Two years.
In the span of 730 days, Siddanth Deva's life had been utterly reforged. The 10-year-old, pain-racked victor of the Inter-School Gauntlet was a distant memory, a foundation upon which a new, terrifyingly efficient athlete was being built.
At 12 years old, Siddanth was no longer just a "promising kid." He was a problem.
He had used those two years with the ruthless efficiency of a corporate strategist. He was in the U-14s now, playing against boys two years his senior, and he wasn't just coping; he was dominating.
A translucent blue screen flickered to life, accompanied by a faint, internal DING. The display was crisp, detailed, and organized, reflecting the complexity of the current integration level.
👨‍💻 PLAYER STATUS: SIDDANTH DEVA
AGE 12
TEMPLATE AB de Villiers
Integration: 30.0%LEVEL
ProdigyLocal & Inter-School Dominant
⚡ ATTRIBUTES
Attribute Rank Status
Strength: D+Increasing due to structured training and growth.
Agility: C+Template-enhanced, fluid movement.
Stamina: C+ Significantly upgraded via targeted training and TP assignment.
Reflexes: A Near-superhuman speed of thought and reaction.
Hand-Eye Coordination: A world-class tracking and bat control.
✨ SKILLS (TEMPLATES & LOTTERY)
Enhanced Hand-Eye Coordination: Passive Lv. 4 Absolute control over ball trajectory and impact point.
Acrobatic Instincts Passive Lv. 3 High success rate on advanced fielding dives and recovery.
360° Field Awareness Active Lv. 3 Instantaneous processing of gaps and field angles.
Innovative Shot-Making: Active Lv. 3 High proficiency in unconventional shots (scoops, ramps, switch-hits).
Advanced Cooking Skills Passive Lv. 2 Professional-grade knowledge of food chemistry and nutrition. (Lottery)
Advanced Dancing Skills: Passive Lv. 1 Perfected balance and rapid footwork against spin bowling. (Lottery)
Bowling Technique (Seam): B-Classical technique fused with supernatural speed/control.
Tactical Acumen (Cricket Brain): C+Strong on-field generalship, predictive fielding/bowling changes.
đź’Š INVENTORY
Minor Recovery Potion x 1 Held in reserve. Effective for major muscle/tendon injury recovery.
After winning the U-12s again at age 11, the system had offered another Bronze Lottery spin. He'd prayed for a stamina boost.Â
He got Advanced Dancing Skills (Passive).
He had been furious. For a week, he'd been a moody, 12-year-old incarnation of his 32-year-old cynicism. Dancing? What was this, a joke?
Then, he'd gone to the nets. A new U-14 leg-spinner, a wily kid, was turning the ball square. Siddanth, as usual, stepped out to drive. But he didn't just "step."
His body, now imbued with the passive knowledge of a ballroom dancer's footwork, glided. He didn't lunge; he flowed. His front foot landed, his back foot pirouetted to support his weight, and his hips opened up in a perfect, fluid arc. He didn't just hit the ball; he dismissed it.
Coach Narendar, watching from the sidelines, dropped his tea. Siddanth's footwork against spin was no longer just "good." It was artistic. He was a 12-year-old waltzing with bowlers, his feet moving with a precision that was simply not human. The "junk" skill had become one of his most potent weapons.
His other reward, from the U-14 pre-season tournament, was a Minor Recovery Potion (x1). This, his 32-year-old mind had seized upon. He hadn't used it. It sat in his mental "inventory," a tiny, glowing blue vial. It was his ultimate insurance policy, not for a U-14 match, but for the real game. The one he was playing against time and against the future.
This was Siddanth Deva at 12. A local prodigy, a cricket "genius," who also, thanks to his first lottery win, made a beurre blanc that would make a French chef weep.
But today, none of that mattered.
Today was March 23, 2003.
Siddanth's living room was a pressure cooker of prepubescent hope. The old BPL television, which had shown him Tom and Jerry on his "first day," was now the center of the universe.
The air was thick with the smell of samosas, pakoras, and the sharp tang of mint chutney. His mother, Sesikala, had been a whirlwind, producing snacks for the "boys." Siddanth, wincing, had snuck into the kitchen and "adjusted" the seasoning on the chaat masala. His Advanced Cooking Skills were a blessing and a curse.
"Siddu, stop fussing and sit! You'll miss the start!"
Arjun, now a lanky 12-year-old with the same oversized glasses, was already on the floor, cross-legged, a small Indian flag painted on his cheek. Beside him were Ravi and Sameer, two mainstays from their U-12 team. Sameer was wearing a full, blue "SACHIN 10" jersey, his face a mask of religious intensity.
The first innings was over. Australia, led by a murderous, unforgettable 140* from Ricky Ponting, had posted 359.
The mood in the room was... fragile.
"360, man," Ravi whispered, his voice cracking. "That's... that's a lot."
"So what?" Sameer snapped, his loyalty a tangible force. "We have Sachin. We have Dada. We have The Wall. We let them get 359 so Sachin can score 200! It's destiny!"
"Yeah... destiny," Arjun said, but his eyes were on Siddanth, who was sitting quietly at the back, leaning against the wall.
"What do you think, Siddu?" Arjun asked.
It was the question he'd been dreading. His friends looked at him, not just as a friend, but as their leader. As the kid who hit impossible sixes. As the boy who knew things.
Siddanth looked at their faces, bright and shining with a pure, agonizing hope. He knew. He knew what was about to happen. He'd lived with this knowledge for two years. He'd seen the scorecards. He'd watched the highlights on YouTube.
He had to lie.
"It's... hard," Siddanth said, his voice carefully neutral. "But if anyone can do it, it's our team. McGrath is the key. If we see off McGrath..."
Liar, his 32-year-old mind spat. You know what happens.
"SEE?" Sameer yelled, vindicated. "Even Siddu knows! We just have to see off McGrath! SHH! It's starting!"
The Indian innings. The hope of a billion people, crystallized into two men walking onto the Johannesburg turf: Sachin Tendulkar and Virender Sehwag.
The room was silent. Sesikala stopped clattering plates in the kitchen. Even the thwack-thwack of the ceiling fan seemed to hold its breath.
First over. Glenn McGrath.
Ball 1. A dot.
Ball 2. A dot.
Ball 3. A four.
Arjun whispered. "Good, good."
Ball 4. A dot.
"Come on, Sachin... just one..."
Ball 5.
It was short. A nothing ball, really. But it was McGrath.
Sachin, the god of a billion, went for the pull. The shot that had defined his dominance.
He top-edged it.
The ball went high. Not forward. Just... up.
McGrath, the bowler, settled under it.
The camera zoomed in. The red ball fell. The tall, lanky Australian... caught it.
Silence.
A profound, absolute, nation-wide silence.
In Siddanth's living room, the only sound was the BPL TV's low hum.
Sameer, the boy in the "SACHIN 10" jersey, was frozen. "No," he whispered.
Ravi just stared, unblinking. "He... he dropped it... right? The umpire... he'll call it back..."
"He's out," Arjun said, his voice hollow.
The small paper flag in his hand slipped, fluttering to the red oxide floor.
"NO!" Sameer suddenly roared, leaping to his feet. "NO! THAT'S NOT FAIR! HE'S THE ONLY ONE... HE CAN'T BE OUT!" His 12-year-old face crumpled, betrayal and rage warring for dominance.
Siddanth didn't have to act. He knew it was coming. He'd prepared for it. But the sound of his friends' hope shattering, the physical weight of the disappointment in the room... it was a thousand times worse than just knowing a scorecard.
He'd seen his 10-year-old life. He'd seen his 18-year-old life. In that moment, he was seeing the collective trauma of a nation, and he was the only one who had to watch it, knowing it was all part of a script.
"Sit down, Sameer," Siddanth said, his voice colder than he intended.
"But Siddu... Sachin..."
"He's out. Now we watch."
What followed was not a chase. It was a funeral.
Ganguly came and went, a mistimed pull shot. A collective groan.
Sehwag and Dravid, "The Wall," tried to build. A tiny spark of hope. The boys, desperate for anything, leaned forward.
"Come on... come on... they can do it..." Ravi murmured.
And then... the run-out. Sehwag, the last, explosive hope, was gone.
That, Siddanth knew, was the real end.
The rest of the match was a slow, agonizing bleed-out. The boys didn't cheer anymore. They just watched, their faces grim, as the Australian players celebrated every falling wicket.
The samosas grew cold. The pakoras sat untouched.
Yuvraj. Kaif. Harbhajan. All gone.
The final wicket fell. Zaheer Khan, bowled.
The Australian team erupted. They were world champions. The camera panned to the Indian team, to the dejected, slumped shoulders of Dravid. It zoomed in on a fan in the stands, an old man, openly weeping into an Indian flag.
In Siddanth's living room, the silence was back, but now it was thick and bitter.
Sameer was crying, but silently, his face buried in his "SACHIN 10" jersey.
Ravi was just shaking his head, over and over. "359... 359..."
Arjun, ever the analyst, spoke first, his voice dead.
"They're just... better. That's it. Ponting... Warne... McGrath... they're... they're too big. Too strong. Too fast. It's not... It's not even a fair fight."
Siddanth looked at his friends. Their heroes had failed them. Their gods had bled. And in the vacuum of their despair, they all, one by one, turned and looked at him.
They weren't looking at "Siddu," their friend. They were looking at Deva, the kid who scored 138 in the final. The kid who hit shots that shouldn't exist. Their local hero.
"Arjun's right," Sameer sniffled, his voice thick. "They're monsters. Even... even you couldn't have chased 360, Siddu. Right? No one could."
It was a test. It was an appeal. They wanted him, their reality, to confirm that the dream was impossible.
Siddanth Deva, 32 years old, with a 30% supernatural template, stood up. The BPL TV was still showing the Australian celebrations. He saw Ricky Ponting, his face split in a triumphant grin, lifting the massive golden cup.
He'd watched that image for two years. He'd known this day would end in this exact, agonizing moment.
Too big. Too strong. Too fast.
Arjun's words. The truth.
For now.
"Siddu?" Arjun asked, his voice small.
Siddanth turned, his 12-year-old face hardening, the A-grade reflexes making his eyes seem impossibly sharp.
"No," he said.
The boys looked confused. "No... no what?"
"No, you're not right," Siddanth said, his voice quiet, but cutting through the despair.
He walked out of the room.
"Siddu, where are you going?"
He returned a moment later, holding his English willow bat. The one he'd used to win all those tournaments.
He stood in the middle of the room, in front of the TV, a 12-year-old shadow against the image of Australia's triumph.
"He's right," Siddanth said, pointing the bat at Arjun. "They are too strong. They are too fast. Today."
He looked at Sameer. "And you're right. Sachin is our god. And he failed."
He let the words hang.
"But you're all wrong about one thing."
He turned and looked at the TV, at Ponting's beaming face.
"You think it's impossible. You think 360 is a wall. You're wrong."
He wasn't a kid watching a tragedy. He was a rival watching a contemporary.Â
He had a plan.
"They're not gods," Siddanth whispered, his knuckles white on the bat handle. "They're just men. And men can be beaten."
"But... not by us, Siddu," Ravi said, his voice hopeless.
Siddanth looked at his friend.
"The next World Cup is in 2007. I'll be 16."
"So? You'll be in 10th grade!" Sameer said.
"I'll be 16," Siddanth repeated, his voice a low, hard vow that had nothing to do with boyhood. "And in 2011, I'll be 20. And in 2015, I'll be 24."
He was mapping it out. His future. Their future.
He looked at the dejected faces of his friends. Their hope was broken.
So he would be their hope.
He pointed his bat at the screen, at the celebrating Australians.
"They won. They get to celebrate."
He turned to his friends, his 12-year-old face set with a terrifying, adult resolve.
"But they'd better enjoy it. Because I'm coming."
Arjun, Ravi, and Sameer just stared. They were in a room full of despair, but in the center of it, their friend, their captain, their legend, was making a promise.
He wasn't disappointed. He wasn't sad.
He was angry.
And he was practicing.
The 2003 World Cup loss was not the end. It was the day Siddanth Deva truly, finally, declared war.