The Sunday morning sun beat down mercilessly on the St. Peter’s High School practice nets.
Coach Sharma paced back and forth behind the umpire’s stump, a heavy frown creasing his face. In his right hand, he held a Bushnell radar gun; in his left, a clipboard bearing the official playing eleven for Wednesday’s Zonal Final.
"This is completely absurd, Aryan," Coach Sharma muttered, checking his watch. "I was on a Sunday morning walk with my wife. Dr. Kapoor explicitly said the boy needs a month of total rest. If he tears that tendon completely under my supervision, the school board will have my head!"
Aryan Singhania stood at the batting crease, fully padded up, leaning nervously on his bat. "Coach, he sounded... different on the phone. You saw him on Wednesday. Rohan doesn’t bluff."
Behind the stumps, Kabir was sitting on his haunches, gnawing on a packet of salted peanuts. "Don’t stress, Coach! If the Pace Demon says he’s healed, he’s healed. Maybe he drank some magic milk."
Before Coach Sharma could scold Kabir for his lack of medical knowledge, the rusted iron gate of the sports complex groaned open.
Rohan walked onto the field.
He was wearing his standard practice whites, his kit bag slung effortlessly over his left shoulder. But what instantly drew everyone’s eyes was his right arm. The heavy, restrictive blue medical sling was gone. He was swinging both arms freely as he walked, showing absolutely no signs of a catastrophic Grade 2 tendon tear.
Coach Sharma marched forward, his face red. "Roy! What do you think you are doing? Where is your sling? Do you want to ruin your life for a school tournament?"
Rohan dropped his bag near the net. He looked at Coach Sharma, completely unfazed. "Good morning, Coach. My shoulder is fine."
"Fine? I saw the MRI!" Sharma snapped. "The tendon was literally hanging by threads!"
"I heal quickly," Rohan said smoothly, unzipping his bag and pulling out his faded blue turf shoes. He began swapping his footwear. "I told Aryan to bring you here so I could prove it. I’m not asking you to take my word for it. Just point the gun."
"I absolutely will not—"
"One ball, Coach," Rohan interrupted, standing up. His dark eyes locked onto Coach Sharma’s, projecting a chilling, unshakeable authority. "Just one delivery. If I wince, if I hold my shoulder, or if the pace is below 125 clicks, I will walk away and carry the drinks on Wednesday. You have my word."
Coach Sharma stared at the fifteen-year-old boy. The sheer, overwhelming aura of confidence radiating from Rohan made the coach hesitate. Reluctantly, Sharma raised the radar gun, stepping behind the protective netting.
"One ball, Rohan. And I swear, if I see a grimace, I’m calling your parents."
Rohan grabbed a scuffed red leather ball from the bucket. He tossed it in his right hand.
No pain. No stiffness. Just the heavy, comforting weight of the leather.
He walked back to mark his run-up. Aryan aggressively tapped his bat on the concrete pitch, his eyes wide behind his helmet grill. He remembered the ball that had stumped Zoravar. He knew what Rohan was capable of.
Rohan reached his mark. He closed his eyes.
"System," Rohan thought. "Give me a diagnostic overlay."
[Biomechanical Overlay Activated]
• Primary Torque Generator: Core / Obliques (Active via Intermediate Core Stabilization)
• Right Shoulder Strain Projection: Minimal (Safe Zone)
• Wrist Flexibility: Maximum (Active via Steel Cords & Silk Wrists)
Rohan opened his eyes. He started his run.
He pushed off his back foot. The 36 Physique propelled him forward with frightening, rhythmic speed. He hit the delivery stride, jumping high.
This was the moment of truth.
As he landed and braced his front leg, he didn’t pull the energy through his shoulder like he usually did. Instead, the newly integrated Intermediate Core Stabilization Blueprint took over instinctively. His abdominal muscles clamped down like a steel vise. His obliques twisted, absorbing the massive kinetic shockwave of the sudden deceleration.
The energy bypassed his fragile rotator cuff entirely, whipping through his arm like a slingshot. His wrist snapped forward.
CRACK!
The ball exploded out of his hand. It wasn’t swinging this time; it was just pure, unadulterated, linear violence.
Aryan barely registered the red blur leaving Rohan’s hand. He instinctively flinched, pulling his head away as the ball rocketed off the pitch on a short-of-a-length trajectory, whistling past his helmet grill like a bullet.
THUD!
The ball smashed into the heavy canvas backdrop behind the stumps, missing Kabir’s wildly flailing glove by inches.
Kabir fell backward onto the grass, his eyes the size of saucers. "Bro! Are you trying to kill us?!"
Rohan stood in his follow-through. He slowly rotated his right shoulder. He waited for the familiar, burning stab of pain.
Nothing.
The joint felt perfectly stable. The core had absorbed the brunt of the trauma, leaving his arm feeling as fresh as if he had just thrown a tennis ball.
A golden notification chimed in his mind.
[Delivery Analyzed.]
[Biomechanics: Flawless. Shoulder Stress: 2%.]
[Pace: 131.5 km/h — New Personal Record!]
In the nets, dead silence reigned.
Aryan was breathing heavily, staring at the canvas backdrop where the ball was still spinning on the ground.
Coach Sharma was frozen behind the net. He slowly lowered the radar gun, looking at the digital LCD display. His hands began to tremble.
"One hundred... and thirty-one," Coach Sharma whispered, his voice cracking. He looked up at Rohan, then back at the screen. "131.5 km/h. How... how is this medically possible? You couldn’t move your arm four days ago!"
Rohan walked down the pitch, picking up his towel to wipe a stray bead of sweat from his forehead.
"A very strict diet, Coach, and a lot of core exercises," Rohan replied smoothly, delivering the rehearsed lie without blinking. "The injury was just a severe cramp mimicking a tear. The MRI was a false positive due to inflammation. I’m completely fit."
Coach Sharma opened his mouth to argue the medical impossibility of a ’false positive’ Grade 2 tear, but no words came out. He looked at the boy standing before him. The boy who had humiliated Oakridge. The boy who had sacrificed himself to decapitate St. Jude’s.
And now, the boy who was bowling 131 km/h without breaking a sweat.
Coach Sharma looked down at the clipboard in his left hand. The official playing eleven for the Zonal Final. Sahil’s name was neatly printed at the bottom as the opening bowler.
Without a word, Coach Sharma ripped the paper off the clipboard. He tore it in half, then into quarters, letting the pieces flutter onto the grass.
"Kabir," Coach Sharma barked, his voice suddenly finding its old, booming authority.
Kabir scrambled to his feet. "Y-Yes, Coach?"
"Go to the sports office. Print a new team sheet," Coach Sharma commanded, a fierce, predatory grin slowly spreading across his face. "Rohan Roy takes the new ball on Wednesday."
Later that evening, Rohan sat on the edge of the roof of his apartment building. The sprawling chaos of West Delhi stretched out before him, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun.
He had a worn-out notebook resting on his knees. Ananya had lent it to him on Friday; it was filled with detailed scouting notes she had managed to dig up on the Delhi State U-16 Reserve Squad.
He flipped to the first page.
Team: Delhi State U-16 Reserve Squad
Status: Tournament Favorites. Undefeated in 14 matches.
Key Player: Prithvi Varma (Captain/Opening Batsman).
Notes: Prithvi doesn’t play school cricket; he plays in the Senior Men’s District League. He has a flawless technique. He doesn’t rely on raw power like Zoravar, nor on arrogance like Yashvardhan. He is a tactician. He averages 85.00 against fast bowling.
Rohan tapped his pen against the page.
This was the final boss of the Zonal Tournament. The State Reserve Squad wasn’t just a team of rich kids; they were a meticulously trained, state-funded machine. They had dieticians, video analysts, and sports psychologists. They were the gatekeepers to the professional circuit.
A blue screen flickered to life in the cool evening air.
[Upcoming Major Event Detected: Zonal Finals]
[Generating Campaign Quest...]
[Campaign Quest: The Gatekeepers of Delhi]
The path to the national stage is blocked by those who wear the State crest. Shatter their defense and claim your crown.
Objective 1: Win the Zonal Final against the State U-16 Reserves.
Objective 2: Dismiss Prithvi Varma (State Reserve Captain).
Reward: +100 SP, Unlocking of [Professional Tier] Attributes, System Upgrade (v2.0).
Failure Penalty: Permanent lock on Zonal Reputation. Evolution Stunted.
Rohan read the glowing text. A hundred System Points. A version 2.0 upgrade.
He closed Ananya’s notebook and stood up, looking out at the city lights beginning to flicker on in the encroaching darkness. He rolled his perfectly healed right shoulder.
"They have video analysts, dieticians, and perfect technique," Rohan whispered to the wind, a sharp, fearless smile forming on his lips. "Let’s see if they have a counter for the System."