For three whole seconds, the only sound at the DDA Grounds was the Punjabi music still blaring from the cheap PA system.
Then, the crowd erupted.
"Oye, what was that?!"
"Did you see the pace? The ball was a shadow!"
"The middle stump is cracked in half!"
Kabir let out a high-pitched scream from behind the wickets, sprinting down the pitch and jumping onto Rohan’s back. "You madman! You actually broke the stump! What did you eat for breakfast?!"
Basic Nutrient Paste, Rohan thought, though he just managed a tired grin.
Monu Bhaiya jogged up to them, swatting Kabir off Rohan’s back. "Focus," Monu barked, though the massive, predatory grin on his face betrayed his excitement. "One ball doesn’t win a match. They are intimidated. Don’t give them room to breathe. Keep it full and fast."
The burly batsman, still staring at the ruined stump, slowly tucked his bat under his arm and walked off the ground without saying a word. The arrogance had been completely wiped from his face.
At the boundary line, Aryan Singhania was furiously typing on his phone, purposely looking away, but his jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful.
The Paharganj Smashers sent in their next batsman. He took his guard nervously, standing two feet outside the crease to counter the skid of the tape-ball.
Rohan walked back to his mark. He breathed in the dusty air, feeling the hum of the System in his mind.
Over 1, Ball 2.
He charged in. The turf shoes gripped perfectly. He braced his core.
WHOOSH.
This time, the ball angled in towards the batsman’s ribs. Terrified of the pace, the batsman awkwardly jabbed his bat down. The heavy tape-ball caught the inside edge and crashed heavily into the leg stump.
CLACK!
[Delivery Analyzed. Pace: 115.8 km/h]
[Result: Bowled. Wicket 2/3 secured.]
The crowd roared again. Two balls. Two wickets. Rohan was tearing through grown men like they were paper.
He finished his first over conceding zero runs and taking two wickets. It was a maiden over in a street T10 match—a statistical anomaly.
But as Rohan walked to the boundary to field, he felt a sharp burning sensation in his right shoulder. His lungs were working overtime.
[System Warning: Stamina depletion at 45%. The Host’s body is not accustomed to generating 115+ km/h sequentially. Muscle fatigue imminent.]
Rohan gritted his teeth. He had the Nutrient Paste buffering his energy, but his raw Stamina stat was only 16. The System couldn’t override pure physical exhaustion forever.
He bowled his next two overs with slightly less intensity, dropping his pace to around 108 km/h to conserve energy. He didn’t take another wicket, but he only gave away twelve runs.
By the time the Paharganj Smashers finished their 8 overs, they had managed a pitiful 45 runs, completely paralyzed by their fear of Rohan’s opening spell.
"Watch and learn, kid," Monu Bhaiya told Rohan as he strapped on his batting pads. "Fast bowling wins you respect. But big hitting wins you money."
Monu walked out to open the batting with Kabir.
What followed was not a cricket match; it was an execution.
Monu Bhaiya wielded his heavy Kashmiri willow bat like a battleaxe. He didn’t bother with footwork or elegant drives. He simply stood tall, waiting for the ball to enter his arc. When it did, the sheer violence of his swing was terrifying.
THWACK.
The first ball went over the long-on boundary, clearing the plastic tents and landing on the roof of a nearby house.
THWACK.
The second ball went straight back over the bowler’s head, smashing into the branches of a peepal tree.
Rohan watched in awe. Monu’s upper body strength was monstrous. It was a tragic realization of what Monu could have been if his knee hadn’t betrayed him. He possessed the raw, unrefined talent that professional academies desperately searched for, rotting away in a dusty local park.
In just 3.2 overs, Monu smashed 46 runs himself, finishing the game with a monstrous six over mid-wicket.
Match 1 was over.
The rest of the day blurred into a grueling montage of sweat, dust, and muscle cramps.
They played two more matches in the sweltering afternoon heat. In the quarter-finals, Rohan’s pace dropped further to 105 km/h due to sheer exhaustion, but he managed to force a batsman to mistime a pull shot, which Kabir safely caught.
Ding!
[Objective 2 Complete: Take at least 3 wickets across the tournament (3/3).]
[Reward pending final tournament placement.]
By the time the sun began to set, painting the Delhi sky in hues of deep purple and smoggy orange, only two teams remained.
The organizers switched on the massive, blinding halogen floodlights surrounding the main concrete pitch. The air cooled down, but the tension multiplied tenfold. A massive crowd of over five hundred people had gathered to watch the final.
It was Monu Bhaiya’s Colony Kings versus Aryan Singhania’s Royal Strikers.
Rohan sat on a plastic chair, pouring a bottle of water over his head. His right shoulder felt like it was on fire, and his legs were trembling.
[System Warning: Stamina at 12%. Risk of injury is critical. Recommendation: Do not exceed 100 km/h.]
"You look like hell," a voice sneered.
Rohan looked up, water dripping from his eyelashes. Aryan was standing a few feet away, holding his custom-made English willow bat. His pristine white jersey was barely dirty. The Royal Strikers had cruised to the finals without breaking a sweat, carried by their professional gear and academy training.
"I’m fine," Rohan said coldly, wiping his face with his shirt.
Aryan crouched down, dropping the arrogant smirk, his eyes flashing with genuine malice. "I saw you bowl today, Roy. I don’t know what kind of steroids you’re taking, or what tricks you’re using to bowl fast with that garbage action of yours. But this isn’t school practice. We bat first. And I am going to end your little underdog story right here in front of everyone."
Aryan stood up, tapping his bat against Rohan’s turf shoes. "Let’s see if those stolen shoes can save you when I hit you out of the ground."
Aryan walked away to the pitch to take his guard as the opening batsman.
Monu Bhaiya walked up beside Rohan, handing him the tape-ball. It was fresh, wrapped in a double layer of thick, industrial-grade tape. It felt like a solid rock.
"He’s an academy batsman," Monu said quietly, staring at Aryan. "He plays the cover drive well, he has good footwork, and he likes the ball pitched up. But academy boys have a weakness, Rohan."
Rohan looked at Monu, fighting through the exhaustion. "What is it?"
"They play on turf, where the bounce is predictable," Monu smiled, a dark, wicked expression. "They don’t know how to handle a heavy tape-ball skidding off a cracked concrete pitch at 115 clicks, aimed straight at their throat."
Monu patted Rohan’s aching shoulder. "Forget the stamina limit. Give me one over of absolute, terrifying hell. Break his pride."
Rohan stood up. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but as he looked at Aryan arrogantly tapping his bat under the halogen lights, the fire returned.
He pulled up his System interface.
"System," Rohan thought. "Is there any way to bypass the stamina limit for one over? Even if it hurts?"
[Analyzing...]
[The Host may forcibly inject the residual energy from the Novice Recovery Muscle Patch into the bloodstream for a temporary adrenaline spike. Warning: This will result in severe muscle tearing post-match. The Host will be incapacitated for 48 hours.]
Rohan didn’t hesitate. "Do it."
A sudden, violent jolt of electricity shot through his veins. His pupils dilated. The pain in his shoulder instantly vanished, replaced by an explosive, uncontrollable surge of power.
[Adrenaline Overdrive Activated. Duration: 5 Minutes.]
[Current Pace Potential: Unlocked.]
Rohan gripped the tape-ball and walked to his mark. The finals had begun.
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