The displaced brick lay in the dust, a testament to the raw, unpolished violence of Rohan’s delivery.
The other boys in the park started murmuring, but Monu Bhaiya(Brother) simply walked down the concrete pitch. He didn’t say a word. He crouched near the makeshift crease, running a calloused thumb over the chalk line, and then picked up the heavy tape-ball.
He stared at the seam, then looked up at Rohan. The arrogant, dismissive glint in Monu’s eyes was gone. In its place was a sharp, calculating gaze that felt entirely out of place for a twenty-two-year-old playing street cricket.
"Everyone else, pack it up. Practice is over," Monu commanded, his voice low but carrying an authority that instantly silenced the chatter.
Kabir looked confused. "But Monu Bhaiya, we still have an hour of daylight left—"
"I said, we’re done," Monu interrupted, not taking his eyes off Rohan. "Go home. Rest your bodies. Sunday is going to be a bloodbath. Rohan, you stay back for a minute."
Kabir gave Rohan a nervous thumbs-up before scurrying away with the rest of the boys. Soon, it was just Rohan and Monu standing in the dusty park under the fading twilight.
Rohan felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. Had he shown off too much?
Monu walked up to him, stopping just a foot away. He pulled out a matchstick, clamped it between his teeth, and looked down at Rohan’s feet. Specifically, at the ragged, glue-stained canvas sneakers Rohan was wearing.
"You generated that pace with a braced core and a high arm action," Monu said quietly. It wasn’t a question; it was an expert observation. "But doing that in canvas shoes on uneven concrete? You’re bleeding kinetic energy through your ankles, kid. Two more overs with that action in those shoes, and your patella tendon will snap like a dry twig."
Rohan blinked, stunned. Monu wasn’t just a neighborhood brute who hit sixes; he was talking biomechanics. "I... I know. But it’s all I have right now."
Monu sighed, a heavy, tired sound that seemed to carry years of regret. He sat down on a nearby cement bench and rolled up the right leg of his track pants.
Rohan’s eyes widened. Snaking up from Monu’s right knee to his thigh was a thick, jagged surgical scar. It was the undeniable mark of a massive, career-ending reconstruction surgery.
"I used to bowl fast, too," Monu said, his voice barely a whisper against the evening breeze. "Faster than you. I got picked for the Delhi Under-19 probables. Had the fire, had the pace. But I didn’t have the money for proper gear or diet. I bowled a twenty-over spell in state trials wearing worn-out spikes on a hard ground."
He tapped his scarred knee. "My ACL completely detached from the bone. End of story. Now, I hit tape-balls in a colony park and work at my uncle’s hardware shop."
Rohan swallowed hard. He was looking at his own worst-case scenario. This was what the System had warned him about when it said his physique was a ’fragile vessel’.
Monu stood up, unzipped his large, faded kit bag, and rummaged through the bottom. He pulled out a pair of shoes and tossed them to Rohan.
Rohan caught them clumsily. They weren’t metal spikes—which would be useless on concrete anyway—but high-quality, professional-grade rubber studded turf shoes. They were clearly old, heavily scuffed at the toes, and the bright blue color had faded, but the thick, shock-absorbing soles were entirely intact.
"Size 9. Should fit you," Monu said, chewing his matchstick. "I can’t wear them anymore; my right leg can’t take the impact of a run-up. Consider it a loan. You wear these on Sunday, and you tear through Aryan Singhania’s batting lineup. Understand?"
Rohan looked from the expensive shoes to Monu. The older boy’s face was unreadable, masked in the shadows of the dusk, but there was a flicker of genuine, big-brotherly warmth in his eyes. He saw his past self in Rohan, and he was trying to save him from the same fate.
"I won’t let you down, Monu Bhaiya," Rohan said, his voice thick with emotion.
"Don’t do it for me, kid," Monu turned and started walking away, tossing his kit bag over his shoulder. "Do it because the pitch doesn’t care about how poor you are. It only respects the blood you bleed on it. See you on Sunday."
Rohan walked home with the turf shoes clutched to his chest like a holy relic.
He didn’t put them on yet. He still had a Daily Quest to finish, and he wasn’t going to ruin his new, precious gear on a grueling 12-kilometer street run.
[Daily Quest: The Foundation of a Pace Demon (Day 2)]
[Objectives: 150 Push-ups, 150 Squats, 150 Sit-ups, 12 Kilometer Run.]
[Time Remaining: 4 Hours, 20 Minutes]
He reached his neighborhood, dropped the shoes off in his room—hiding them under his bed so his mother wouldn’t ask questions—and immediately set out into the smog-filled Delhi night in his torn canvas sneakers.
The workout was absolute hell.
The volume had increased by 50%, and the run was two kilometers longer. By the eighth kilometer, Rohan was virtually sleepwalking. His lungs were screaming for oxygen, and his vision was tunneling.
I can’t stop, Rohan chanted in his mind, his feet dragging on the asphalt. Monu Bhaiya blew out his knee because his body couldn’t handle the strain. If I don’t build my physique, the System’s pace will literally break my bones.
He pushed through the pain barrier. He ignored the burning in his chest, the cramps in his calves, and the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat.
At 10:45 PM, exactly on the twelfth kilometer mark, he collapsed onto the pavement outside his apartment building.
Ding!
[Daily Quest: The Foundation of a Pace Demon (Day 2) - COMPLETED!]
[Evaluating Performance... Outstanding Perseverance Detected.]
[Distributing Rewards...]
[+1 Physique Stat]
[+1 Stamina Stat]
[+5 System Points (SP)]
[1x Novice Recovery Muscle Patch generated.]
Rohan applied the patch immediately, groaning in pure ecstasy as the warm, healing energy flooded his violently cramped muscles.
He dragged himself up the stairs and quietly slipped into his room. He didn’t even have the energy to eat dinner. He collapsed onto his mattress, pulling up his Status Panel one last time before his eyes slid shut.
--- HOST STATUS PANEL ---
Name: Rohan Roy
Overall Rating: 16 / 100 (Grade: G - Trash Tier)
[Physical Attributes]
• Physique: 14/100
• Stamina: 16/100
• Agility: 20/100
[Bowling Attributes]
• Pace: 102 km/h (Base) / 114 km/h (Conditional: Core Brace + Turf/Concrete)
• Line & Length: 25/100
• Swing/Seam: 10/100
System Points (SP): 8
He was still in the ’Trash Tier’, but the numbers were moving. He had a weapon now. He had proper shoes.
Sunday was only a day away. The Gully Premier League was waiting, and Rohan was finally ready to hunt.