.
He needed to see Zoravar’s bat speed and confirm Ananya’s physics theory in real-time. He sprinted in, the black soil of the pitch providing incredible grip. He leaped, braced, and snapped his arm over, aiming for a back-of-a-length delivery on the middle stump.
WHOOSH.
The red ball left his hand at 126.8 km/h. It was fast, hard, and angled right at Zoravar’s ribcage.
Zoravar’s eyes lit up with predatory joy. He didn’t move his front foot an inch. He firmly planted his back foot, his dominant right hand choking the base of the bat handle. With a guttural grunt, he swiveled his massive hips and initiated a brutal pull shot.
The bat speed was terrifying. The 1.3-kilogram willow cleaved through the air like an executioner’s axe.
CRACK!
The sound was like a gunshot echoing through the stadium. The ball rocketed off the middle of the bat, flying flat and hard toward the deep square-leg boundary.
The St. Peter’s fielders didn’t even move. It was hit with such sickening violence that chasing it was pointless. It bounced once, inches inside the rope, and smashed into the boundary boards for a one-bounce four.
The St. Jude’s dugout erupted in cheers.
"Yes, skip! Eat him alive!"
"Too slow, waterboy!"
[Delivery Analyzed.]
[Pace: 126.8 km/h. Result: Boundary (4 Runs).]
[Warning: Quest Objective 1 Failed. Host has conceded a boundary. Recalculating penalty risk...]
Zoravar laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, tapping his bat on the pitch. "Come on, kid! I told you, that street pace doesn’t work here! Give me something faster!"
In the St. Peter’s dugout, Coach Sharma buried his face in his hands. Aryan looked at Rohan from mid-off, his eyes screaming, I told you so.
But Rohan wasn’t looking at the boundary. He wasn’t looking at the scoreboard. He was staring intensely at Zoravar’s hands.
Ananya was right, Rohan thought, a cold, clinical calm washing over him. His bottom hand is choked so tight it’s basically glued to the handle. His swing arc is completely locked to the leg side. When he hit that, his center of gravity was entirely on his back heel.
Rohan walked back to his mark, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
"System," Rohan thought. "Activate the Surgeon’s Node. Give me maximum seam rotation."
He reached the end of his run-up. He gripped the heavy red leather ball, his newly strengthened index and middle fingers clamping onto the seam. He applied heavy pressure to his index finger, angling the seam exactly 25 degrees toward the slip cordon.
Ball 2: The Trap.
Rohan charged in. He didn’t hold back his pace this time. He engaged every fiber of his 36 Physique, his strides eating up the ground.
He hit the crease. Gather. Brace. Snap.
The Steel Cords & Silk Wrists node activated. His wrist flicked forward with horrifying torque, imparting thousands of revolutions per minute onto the angled seam.
The ball rocketed out of his hand.
[Pace: 129.8 km/h]
It pitched fast and full, aiming directly at the middle stump.
Zoravar saw the line. It was his favorite delivery. It was full, fast, and on his stumps—the absolute perfect setup for a massive, leg-side heave over mid-wicket for a six.
He planted his back foot. His heavy bat began its violent, cross-batted descent, his dominant bottom hand pulling the 1.3-kilo willow toward the leg side with bone-crushing force.
But then, physics took over.
The ball hit the hard black soil. The massive backspin and the angled seam caught the friction of the pitch. Instead of coming straight onto the bat, the ball violently jagged away to the off-side.
It didn’t just swing; it snapped outward like a cobra striking sideways.
Zoravar’s bat was already committed to the leg-side arc. He tried to arrest his swing, trying to desperately push his hands away from his body to chase the moving ball, but the 1.3-kilogram bat was too heavy. Its momentum pulled his center of gravity completely off his back heel.
Zoravar’s front foot dragged out of the crease. His balance shattered.
ZIPP.
The red blur flashed past the outside edge of his massive bat, missing the wood by a fraction of a millimeter.
Zoravar stumbled forward, heavily off-balance, his bat swiping through empty air.
Behind the stumps, Kabir didn’t flinch. The ball hammered into his gloves, and with lightning speed forged in the chaotic streets of Delhi, Kabir swept his hands down and demolished the bails.
"HOWZAT?!" Kabir screamed, his voice cracking into a high pitch.
Zoravar froze, awkwardly leaning out of his crease, looking back over his shoulder. The bails were lying on the grass. His back foot was a solid three inches outside the white line.
The umpire at square leg calmly raised his finger.
OUT. STUMPED.
The Karnail Singh Stadium descended into absolute, stunned silence. The St. Jude’s dugout, mid-cheer from the previous boundary, was frozen like statues.
Zoravar Singh, the pace-eating monster of the school circuit, the boy who hit 130 km/h bowlers for fun, had been completely dismantled in two deliveries. He hadn’t just been beaten; he had been humiliated, dragged out of his crease by a ball that defied the laws of high-speed physics.
[Delivery Analyzed.]
[Pace: 129.8 km/h. Deviation: Extreme Late Outswing.]
[Result: Stumped. Target Terminated.]
Rohan didn’t scream. He didn’t run around the field. He simply walked down the pitch, stopped next to the bewildered Zoravar, and looked up at the towering batsman.
"You’re right," Rohan said quietly, his dark eyes devoid of any emotion. "Street pace doesn’t work here. Good thing I brought a scalpel."