The door to Room 405 closed with a soft click, shutting out the world. The "Do Not Disturb" sign was hung, but for Siddanth Deva, the disturbance was internal. The adrenaline of the final, the hysteria of the bus parade, and the emotional weight of the victory were slowly metabolizing into a quiet, humming sense of accomplishment.
He picked up the hotel landline. The operator picked up on the first ring.
"Room Service, Mr. Deva! Congratulations, sir! What can we get for you?" The voice on the other end was trembling with excitement.
"Thank you," Deva said, his voice calm. "I need four egg whites, scrambled. A bowl of oatmeal with berries. Fresh orange juice. And a pot of green tea. No sugar."
"Right away, sir. Champions breakfast!"
Deva hung up. He walked to the window, looking out at the Gateway of India. The crowds had thinned, but the debris of the celebration—confetti, plastic flags, flower petals—still carpeted the streets like colorful snow.
Twenty minutes later, a trolley was wheeled in. The waiter, a young man named Ramesh, looked like he was about to faint. His hands shook as he lifted the silver cloche.
"Sir... I... my family watched you. We... thank you."
Deva gave a generous tip. "Thank you, Ramesh. For the food."
As he ate, Deva felt the familiar itch. The itch that had driven him from the gullies to the Wankhede. The need to know where he stood.
He put down his fork. He closed his eyes.
"System," he thought. "Status Report."
The air in front of him shimmered. A translucent blue interface, invisible to the rest of the world, manifested in his vision.
[SYSTEM STATUS: SIDDANTH DEVA]
[PROFILE]
Name: Siddanth Deva
Age: 20
Role: All-Rounder (Pace/Batting)
Status: World Champion
[CRICKETING TEMPLATES]
AB de Villiers Synchronization: 80% (Max)
Attributes: 360-degree shot selection, fast hands, improvisation.
Brett Lee Synchronization: 80% (Max)
Attributes: Raw pace, yorker accuracy, aggression.
Jacques Kallis Synchronization: 80% (Max)
Attributes: Technique, temperament, stamina, slip catching.
[ACTIVE SKILLS]
[Chronos Perception]:
[Predator's Focus]: Eliminates crowd noise and distractions.
[Tower of Babel]: Linguistic intuition.
[LIFE SKILLS]
[COOKING]
[PARKOUR / FREE RUNNING]
[DANCING]
[MUAY THAI]
[DRIVING]
But below the stats, a golden notification bar was pulsing.
[PENDING REWARDS: 2]
Deva's heartbeat quickened.
[REWARD 1: Achievement Unlocked - "The Titan"]
Criteria: Maximize Jacques Kallis Template to 80%.
Reward: New Template.
Deva tapped the air. "Open."
The interface swirled, pixels rearranging themselves into a silhouette of a batsman.
The stance was weird. The feet were facing the bowler. The bat was tucked behind the legs. It wasn't the grace of Lara or the power of Gayle. It was ugly. It was awkward.
It was effective.
[NEW TEMPLATE ACQUIRED: SHIVNARINE CHANDERPAUL]
Synchronization: 0%
Attributes: The Unbreachable Defense. The Crab Stance. Infinite Patience. Unusual angles.
Special Trait:The Wall of Guyana – Drastically reduces stamina drain during defensive play—increases concentration against spin.
Deva stared at the hologram. A laugh bubbled up in his chest.
"Chanderpaul?" he muttered. "The man who marks his guard with a bail? The man who looks like he's facing square leg?"
He stood up and mimicked the stance. Front on. Chest open. Bat hidden. It felt... weirdly secure.
"Kallis gave me the textbook," Deva analyzed. "ABD gave me the circus. Lee gave me the fire. But Chanderpaul... Chanderpaul gives me the grit. If I'm stuck on a turning track in Chennai on Day 5 of a Test match, this is the template I need."
He grinned. It was a tool he hadn't expected, but one he knew would frustrate bowlers to tears.
"Accept," Deva said.
The hologram faded into his stats bar.
[REWARD 2: Achievement Unlocked - "World Conqueror"]
Criteria: Win the ICC Cricket World Cup.
Reward: Legendary Passive Skill.
Deva rubbed his hands together. This was the big one.
"Open."
A golden light bathed the interface.
[SKILL ACQUIRED: PERFECT RHYTHM]
Type: Passive / Biological
Description: The user's body automatically maintains an ideal circadian rhythm regardless of time zones or sleep disruption.
Effects:
Full cognitive and physical recovery achieved in 6-7 hours of sleep.
Immunity to Jet Lag.
No morning grogginess.
Enhanced game-day stamina and concentration levels remain constant from Ball 1 to Ball 100.
Deva's eyes widened. "Whoa."
He sat back down. To a layman, this might sound boring compared to 'Super Strength' or 'Eagle Eye'. But to a professional athlete who traveled 300 days a year, slept in different hotels, and played high-intensity sport across time zones, this was the Holy Grail.
"I can party till 4 AM, sleep till 10, and wake up feeling like I slept for 10 hours?" Deva whispered. "This is... this is a cheat code."
He felt a wave of energy wash over him, as if the skill had activated retroactively. The heaviness in his legs from the match vanished. The fog in his brain cleared. He felt fresh. He felt ready to play another final right now.
"Thank you, System," Deva said, dismissing the blue screen.
He looked at his watch. 10:30 AM.
"Time to test this energy," he said.
---
Deva changed into his training gear—a sleeveless tank top and shorts. He grabbed his gym bag and stepped out of the room.
The corridor of the Taj Mahal Palace was usually a place of hushed discretion. But today, the rules of hospitality were bending under the weight of fandom.
A bellboy was pushing a luggage trolley down the hall. He saw Deva. He froze.
"Deva Sir!" the boy gasped, abandoning his trolley.
Deva smiled. "Good morning."
"Sir... congratulations! We watched... the match... the calm..." The boy was stuttering, his hands trembling. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen. "Autograph, sir? Please? For my brother?"
"Of course," Deva said, taking the pen. "What's your brother's name?"
"Raju, sir."
Deva scribbled: To Raju, Dream Big. - Siddanth Deva.
As he handed the pad back, a housekeeping lady emerged from a room. Then a waiter carrying a tray. Then a security guard.
It was like a silent alarm had been tripped.
Within two minutes, Deva was surrounded. There were about fifteen hotel staff members—waiters in crisp whites, maids in blue sarees, security in black suits. They weren't pushing or shoving like the crowds outside. They were respectful, standing in a semi-circle, eyes wide with adoration.
"One by one," Deva said gently, putting his gym bag down.
He signed everything.
He signed a menu card for a chef.
He signed a ten-rupee note for a cleaner who didn't have any paper.
He signed the back of a laundry receipt.
He signed the cuff of a waiter's uniform shirt ("My manager will kill me, sir, but I will frame this shirt!").
He spent thirty minutes in the hallway. He asked them their names. He asked if they had seen the match.
"We listened on the radio in the kitchen, sir," a sous-chef said, beaming. "When you hit the century, we dropped a tray of glasses! The head chef didn't even yell at us!"
Deva laughed. "Tell your chef to put it on my bill."
This wasn't the roar of Wankhede. This was quieter, more intimate. These were the people who kept the city running while he played a game. Deva felt a different kind of pride swelling in his chest.
"Thank you, everyone," Deva said, handing the pen back to the bellboy. "I have to train now."
"Train?" the bellboy asked, incredulous. "Sir, you won yesterday. Today is holiday!"
Deva picked up his bag. "The World Cup is won. But the next match is coming. Champions don't take holidays."
He winked and walked towards the elevator, leaving a group of people who would tell this story to their grandchildren.
---
The hotel gym was empty. Most of the team was still asleep, nursing hangovers or exhaustion.
Deva walked in. The smell of rubber and disinfectant was comforting.
He didn't go crazy. He didn't try to lift his max. He focused on mobility and recovery.
He jumped onto the treadmill. 10 minutes warm-up.
Then, dynamic stretching. Opening up the hips that had been locked in a batting stance for hours.
Then, foam rolling. Rolling out the tightness in his quads and calves from the sprinting.
He moved to the weights.
Deadlifts. Light weight, high reps. Flushing the system.
Pull-ups. Engaging the back muscles used for bowling.
As he lifted, he thought about the Chanderpaul template. The Crab. He tried to visualize the mechanics. The way the shoulders rotated. The way the head stayed still while the body contorted. He did a few shadow movements in the mirror, looking ridiculous to anyone watching, but feeling the groove of the technique.
Then, he thought about the [Perfect Rhythm] skill. He checked his heart rate monitor. Usually, after a match day and late night, his resting heart rate would be elevated—around 65 or 70 bpm.
It was sitting at 48 bpm.
"It works," Deva whispered, doing a set of box jumps. "My body thinks I slept for 12 hours."
He pushed himself for the last 20 minutes. High-intensity interval training. Burpees. Battle ropes. Sweat poured off him, cleansing the pores, washing away the remnants of the champagne shower from last night.
He finished with a 5-minute plank, staring at the floor, his mind completely blank. No thoughts of records. No thoughts of fans. Just the burn.
---
Back in his room, Deva showered. The hot water washed away the sweat. He changed into fresh clothes—jeans and a white polo shirt.
He sat on the edge of the bed, next to the trophy. He picked up his phone.
It was flooded. Thousands of messages. Missed calls from numbers he didn't recognize.
He ignored the noise. He went to his contacts list. He scrolled past the celebrities and the brands. He looked for the teachers.
To VVS Laxman:
Laxman bhai, we did it. Your advice on playing the wrists late helped me against Murali. Thank you for the nets in Bangalore. This is for you too.
To Rahul Dravid:
Jammy bhai, the Wall held firm. I tried to defend like you in the first 10 overs. Hope I made you proud. Thank you for teaching me patience.
To Coach (High School):
Sir, remember when you made me run laps for playing a lofted shot? Yesterday I played a few. But I kept my head down too. Thank you for the discipline. We are World Champions.
To Ranji Captain:
Cap, thanks for giving me the new ball in my debut season. That confidence brought me here. Party is on me when I'm back.
He sent messages to the NCA physios, the throwdown specialists, the kit man who fixed his pads. He sent a message to the groundsman at his local club.
He didn't copy-paste. He typed each one out. It took him an hour.