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The Lunch bell had long faded, its echo swallowed by the restless hum around Lord's. The sunlight that once promised calm now glared harsh and brittle. A storm brewed at the edge of the clouds, faint but inevitable.
Aarav Pathak walked back out with Jadeja beside him, his eyes sharper than before, his silence heavier. The scoreboard read 155 for 5. The weight of the nation's hope rested on that small, glowing number.
Aarav adjusted his helmet. The ritual — two taps on the pitch — the same as always. But the sound this time was harder. Louder. It didn't echo defense. It promised retaliation.
The first few overs breathed stillness. Wagner hurled thunder, Boult swung clouds, but Aarav and Jadeja stood rooted. A flick from Jadeja through point — applause. Aarav, pulling Wagner through square — louder applause.
Little by little, belief returned to the stands.The tricolour rippled again. The chants rose again.
Kumar Sangakkara's voice, reverent and low, filled the broadcast:
"They're not playing for survival anymore… they're playing for belief."
Aarav's calls grew louder. "Run!" — sharp, urgent, commanding.He wasn't the youngster anymore; he was the general. Every single mattered. Every over felt like claiming lost territory.
The scoreboard ticked like a heartbeat. 160… 170… 180.
Then came Tim Southee as change in pace attack.The veteran's eyes held that quiet ruthlessness that only great fast bowlers possess.
First ball — full, swinging, testing. Jadeja drove it straight.Second — wider, left alone.Third — fuller, later swing. Jadeja leaned into the drive — crack — the stump cartwheeled.
Southee roared. Lord's gasped. The dream trembled again.
"Oh, what a delivery!" Ian Bishop exclaimed. "Southee bends it back in — Jadeja's gone! India now six down!"
The sound drained from the ground. Aarav bit his lip, looked down, then back at the dressing room. No emotion. No anger. Just resolve carved in silence.
He walked to his crease, tapped the pitch twice again.Once for the wicket lost. Once for what was still to be done.
Then, something inside him changed. The patience that had steadied him turned to fury.Wagner ran in — short, vicious — crack! pulled behind square, four.Boult followed up — full, overpitched — whack! driven back past mid-on, four.Jamieson tried to go fuller — too full — thud! straight drive screaming through the turf.
Lord's erupted. The commentary box, breathless.
"Where has this come from?" Atherton gasped."This young man is batting as if he's had enough of waiting!"
From 60, he raced to 70. From 70 to 90.Each shot louder. Each glance fiercer.
Kohli leaned over the balcony railing, fists clenched, eyes unblinking.
Then came the moment.Jamieson, overpitching slightly. Aarav stepped forward — one fluid motion — and drove. The ball cut through cover, racing over the ropes like lightning freed.
Hundred.
Aarav stopped in the middle of the pitch.He removed his helmet slowly.The noise around him faded, drowned by the beat of his own heart.
He looked around Lord's — this cathedral of the game that had tested every ounce of him.Then he spread his arms wide, moved his hand across the ground.
He pointed to his chest.And though he didn't speak, the gesture said it all:
"This is my ground. My time. You can throw any target — I'll chase it."
The Indian crowd lost itself. Flags waved. Tears mixed with chants.Sangakkara's voice trembled through the commentary box:
"He's not just scoring runs… he's defying gravity."
But as Aarav climbed, the world around him began to crumble again.Ashwin pushed one straight back to Wagner — caught and bowled.Boult swung one back into Shami — gone, bowled through the gate.
Each wicket was like thunder after lightning — sudden, harsh, final.215 for 6. 250 for 7. 265 for 8.
Every fall left Aarav more isolated, yet more alive.After each wicket, he'd tap his bat on the turf and whisper,
"Stay. Just stay."
He'd walk down the pitch between overs, staring at the scoreboard — 105 runs to win.The roar of the Kiwi bowlers grew. The noise of the Indian crowd rose in resistance.
Mastery of the Storm
With Ishant Sharma now at the other end, Aarav took command like a general.He refused early singles, took them only when he chose.Fifth ball — flicked to square leg — single.Sixth ball — hold strike.
He was no longer just batting; he was orchestrating. He was farming for strike.Every delivery felt like a line of destiny being rewritten.
Bishop's voice, quiet but awed:
"This isn't just batting… this is control of chaos."
Boult ran in for the last over before Tea.Aarav blocked the first five with iron patience.The sixth — flicked fine, graceful, one run. Strike retained.
The crowd stood and applauded as if witnessing art.
The Calm Before the Climax
At Tea, the scoreboard shone dimly under the graying sky:India 265 for 8. Aarav Pathak 140, Ishant Sharma 0.**105 runs needed. Two wickets left. One heartbeat of belief.
On the balcony, Kohli stood motionless, whispering to his teammates:
"He's not playing for a draw anymore."
Sangakkara's closing line carried both awe and reverence:
"When Aarav raised his bat, he didn't just mark a hundred — he declared that he owns this day."
The camera panned to the horizon — Lord's sky darkening again, clouds rolling like the sea before a storm.
And as the players walked off, the crowd still stood.Some in silence. Some in tears. All in belief.
As the clouds darkened over Lord's, one man stood unbeaten — the emperor of chaos, holding India's last hope in his hands.
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The sun pierced through the retreating clouds, casting long golden streaks across Lord's. The pitch glistened, dew still lingering at the edges, but the air was electric — thick with expectation, tension, and the weight of a nation's dreams. India were 265 for 8, chasing 370. Two wickets remained. One man stood between history and heartbreak.
Aarav Pathak adjusted his gloves, chest rising and falling in rhythm with the crowd's collective heartbeat. 140 not out. Every breath tasted of leather and sweat, every blink a countdown in seconds. Ishant Sharma, at the other end, squared his shoulders, the crease feeling like a battlefield.
From the commentary box, Ian Bishop's voice rumbled low, reverent:
"It's 105 runs from here, and everything hangs by a thread. Lord's has never felt this alive."
Nasser Hussain leaned forward, eyes wide, voice taut:
"Aarav Pathak isn't just batting. He's dictating terms to destiny itself."
The first ball of the session: Wagner steaming in, short, rising like a missile. Ishant fends it hard, leather thudding into the ground — the echo bouncing off the stands. Aarav adjusts his stance, eyes flicking toward the bowler's release. Every nerve, every fiber, alert.
Dinesh Karthik erupted:
"Shot! He's carved that through the covers like a king!"
But the next over — Boult, swing slicing across the pitch — Aarav absorbs, blocks, lets it slide past. His mind is a metronome: Attack the short side next. One boundary an over — that's the rhythm. His heartbeat is audible only to him. Stay. Breathe. One ball at a time.
Between overs, he whispers to Ishant:
"Just play straight. Don't chase it. Every ball you defend is worth gold. I'll take care of the rest."
Ishant blocks, survives, and Aarav claps his bat, lifts his glove toward the stands. The Indian fans rise, roaring for survival itself. Even the English murmurs give way to awe. The balcony watches: Kohli, Shastri, Gill — jaws clenched, hearts hammering starts clapping and cheering.
Jamieson, testing the bounce, fires one full. Aarav steps forward, drives hard through mid-off — the ball skims past, racing for four. Sangakkara whispers, poetic, hushed:
"Patience turned to defiance… he's shaping history with each stroke."
Short balls from Wagner, angling back in from Southee, the seam of Jamieson lifting from a length — Aarav adapts, rotates strike, farms the crease like a general marshaling his forces. Each over ends with him taking the single run — steady, precise, calculating. Sweat darkens his collar. Veins bulge along his forearms. His eyes blaze. This isn't over yet.
The crowd rises with every run, a living organism of tension and hope. Aarav's body sways in rhythm with the bowler, bat meeting leather with the thwack of defiance. Every defensive block, every calculated glance, every whispered instruction to Ishant is theatre. Each single or boundary is a heartbeat held, then released.
And then — calamity. Wagner, short, quick — Ishant fends, the edge flies. Watling leaps at slip, snares it clean. Aarav exhales, long and deliberate, the weight of the moment settling for just a second. India 315 for 9. One wicket left.
He walks down the pitch, patting Ishant's shoulder, whispering:
The crowd holds its collective breath. The sun catches the sweat on Aarav's face, highlighting every line, every wrinkle of focus, every shadow of struggle. The pitch gleams under the floodlights now coming on. History hangs suspended, trembling in the hush.
The world watched in silence — one man, one dream, fifty-five runs away from immortality.
The sun dipped low behind the Pavilion, streaking the Lord's outfield with molten gold. Every blade of grass glowed under the fading light, every shadow stretching long across the crease. The air was heavy, thick with anticipation — the kind that made every breath a labor, every heartbeat audible, every movement consequential. India were 315 for 9, chasing 370. Fifty-five runs remained. One wickets stood between history and heartbreak.
Aarav Pathak stepped forward, bat raised in a silent ritual, eyes scanning the horizon of golden light and grey clouds. Sweat ran down his temple, streaked with dirt from two days of unrelenting cricket. Bumrah, walking in with his usual calm, every step measured, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders.
Aarav adjusted his gloves, nodded to Bumrah, whispering under his breath:
"We finish this together. One ball at a time. Just defend it, and keep the bat close to your body, protect your lower body, and intercept the ball at your pads."
Southee charged in, seam biting the surface, swinging wide of Bumrah. Aarav made a silent calculation: let him survive. He would carry this. Each defensive block was precise, every glance at his partner a command without words. Strike farming became a symphony — Aarav orchestrating, orchestrating history.
Nasser Hussain's voice crackled from the commentary box:
"This is not just batting. It's chess under fire. Pathak is orchestrating every run."
Aarav's mind was a furnace of strategy — gaps, pace, angles, overs left, boundaries needed. He uppercut Wagner over point. Four runs. The crowd erupted, a roar of seventy thousand souls shaking the stands.
Jamieson floated one full — Aarav launched it over midwicket. Six! The stadium trembled with the force of the strike. Boult fired a bouncer; Aarav pulled it behind square for four more. Each over concluded with a calculated single, preserving the tail, protecting the fragile balance of wickets.
Ian Bishop's voice, deep and resonant:
"I've never seen strike farming at this level in Test cricket! He's playing like a T20 superstar with the patience of a Test champion."
Every glance at Bumrah was a command, a shield, a reassurance. The crowd, sensing the unspoken pact, rose to their feet, cheering every defensive block as if it were a boundary. Aarav whispered:
"You're part of this story too. I've got your back."
The air hummed with tension. Boult, Wagner, Southee — all the finest bowlers, on a pitch that had held secrets and chaos — tested him. Aarav responded with audacious brilliance. He sent Jamieson's full delivery soaring over deep midwicket — SIX! Uppercut to Wagner — four. Singles were taken only when necessary. Every run was a heartbeat, every strike a declaration.
Sangakkara's voice, calm and reverent:
"This is audacious. This is brilliance. This is Pathak writing history with his bat."
Aarav on 199, India need 4 runs to win, and New Zealand needs one wicket to win the final. Kane set the field, 7 fielders inside the circle and 2 lips with one silly point
Over 112.4. India needed four runs. Southee ran in, full delivery, straight at the mark. Aarav leaned forward, bat swinging like a blade. Cover drive. The ball kissed the turf, split the field, and raced to the boundary. FOUR!
The stadium erupted into chaotic, deafening applause. The Indian section roared like an ocean, the Indian flags rising, waving, alive. Aarav in excitement ran around the ground, he threw his helmet and bat into the air, bat aloft like a sword of triumph. He screamed, a release of every ounce of fear, tension, and hope:
"WE DID IT!"
Gill sprinted across the pitch first, colliding into Aarav, arms wrapping him in a hug that said more than words ever could. Kohli followed, tears glistening, embracing Aarav like a big brother with his younger one. The dressing room emptied onto the field — Jadeja, Rohit, Rahane, Shami, Ashwin — all storming the pitch, laughing, crying, roaring.
Ian Bishop Shouted to the mic, "Southee to Pathak... smashed! Smashed through the covers! It's racing away! It's racing away! He's done it!
I do not believe what I have just seen! Absolute bedlam at the Home of Cricket! With nine wickets down, with the clouds closing in, he has found the boundary and found immortality! The helmet is off, the bat is in the air, and the Indians are sprinting onto the turf! Stop the clock! Stop the world! Aarav Pathak has pulled off the heist of the century! India are champions!"
Sanga's voice continued, "If you are a writer, pick up your pen. If you are a poet, find your rhyme. Because you will never see a story like this again. As the shadows lengthen at Lord's, a new sun rises for Indian cricket. Aarav Pathak, with the weight of a billion hopes, has sculpted a masterpiece. A double century in a chase? It is the stuff of fiction, made real by a genius. The dream is a reality."
Isha Guha added, "The Home of Cricket has become the home of the impossible! Aarav Pathak, you superstar! He has played the innings of his life, the innings of a generation! Just listen to this roar! The tension was suffocating, but his class was liberating. Unbeaten on 203, with the last man standing... he has taken India to the summit!
Look at these scenes... the helmet is gone, the tears are flowing. Virat Kohli is sprinting out like a child! This is pure, unadulterated joy. A miracle in London!"
Every shot, every calculated block, every single, every boundary — etched into the annals of cricket. The scoreboard flashed India 370/9, the pinnacle achieved, the dream realized.
Aarav raised his bat to the crowd, chest heaving, sweat and dirt matted into his hair. He looked at Kohli, Gill, the Indian pavilion — and with a subtle nod, spoke to them silently:
"This is our day. Our time. Our triumph."
The sun dipped fully behind the clouds, leaving golden light bathing the ground like a coronation. Lord's, the cathedral of cricket, had witnessed a miracle.
He wasn't just unbeaten with the bat. He was unbeaten in spirit. Aarav Pathak, 203*, had led India to the pinnacle. Test cricket had found a new hero. And the world would never forget him.
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The Lord's pitch, still glistening from the toil of the Reserve Day, seemed to hum with history itself. The sun dipped low, spilling golden light across the ground, illuminating every blade of grass, every crease, every seam that had carried the weight of destiny. India had done the impossible: 370 chased down, last-wicket heroics scripted by Aarav Pathak, unbeaten on 203, a century in both innings, six wickets in the first innings — a performance for the ages. The scoreboard read it all, but the field was alive with celebration, pulsating with emotion.
Aarav, chest heaving, sweat matted into his hair, was still holding his bat like it was an extension of himself. Every member of the team poured onto the field like a wave of jubilation. Rohit Sharma, calm yet radiant, was the first to reach him, gripping Aarav's shoulders and lifting him into a brief embrace. Shubman Gill sprinted next, a wide grin across his face, slapping Aarav's back with the force of pure joy. Aarav laughed, a raw, unfiltered sound, as Virat Kohli, the captain, ran in with that familiar fire in his eyes.
Kohli (hugging Aarav): "You did this, champ! You carried us — you're unbelievable, man!"
Aarav could barely speak, breath caught in his chest, but the emotions spoke in their place. Ajinkya Rahane, ever composed, clapped him on the back with a grin:
"This is why we never give up. That innings… sheer brilliance."
Rishabh Pant, chaotic as ever, jumped onto Aarav's shoulders, hooting and hollering. Jadeja, with a fist bump and laugh, and Ashwin, nodding solemnly, all congratulated him in their own style. Md. Shami, Ishant Sharma, and Jasprit Bumrah surrounded him, each expression telling a different story: pride, awe, relief, and disbelief. And then, almost instinctively, the team lifted Aarav into the air, a human throne of champions, while coaches Ravi Shastri, and the support staff cheered from the sidelines, their applause ringing like church bells.
The roar of the Indian fans from the stands was deafening. Flags waved, scarves flew, some supporters even peeled off their jerseys and waved them in celebration. The chants were endless, "India! India! India!" merging with the golden light and the sense of history being written.
As the celebration slowly ebbed into organization, the post-match conference began, with Isa Guha anchoring the proceedings. Her voice carried over the PA system, calm yet alive with excitement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, what a day we have witnessed at Lord's! First, let us announce the Player of the Match — none other than Aarav Pathak! A ground-breaking innings of 203*, combined with six wickets in the first innings, centuries in both innings, and a tactical brilliance that guided India to victory!"
Aarav, still catching his breath, stepped forward. Microphone in hand, he looked at the expanse of the stadium, his teammates behind him, faces glowing with pride.
Isa Guha: "Aarav, this is a story that will be told for generations. Walk us through what was in your mind as you approached this chase — the last wicket standing, the pressure of history on your shoulders."
Aarav took a moment.
Aarav: "Honestly… every ball felt like a calculation, a tiny battle. I kept thinking — one ball at a time, one partnership at a time. Ishant and Jassi bhaiya… I wanted to protect them. I wanted to take the risk myself, but also make every single run count. I visualized the chase before it began — gaps, angles, field placements — and then… I just played, instinct and strategy together. And when that cover drive split the field to win the match… it felt like all the months of hard work, all the doubts, everything, finally made sense. I wasn't just batting… I was living a dream with my team."
Next, Guha moved to the Player of the Tournament for the WTC 2019–21 cycle.
"The award goes to Kane Williamson of New Zealand, for consistent brilliance over the cycle, leading his team with class and skill."
Kane stepped forward, accepting the accolade. He spoke with characteristic humility:
Kane Williamson: "It's been an incredible journey for both teams. Today wasn't the result we wanted, but India played brilliantly. I'm proud of my team — we gave our all. Congratulations to India, and especially to Aarav — a phenomenal performance."
Then came the ceremonial handing out of WTC Winners' Medals. Chris Broad, the ICC Board Member, walked down the ramp and handed the medals to Virat Kohli first. Kohli took a deep breath, holding the medal, the weight of history palpable.
Chris Broad: "For the captains and teams, the medals for the 2021 World Test Championship Final."
They both shook hands.
Guha turned to him:
"Virat, the first-ever World Test Champions. How does it feel, leading this team to history?"
Kohli's eyes glistened, a mixture of exhaustion, pride, and pure joy.
Kohli: "It's indescribable. Every player gave everything. From the first ball of the match to the last, this was a team effort. But Aarav… what he did today — batting, bowling, fielding, leading with courage — is the kind of innings that inspires generations. I couldn't be prouder."
Kohli turned to the squad, handing each player their medal — Rohit, Gill, Aarav, Rahane, Pant, Ashwin, Jadeja, Shami, Ishant, Bumrah — every player touched by the symbolism of this victory.
The New Zealand squad then received the Runners-Up medals, Chris Broad handing one to Kane Williamson. Kane addressed his team briefly, pride tinged with the melancholy of a valiant effort:
Kane Williamson: "We fought hard, played some excellent cricket, and I couldn't ask for more from my players. Congratulations to India — well deserved."
Then came the moment of the ICC World Test Championship Mace. Kohli lifted it, the golden light of Lord's bouncing off its polished surface. Fans screamed in unison. Kohli, for a brief moment, kissed the mace, a symbolic coronation.
The team surged forward, Aarav at the center. Kohli handed him the mace, his eyes locking with Aarav's:
Kohli (smiling): "This one's yours, young man. You earned it."
Aarav's hands closed around the mace, the weight real but the thrill heavier. The cameras flashed, capturing the moment for eternity. The team, gathered around, erupted in celebration. Champagne was pulled from coolers — Gill and Pant immediately doused Aarav, laughing and cheering. Aarav, caught up in the ecstasy, grabbed the bottle and poured it over Kohli's head, laughter and shouts filling the stands.
The Indian fans went wild. A few had removed their jerseys, waving them above their heads in raw joy. The team hugged, lifted each other, spun in circles. The golden shafts of sunlight turned to a glow of champagne droplets sparkling in the air.
Guha's voice carried above the chaos:
"This is what cricket is meant to be. Emotion, skill, history — and here, today at Lord's, we've witnessed a miracle. *Aarav Pathak, 203, six wickets, centuries in both innings — and the first World Test Champions in Indian history!**"
Aarav, drenched in champagne, arms around his teammates, looked at the pavilion, the fans, the ground. A single thought coursed through his mind:
"We did it. We wrote history. And this… this is ours."
The sun continued to set over Lord's, golden and forgiving. The team, still in celebration, lifted the mace together, their shadows stretching long across the hallowed turf. For one moment, the world felt suspended, the chaos of the match replaced with joy, triumph, and the enduring power of belief.
Lord's had witnessed legends before, but this — this was a story that would echo for generations. The Miracle at Lord's, carved into memory by Aarav Pathak, immortalized forever.
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Aarav Used Stokes Test Match Card Here.....
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Phew, finished!
Tell me, how was the ending? Did I do justice to an ICC Final? This was the second major final of the book—the first was the IPL, which you guys loved. So, how was this one? How would you rate this match on a scale of 1-10? Please tell me in the comments!
Also, what do you think should be added to the story going forward? I have some big plans for after the T20I World Cup, so comment with what you guys want to see.
Up Next: The next few chapters will focus on romance. It might be fast-paced, but I've been training by reading other web novels, so I hope you guys love it.
Question for you: What would be your perfect playing 11 for GT in the future? I am still brainstorming the lineup. specifically, who should open among Gill, Abhishek, or Jaiswal? (Aarav is at No. 3 for sure). Who should be the finisher and who should be in the bowling attack? Let me know in the comments too!
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