Seles swiped through a few glowing slides on his tablet, the soft light reflecting off his focused gaze, then passed it over. The middle schoolers leaned in instinctively, shoulders brushing, curiosity pulling them closer.
"That," Seles said, tapping the screen once, "is what allowed him to execute the Ghost Return." He paused, letting the weight of it sink in, "One-point Reality is Haruf Noorfaris innate sixth sense—something he refined specifically to counter mind-based attacks. In simple terms, he funnels all of his concentration into a single point of focus."
"The ball," Alan added calmly, eyes sharp as they followed the pitch, "Even if it's hidden inside an illusion—or made to disappear—he can still locate it." helifted his hand slightly, fingers closing as if catching something invisible, "He tracks its soundwaves. Infrasonic, ultrasonic—frequencies most players don't even register. That's how he pinpoints its exact location and returns it."
A quiet beat passed.
"That's why," Alan continued, "even with the constant noises or sounds layered over the pitch, he found the real ball before it reached the stumps. Illusions don't produce sound. Reality always does."
Silence swallowed the group. The boys stared at the tablet now, throats working as they took in the data glowing back at them.
Poseidon finally spoke, voice hushed with disbelief, "This is… Senior Haruf's star radar chart?"
The screen displayed it boldly—intelligence, focus, and attack rated 9/10, stamina 8/10, power soaring past expectation at 10+/10.
"…Is he even human?" Ryan whispered, as if afraid the numbers might hear him, "Or is this chart just… wrong?"
"This looks tragically unreal," Feng muttered, narrowing his eyes like the data might suddenly blink back.
"It's not wrong," Noah replied evenly, "If anything, it's accurate. Especially for our top three."
Khizr leaned lazily over the railing above them, voice dropping into a mischievous whisper, "Wait till you see Rauf's. You'll start questioning your existence on the cricket field altogether."
Damian turned toward him, incredulous, "That's… not reassuring coming from a rival. And shouldn't you not be looking at this? Isn't it confidential?"
Coach Yusuf chuckled softly, hands folded behind his back, "Basic profiles like this are known across the circuit. Nothing classified."
Khizr shrugged, unbothered, "What you're seeing now? We figured it out ages ago. Back when we were still middle schoolers."
Cassiel lowered his gaze to the details, reading aloud with quiet intensity. "Haruf Noorfaris. Third-year high schooler. Age: 18. Height: 192 centimeters. Weight: 89 kilograms. An easy-going personality off the pitch—but one of the fiercest powerplay cricketers among all fourteen genius-rankers of the base. Right-handed batsman. Counters both pace and spin deliveries, with a particular specialty against off-spin."
Cassiel looked up briefly, then back down,"His steady, demonstrative, and aggressively relentless playstyle earned him the title 'Destructor'. Ranked third on the base's Genius List."
A few boys exchanged glances.
"His abilities manifest as uninterrupted, explosive boundary hitting—six after six, four after four," Cassiel continued, "Proven during the last Under-18 Juvenile World Cup, where he recorded three fifties and beyond as an opening batsman." He finished, voice calm but heavy with impact, "He has also conquered both 'Unseal' and 'Roaring'—alongside Aaron Noel Hervé."
After hearing and witnessing Isa, Aaron, Ren, Senri, Elias, Aigou, Noah, and Kazuna, Haruf's abilities and achievements were enough to leave the middle schoolers deep in thought—about just how finely their high schoolers had honed themselves through the previous World Cup and all the time since.
This was no joke. They realized, once more, with sobering clarity, that they still had a long, long way to go.
A single was squeezed off the third delivery. Adam returned to the striker's end and tapped his bat against the crease—once, twice—each sound measured, grounding himself. His eyes stayed forward, alert, unblinking.
This powerplay mattered. Every run mattered.
Haitam Asher was an unknown variable to him—not fully, not truly. What Adam had witnessed so far was only fragments: sharp precision, unnerving deception, flashes of something deeper lurking beneath the spin. If he let himself fall into that rhythm—into Haitam's rhythm—it would be over before he even realized it.
At the top of his mark, Haitam rubbed the ball briskly against his sleeve, rough fabric squeaking faintly as it made the surface slicker. His gaze lifted absentmindedly toward Multan's pavilion. And stilled. His brows knit together, a shallow crease forming between them.
Raza was there. Along with three others—substitutes for the match, sitting lower down the steps.
Higher up, Yasir and Yara stood out immediately. Yasir wore a smile, but it was stretched thin, brittle at the edges, as though it might crack if held for too long. Yara's expression, on the other hand, was unreadable—cold, unmoving. Haitam's jaw tightened. Then—movement.
Raza lifted an arm and waved, catching his attention. His smile was tired, worn by concern, but warm all the same. With his other hand, Raza gestured sideways. Haitam followed the direction of that motion.
And froze...
Karachi's pavilion came into view. His teammates. Their teammates. Multan and Karachi intermingled—middleschoolers, highschoolers. Shoulders pressed together, hands flying as they teased and laughed, voices overlapping in easy familiarity. Their faces were bright. Relaxed. Energetic. A single corner of the stadium seemed to bloom with warmth and fervor. It hit him all at once.
This—this was Multan Sultans.
This was his team. Not divided by pride or pressure, not weighed down by expectations, but whole. United. Laughing. Kings of their freedom. Masters of their finesse.
Relief surged through him, sudden and unguarded. His lips curved before he could stop them, forming a smile that was softer than anything he'd worn all evening—grateful, almost fragile. He wasn't sure who it was meant for.
Karachi Kings, perhaps? Or the circumstances that had allowed this moment to exist at all. Haitam exhaled deeply. His breath trembled.
From the non-striker's end, Haruf glanced his way, eyes sharp but kind. "Seems like we'd make a pretty good team someday, if we paired up," he said lightly.
Haitam laughed, the sound genuine as he turned back toward his mark, "Haha—what a wonderful experience that would be, my dear friend."
He stepped forward for the fourth delivery. Foot planted on the popping crease, arm coming over smoothly as he released the ball. Deception wrapped itself around the delivery. At first, it landed straight. Then the spin bit harder than expected, wobbling outward suddenly, veering wide.
Adam instinctively pulled back, bat withdrawing as the ball sailed through to the wicketkeeper's gloves.
"Oh—!" the fielders cried. The umpire's arms stretched outward. Wide.
David tossed the ball back. Haitam caught it cleanly, turning away as his fingers curled tightly around the seam. His hair fell forward, shadowing his eyes as he exhaled again.
This wasn't the time. He knew that. And yet—everything was surfacing now. All of it. The restraint he'd held onto for so long. The weight he'd carried alone. Maybe he'd been strong for too long. Maybe seeing them smile—really smile—had truly cracked something open. In this moment, he wanted to give everything. But unexpectedly, it felt unbearably demanding.
Back in the coaches' area, Noam tilted his head, brows furrowing. "His control slipped for a moment," he murmured.
Raza's fingers curled against his knee. "He's thinking again," he said quietly, "Overthinking."
Another coach glanced over, asking almost cautiously, "Did he… even sleep last night?" Raza fell silent. Then shook his head.
"Tch." The coach clicked his tongue, irritation sharp, "I knew it. That boy…"
Raza glanced around as his gaze flicked upward, landing squarely on Yara, "Isn't it all because of her?"
Yara met his stare head-on—stoic, displeased, eyes cold as stone. The look she gave them all was sharp, accusatory, as if asking: Where did the rest of you worthless lot disappear to? Have you no shame, running off to your rivals' pavilion?
Raza felt his blood boil. "If only you hadn't said it," he hissed under his breath, "If only you hadn't done that." His jaw clenched, words grinding out like broken glass, "You humiliated him. Right in front of us. And you call that guidance?" His glare burned. "You are the worst thing that's happened to him. And to us."
Yesterday replayed in his mind, the humiliation torn open once more under her patronizing gaze.