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The bus ride back from Chennai was a quiet, introspective affair. The 95* had been a personal triumph but a team failure, a lesson Siddanth absorbed with a bitter, familiar taste: you cannot win alone.
He had been the story of the match. The local Hyderabad papers, picking up the Chennai reports, were already calling him the "Sixteen-Year-Old Savior" and the "Future of Hyderabad Cricket." The hype, which Coach Vijay Paul had openly despised, was now a roaring fire.
This made the home-ground dynamics for the match against Kerala... complicated.
They were at the Gymkhana Grounds, his home. The ground where he'd earned his place. The stands, usually sparse for a four-day Ranji match, were dotted with an unusual number of spectators—schoolboys in HPS uniforms, local club players, and, sitting in the pavilion shade, Vikram Deva and Arjun.
In the dressing room, the atmosphere was thick. Siddanth was no longer the anonymous rookie. He was the kid who had shown up the veterans.
"Right, lads," Coach Paul said, clipboard in hand. "Same squad. One change to the XI."
The room tensed.
"Deva, you're at four."
Siddanth nodded, his face impassive.
"Which means," the coach continued, "Rayudu, you're at three."
The entire room, including Siddanth, turned to look at Ambati Rayudu.
Rayudu was a volcano of talent, the state's other prodigy, and its most volatile asset. He was 19, the established U-19 captain, and the anointed successor to the state's batting legacy. He had been batting at number four.
Rayudu, who was running a sharpening stone down the edge of his bat, didn't look up. He just scraped the willow, the shhhk-shhhk-shhhk sounding like a knife in the quiet room.
"Problem, Ambati?" the coach asked, his voice low.
Rayudu stopped. He looked up; his eyes, which always burned with an impatient fire, were ice-cold. He looked past the coach, at Siddanth.
"No problem, Coach," Rayudu said, his voice flat.
"Good," Coach Paul snapped. "Because we won the toss. We're batting."
The Gymkhana pitch was a typical Hyderabad surface: hard, true, and a batsman's paradise for the first two days. The Kerala attack was disciplined, led by a wily 30-year-old left-arm orthodox spinner and a tall, skiddy fast bowler.
Hyderabad's start was, as usual, a mess. The openers looked good for thirty minutes, then both were gone.
Hyderabad: 41 for 1.
Ambati Rayudu walked to the crease, his steps aggressive, pounding the turf. He was here to make a statement.
He was a hurricane.
He didn't just bat; he attacked. He smashed the skiddy pacer for three boundaries in an over, each a ferocious, wristy whip through mid-wicket. He charged the left-arm spinner, lofting him back over his head for six. It was a brilliant, angry, and utterly reckless display.
And on the 31st run, it ended. He tried to hit the spinner for a second six, didn't get to the pitch, and spooned a simple catch to mid-off. He was out for 31 off 22 balls, throwing his head back in disgust as he stormed off.
Hyderabad: 72 for 2.
Siddanth Deva walked out, the sparse home crowd giving him a hero's welcome. He walked past Rayudu.
Siddanth took his guard. His head was clear. Rayudu just showed them aggression. Now, I show them a wall. I show them consistency.
He activated his Predator's Focus (Lv. 1). The whistles from the crowd, the chirping from the Kerala fielders, his own father's intense stare from the pavilion—it all faded into a dull, white noise.
The left-arm spinner, his confidence sky-high after taking Rayudu's wicket, tossed one up, full of spin and flight, inviting the drive.
Siddanth's Dancing Skills (Lv. 1) took over. But he didn't charge. He took one, precise, deliberate step forward, his front foot a perfect anchor, and met the ball with a dead-bat block. Thud. The ball dropped at his feet.
The bowler stared. The captain, at the other end, just nodded.
For the next three hours, He was boring. He was meticulous. He was perfect.
He used his Connoisseur of Fine Art (Passive) skill, which gave him an unconscious sense of balance and aesthetics, to present a classical, flawless defense. He left balls outside off-stump with an exaggerated, elegant flourish. He met the spinners with the softest hands, his Sleight of Hand (Passive) making his late dabs to third man look like magic tricks, stealing singles where none existed.
He was batting with the team captain, a gritty 30-year-old opener. Siddanth was the wall; the captain was the hammer. They built a partnership. 50 runs. 100 runs.
Siddanth brought up his fifty with a simple push to cover. It had taken 130 balls. He raised his bat to the dressing room, where Coach Paul was, as always, just writing in his notebook.
He was in complete control. His body was a humming engine of efficiency.
At 84, just before the tea break, he had a momentary, human lapse. His mind saw the numbers: 84 runs. 190 balls. Tea is in one over. Just see it out.
His body, which had been a coiled spring for three hours, was desperate to move.
The left-arm spinner, the one he'd been frustrating all day, bowled one a fraction wider. Siddanth's eyes lit up. A paddle-sweep. It was a safe, percentage shot. A simple, easy single to fine leg.
But the spinner, a veteran of a hundred matches, had been waiting. He saw the slight shift in Siddanth's stance. He dragged this one down, wider and slower.
Siddanth was already committed. He went through with the shot, but he had to reach for it. The ball took the top edge of the bat and looped, in agonizing slow-motion, straight into the hands of the man at short fine leg.
Silence.
Siddanth was frozen. He stared at the fielder. He stared at the pitch. It wasn't a miracle ball. It wasn't a 145kph brute.
It was a soft dismissal. A lazy dismissal. A mental error.
He walked off, his face a mask of cold fury. He didn't look at the crowd, which was giving him a standing ovation. He walked into the dressing room, threw his bat against his bag, and sat down.
"Don't... ever... get out for 84 like that again. That was lazy."
The coach's words from the future echoed in his head, a premonition fulfilled.
Rayudu, padded down, just looked at him. "Tough break," he said, not unkindly. "Stupid shot."
"Yeah," Siddanth growled, peeling off his gloves.
Hyderabad finished the day on 365. Siddanth's 84 was the anchor, but in his mind, it was a failure.
Kerala, in response, batted with grit. The pitch was still a road. Their openers were steady, seeing off the new ball and building a platform. They were 110 for 0, and the Hyderabad seamers were tired, their shoulders drooping in the afternoon heat.
The captain, desperate, tossed the ball to Siddanth. "Kid, you're on. Just... try something. Anything. Scramble the seam. I don't care. Just break this."
Siddanth took the ball. He wasn't just a batsman; he was an all-rounder.
He stood at the top of his mark. He saw the set batsman, an opener on 62.
Okay, System, Siddanth thought, let's play.
His first over was a simple seam-up. 130kph. Metronomic.
His second over, he decided to use his new toy. Sleight of Hand (Passive, Lv. 1).
He ran in, his action identical. But as his arm came over, his fingers, now possessing the dexterity of a master magician, did something unnatural. He didn't just release the ball; he flicked it, like a cardsharp dealing from the bottom of a deck.
The ball left his hand, not with a perfect, spinning seam, but with a chaotic, scrambled wobble.
The batsman, expecting a simple 130kph seamer, played for the line.
The ball hit the air, wobbled—not left, not right, but down—and pitched a foot shorter than the batsman expected. It skidded, low and fast. The batsman, caught in his forward press, was too late. The ball took the bottom edge and cannoned into the off-stump.
Wicket 1.
The team erupted. The captain just stared at Siddanth, bewildered. "What... what was that?"
"Just a wobble-seam, skip," Siddanth said, his face impassive.
He had unlocked a new weapon: the unreadable delivery.
He was taken off, his job done. But later, as Kerala's number four and five built another frustrating partnership, the captain brought him back.
The number five was playing the sweep shot well. He was a "sweeper."
Siddanth tossed his first ball up. The batsman swept, hard, for two.
Siddanth went back to his mark. I know your future.
He activated Kinetic Vision (Active - 10 seconds).
The world clarified. He saw the batsman at the crease, his weight already shifting, his shoulders tensing for another sweep. He's premeditated it.
The 10-second vision faded. Siddanth took a deep breath. He ran in, his action identical, a lovely, flighted, tempting delivery.
The batsman's eyes lit up. He went down on one knee for his favorite shot.
But this wasn't a flighted ball. This was a 135kph yorker.
Siddanth had, at the last second, abandoned the spin and speared it in, fast and full, at the batsman's feet.
The batsman, halfway through his sweep, was a sitting duck. The ball smashed into his boot, right in front of the middle stump, before his bat even came around.
"HOWZAT!" Siddanth roared.
The umpire's finger went up. Wicket 2.
The dressing room was buzzing. The kid wasn't just a batsman; he was a tactical assassin. Kerala, rattled, was eventually bowled out for 320, conceding a 45-run lead.
The match was evenly poised. Hyderabad had a small lead, but there were two full days to play. Coach Paul's brief was simple: "I don't want a draw. I want a win. I need 350, and I need it by tea tomorrow. Go set a target."
The openers failed. Again. 20 for 1.
Rayudu walked in, and this time, he was different. The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, simmering focus. He batted for an hour, a brilliant, controlled 52, before he was undone by a genuinely unplayable ball from the skiddy pacer that kept impossibly low.
Hyderabad: 88 for 3. The lead was 133. The game was in the balance.
Siddanth walked out. The 84 from the first innings was a bitter taste in his mouth. That was the professional. This... this is the prodigy.
He wasn't here to be consistent. He was here to win.
He took his guard. The Kerala captain, sensing an opportunity, brought on the left-arm spinner, the man who had gotten him out. It was a challenge.
Siddanth smiled.
First ball: tossed up, outside off. Siddanth was down the pitch in a blur, meeting the ball on the half-volley, and hitting it, with pure, effortless timing, inside-out over extra cover for four.
Second ball: The spinner, rattled, darted one in, flatter. Siddanth rocked back, picking up the length in a nanosecond, and cut him, late and fine, for four more.
The assault was on.
He activated Innovative Shot-Making (Active, Lv. 3).
He faced the skiddy pacer. The field was set deep. He couldn't go over the top. So, he went under. The bowler pitched it up, 135kph. Siddanth went down on one knee and scooped the fast bowler over the keeper's head for six.
The Gymkhana crowd, his crowd, was on its feet. His father was standing, his arms crossed, but a small smile played on his lips. Arjun was just laughing, his notebook forgotten.
In the dressing room, Rayudu, who had been angrily watching, just stood up and walked to the balcony. He wasn't angry. He was watching.
Siddanth was playing a game they didn't understand. He switch-hit the left-arm spinner for six. He reverse-swept him for four. He used his Parkour Instincts (Passive) to run impossible, lightning-fast twos, turning the fielders into statues.
He brought up his 50 in 40 balls.
He didn't stop. He was a blur of motion, a 360-degree nightmare.
The Kerala captain, in desperation, set a 7-2 field, packing the offside.
Siddanth just smiled, shuffled across his stumps, and hit a "nothing" ball on middle stump over fine leg for six.
He reached his century. His maiden First-Class hundred. It had come off 92 deliveries.
He took off his helmet. He didn't just raise his bat to the crowd. He raised it to his parents, to Arjun. Then, he turned and raised it to his own dressing room, his eyes finding Rayudu's. This is who I am.
Rayudu, from the balcony, didn't just clap. He applauded, a slow, respectful recognition. The rivalry was still there, but it was now a rivalry of equals.
Siddanth wasn't done. He had to set a target. He activated Power Hitting (Lv. 1). He was batting with the tail now, but he was farming the strike with ruthless efficiency.
He'd take a single on the fifth ball, hit the new bowler for six on the first ball of the next over. He was a supercomputer conducting a symphony of destruction.
He passed 150. He was trying to hit his fourth six of the over, aiming to get the lead to 420, when he finally mistimed. He was caught on the long-off boundary.
He walked off. 154 runs. Off 128 balls.
The entire stadium, the Kerala team, his own team, were on their feet. It wasn't just an innings; it was a declaration.
Hyderabad declared at 370 for 9, setting Kerala an impossible 416 to win on a Day 4 pitch.
Kerala was psychologically broken. They had to survive four sessions against a team whose 16-year-old had just played like a god.
They didn't. They came out, not to win, but to survive.
But the pitch was now a minefield. The main seamers took two early wickets. But the two senior Kerala batsmen, their captain and vice-captain, dug in. They were blocking everything, playing for the draw. The score was 80 for 2. They were frustrating Hyderabad.
The captain, Rakesh, was out of ideas. He looked at Siddanth, who was polishing the ball at mid-on.
"Kid," he yelled, "You're on. One last time. Break them."
Siddanth took the ball. The light was fading. The vice-captain was on 42, a rock.
Siddanth ran in. He wasn't bowling his wobble-seam. He was bowling his standard, nagging, fourth-stump line.
He's tired, Siddanth analyzed. He's been batting for two hours. His feet are slow.
He activated Kinetic Vision.
He saw it. The batsman's back foot was planted, his front foot just a little late, a microsecond of fatigue. He's not covering the line. He's just trusting his bat.
Siddanth went to the top of his mark. He wasn't going to bowl fast. He was going to bowl smart.
He ran in, his action a perfect mirror of his previous deliveries. But at the last second, his dexterity took over. He didn't just bowl. He rolled his fingers over the seam, killing all the pace.
It was a 105kph slower ball.
The batsman, expecting another 130kph delivery, was through his defensive shot before the ball had even arrived. He was ludicrously early.
The ball, seeming to hang in the air, floated past his bat, kissed the top of the off-stump, and dislodged the bail with a gentle click.
Wicket 3. Bowled.
The batsman just stood there, uncomprehending. Siddanth just roared, pumping his fist.
That was the end. The "rock" was gone. The Kerala tail had no fight left. The main Hyderabad spinners came on and ripped through them.
Kerala was all out for 195.
Hyderabad had won. By 220 runs.
The dressing room was chaos. The veterans were cheering, hugging, and lifting Siddanth onto their shoulders. He was the hero. He had delivered the win.
Coach Paul let the celebration rage for ten minutes, then clapped his hands.
"Good win, lads. A dominant win."
He walked over to Siddanth, who was toweling sweat from his face.
"Deva."
"Coach."
"That 84... was still a lazy shot. Don't do it again."
Siddanth nodded, smiling. "Yes, Coach."
"That 154," the coach's face broke into a rare, wide grin. "That was... acceptable." He clapped Siddanth hard on the shoulder. "That was the innings of a man who knows how to win. That's a professional. Well done."
Later, as Siddanth was packing his kit, his body humming with the pleasant ache of victory, Rayudu walked over. He wasn't smiling. He just stood there, a rival, an equal.
"That scoop," Rayudu said, his voice low. "Off the fast bowler. That's bullshit."
Siddanth looked up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Rayudu said. A tiny, dangerous smile played on his lips. "After dinner. You, me, and a ball machine. You're going to show me how you do that. And I'm going to show you how to really hit a spinner out of the attack."
Siddanth grinned. "It's a date."