The Cricket System : Rise of the Pace Demon

Chapter 58: Team 7 vs Team 9 - Part - 4 : The Singhania Legacy

Rohan stared at the glowing red (Failed) next to Objective 2. He had thrown everything he had at Sameer, but the rival captain had survived his onslaught and scored a magnificent century.

Now, his only hope to avoid the devastating -20 SP penalty was to somehow hit two sixes during the run chase.

Rohan looked up at the pavilion, his eyes burning with an unyielding, dangerous light. He had conquered the ball. Now, he would have to conquer the bat.

Scene Swift: The Iron Core Gym

New Delhi

Miles away from the dusty battleground of the State Crucible, the heavy, rhythmic clanking of iron plates echoed through the dimly lit interiors of the Iron Core Gym. The air was thick with the smell of chalk, sweat, and raw metallic grit.

In the back office, away from the grunting lifters on the main floor, sat Monu—the Dark Generation King. He was casually wiping his hands with a white towel, his massive, scarred forearms resting on his knees. Sitting across from him, leaning against a heavily loaded bench press rack, was his old confidant and underground ally, Vikram.

Vikram took a swig from his water bottle, his expression grim as he wiped his brow. He looked at Monu, his voice lowering into a serious, conspiratorial tone.

"Monu, do you have any idea what is truly happening in Delhi right now?" Vikram asked, his eyes narrowing. "The corruption level in the state and the underground betting rings has crossed all limits. The rot has gone too deep. It’s getting completely out of hand, and quite frankly, it’s becoming very dangerous for the people of Delhi. The people are being swallowed alive by these leeches."

Monu didn’t blink. His dark, deep-set eyes remained as calm and unreadable as a still lake at midnight. He tossed the towel onto a nearby bench and leaned back, cracking his knuckles with a sharp, echoing pop.

"I know, Vikram," Monu replied softly, his voice carrying a heavy, dangerous resonance. "The city has become a playground for politicians and gangsters. But don’t worry. For all of this... I have a plan."

Vikram raised an eyebrow, a flicker of hope crossing his rugged face. If Monu had a plan, the corrupt officials at the top of the food chain were already living on borrowed time.

"Okay," Vikram nodded slowly, accepting the assurance. "And what about the kid? What’s the news on Rohan? His professional cricketing career has finally begun at the State Crucible ."

A rare, faint smile touched the corners of Monu’s lips. The image of the fiery, aggressive young fast bowler flashed through his mind.

"Yes, it has," Monu said, his tone softening just a fraction. "I call him from time to time to check in. So far, his journey is safe and smooth. He has the fire to survive the politics. In fact, I made sure of it. Some time ago, I called that assistant coach at the camp and had a little chat with him regarding Rohan’s development."

Vikram chuckled, knowing full well how intimidating a "little chat" from the Dark King could be. "And how did the coach take it?"

"He was surprisingly cooperative," Monu replied, pouring himself a glass of water from a jug on the desk. "He listened carefully. Honestly, he is a nice person. I think he understands exactly what kind of diamond Rohan is. Now, it’s entirely up to the boy to prove his worth on the field."

Scene Swift: Match - Team 7 vs Team 9

Second Innings Begins

The afternoon sun was absolutely scorching, beating down mercilessly on Pitch Number 4. The dry, cracked earth seemed to radiate heat, turning the center of the stadium into an oven.

Aryan adjusted his helmet strap, his spikes crunching against the dry grass as he walked out toward the middle. Beside him walked Team 7’s secondary opener, a solid, technically sound batsman named Rahul.

Aryan looked up at the giant manual scoreboard near the pavilion.

Target: 298 Runs. (Required Run Rate: 5.96)

Aryan took a deep breath, his tactical mind immediately going to work. On this pitch, a target of 298 is an absolute mountain, Aryan thought, his eyes scanning the cracked surface of the pitch. It’s not going to be easy. To make matters worse, Team 9 has a lethal, elite spin-bowling attack waiting in the wings. Once their spinners come on, the ball is going to turn square, and scoring will become virtually impossible.

He tapped his bat on the ground, cementing his strategy. If we want to win this match, we need a magnificent start. We have to bat aggressively in the powerplay while the fast bowlers are operating. We have to maximize the field restrictions before the spinners arrive.

The umpire called play, and the second innings officially began.

For the first two overs, Aryan played with extreme caution. He knew he couldn’t afford to throw his wicket away early. He carefully watched the movement of the new ball off the dusty pitch, defending solidly and gently rotating the strike to get a feel for the bounce.

Once he felt the pace of the wicket, Aryan’s eyes sharpened. The pacers are trying to hit the cracks, but the ball is coming onto the bat nicely because of the new leather. I need to increase the run speed right now.

In the third over, Aryan unleashed his absolute class.

The Team 9 fast bowler pitched the ball slightly full outside the off-stump. Aryan leaned forward, his head perfectly still, and executed a breathtaking, picturesque cover-drive. The ball raced across the dry outfield, rocketing past the diving fielder into the boundary ropes for four.

On the very next ball, the bowler tried to compensate by bowling straight onto the pads. Aryan elegantly flicked his wrists, sending the ball soaring over square leg for a one-bounce four. When they tried to drop it short, Aryan was waiting on the back foot, unleashing a savage cut-shot that pierced the gap at point with surgical precision.

Aryan was batting like a dream. His footwork was mesmerizing, and his timing was impeccable. He single-handedly pushed the run rate above six runs an over, keeping Team 7 well within the required target.

However, disaster struck at 6.3 overs.

Rahul, trying to match Aryan’s aggressive intent, stepped out to smash a length delivery but completely missed the line. The ball crashed into his off-stump, sending him back to the pavilion.

Score: 42/1.

Aryan watched his partner walk away, his mind rapidly recalibrating the situation.

We lost a wicket too early, Aryan thought, a frown creasing his forehead beneath his helmet. Our middle order is fragile. The only trump card we have against their elite spinners is Kabir. His sweep shots and aggressive footwork are our best weapons for the middle overs. But if Kabir comes out to bat right now, he will be exposed to the fast bowlers. It will be too difficult for him to survive until the spinners arrive.

Aryan immediately changed his entire approach. He decided to take the burden of anchoring the innings squarely upon his own shoulders.

For the next five overs, Aryan abandoned his all-out aggressive play. Instead, he batted with supreme calculation. He defended the good balls with soft hands, aggressively ran hard between the wickets to steal singles and doubles, and ensured he hit exactly one boundary per over to keep the scoreboard ticking without taking unnecessary risks. He successfully shielded the new batsman, building a solid, unbreakable foundation.

By the end of the 11th over, Team 7 was comfortably sitting at 75/1.

Then, at the start of the 12th over, Captain Sameer made his move. He took the ball away from his pacers and tossed it to his ace leg-spinner.

Standing at the non-striker’s end, Aryan watched the spinner meticulously setting his field—placing a slip, a silly point, and a short leg. The aggressive, suffocating field placements were designed to induce fear and force mistakes.

As Aryan looked at the spinner tossing the red ball from hand to hand, a sudden, cold chill ran down his spine. The sight of the spinning ball, the aggressive field, and the suffocating pressure abruptly triggered a deeply buried memory in Aryan’s mind.

His vision blurred, and the Varun Jaitley Stadium faded away, replaced by the dark, oppressive coldness of his past.

11 Years Ago

The Singhania Mansion, South Delhi

The opulent, marble-floored study of the Singhania estate was deathly silent, save for the horrifying, sharp crack of thick leather striking bare skin.

CRACK!

Five-year-old Aryan was curled up on the cold marble floor, sobbing in agonizing pain as a thick leather belt struck his back.

Standing above him was his father, Gautam Singhania. The billionaire businessman’s face was a mask of absolute, terrifying coldness. There was no rage in his eyes, no loss of control—only a chilling, methodical discipline that was far more terrifying than anger.

CRACK!

"Why did you run away from the training ?" Gautam asked, his voice low, smooth, and dangerously calm.

Aryan whimpered, clutching his bruised arms. "F-Father... please... I was scared of the spinning ball... it hit my head... it hurt..."

Gautam slowly wrapped the belt around his knuckles. He stared down at his trembling son with eyes as cold as a frozen lake.

"Why don’t you listen to my words, Aryan?" Gautam said, his voice echoing in the massive room. "Do you think the world cares if you are scared? Do you think the world cares if you are hurt? Whatever I am doing, I am doing for your own good. I am forging you to survive."

30 Minutes Later

Aryan’s Bedroom

The grand, king-sized bed felt entirely too large for the small, shivering boy lying face down on it.

Aryan’s mother sat at the edge of the bed, her face stained with tears. Her hands trembled violently as she gently applied a soothing, herbal medicine over the angry, red welts covering her son’s back. She wept silently, kissing his forehead, whispering apologies that she couldn’t protect him.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door clicked open.

Gautam Singhania stepped into the room. He had changed into a pristine, tailored suit, looking every bit the ruthless titan of industry he was.

He looked at his wife applying the medicine. "Leave the room," Gautam commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Aryan’s mother stood up, her maternal instincts momentarily overriding her fear. She stood between her husband and her battered son. "Please," she begged, her voice cracking with sorrow. "Don’t hit him anymore. He is just a child!"

Gautam didn’t raise his voice. He simply stared at her until she broke eye contact.

"I told you to leave the room," Gautam repeated coldly. "I am not going to hit him anymore. Go."

Defeated, the mother cast one last, heartbreaking look at Aryan before quietly walking out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind her.

Gautam slowly walked toward the bed. He sat down on the edge, exactly where his wife had been sitting. He looked down at Aryan, who had curled himself into a tight, defensive ball, crying silently into his pillow.

"It hurts, doesn’t it?" Gautam said softly, his voice devoid of any apology.

Aryan didn’t answer. He just cried harder, turning his bruised face away from his father, staring at the dark wall.

Gautam let out a slow, heavy breath. He reached out, resting a large, firm hand on Aryan’s uninjured shoulder.

"Aryan," Gautam began, his voice taking on a strange, intense philosophical weight. "Some time ago, you looked me in the eyes and told me you want to be a professional cricketer. You told me you want to conquer the world on the pitch."

Gautam leaned in closer, his shadow falling over the weeping boy.

"Listen to me very carefully. You cannot achieve a dream just by thinking about it. Dreaming is for the weak. To achieve true greatness in this cruel world, you need absolute, unyielding hard work. But hard work alone is not enough."

Aryan slowly stopped crying, his young mind captivated by the heavy, hypnotic tone of his father’s voice.

"To conquer the world," Gautam whispered, "you need a Unique Skill."

Aryan sniffled, turning his head slightly to look at his father’s cold, intense eyes. "A... a unique skill?"

"Yes," Gautam nodded slowly. "Everyone in this world has a unique skill. A singular talent where they are the absolute best. Something that no one else can replicate. You have to find your unique skill, Aryan. You have to sharpen it until it becomes a weapon that can cut through any obstacle."

Gautam stood up, towering over the bed like a monolith.

"But you will never find your unique skill if you let fear control you. Forget all your fears, Aryan. Move forward through the pain. Only then will you achieve your dream. I am doing all of this for your own good. I am forcing you to be strong. I am sure... when you stand at the top of the world in the future, you will finally understand."

Gautam turned and walked out of the room, leaving the young boy alone in the dark, the words burning into his soul forever.

Present Time

Pitch Number 4

The memory faded, and the blistering heat of the stadium returned to Aryan’s senses. He was no longer an five-year-old boy shivering in the dark. He was the Captain of Team 7. He was Aryan Singhania.

Standing at the batting crease, Aryan stared directly into the eyes of the lethal leg-spinner at the top of his mark.

Fear is an illusion, Aryan thought, his father’s words echoing in his mind like a war drum. I ran away from the turning ball once. But I am not that little boy anymore.

Aryan took his batting stance. His grip on the bat tightened, his muscles coiling like a steel spring. His eyes widened, shining with an absolute, terrifying clarity.

"I will not fear spinners anymore," Aryan whispered to himself, a calm, powerful aura radiating from his body. "I have overcome my fear. I will find my unique skill right here, right now."

The spinner began his run-up. The fielders closed in, shouting aggressively, trying to break Aryan’s concentration. But Aryan heard nothing. The entire stadium went dead silent in his mind. His focus was absolute.

From the pavilion balcony, Rohan was watching the match intently, leaning against the railing.

Suddenly, a massive, glowing blue panel erupted right in front of Rohan’s face, accompanied by a triumphant, angelic chime!

DING!

[Ding!]

[System Alert: A teammate has successfully overcome a deep-rooted psychological barrier!]

[Alert: One person has awakened his UNIQUE SKILL!]

Rohan’s eyes widened in absolute shock and pure excitement. Aryan awakened a Unique Skill?! Rohan thought, his heart racing. This is incredible! The System is acknowledging his evolution! He’s about to do something magical!

Down on the pitch, the spinner reached the crease and released the ball.

It was a beautifully flighted leg-break, looping gently through the air, pitching perfectly on the middle-stump line.

Aryan saw the ball with extreme clarity. His footwork was flawless. He took a confident, authoritative stride forward, bringing his bat down in a perfectly straight, textbook defensive arc to smother the spin. It was the perfect shot, born from a mind completely free of fear, executed by a player who had just evolved.

But cricket... is a cruel, unforgiving game.

The ball didn’t just spin. As it landed on the dry, crumbling surface of Pitch Number 4, the seam violently struck a massive, jagged crack hidden under the dust.

Instead of turning gently toward the off-stump as Aryan had perfectly calculated, the ball exploded off the pitch. It darted inward with vicious, unnatural speed and an impossible angle.

It completely bypassed Aryan’s perfectly positioned bat. It sneaked through the millimeter-thin gap between his bat and his front pad.

CRASH!

The wooden stumps exploded backward out of the ground, the bails flying into the air.

Aryan stood frozen in his perfect forward-defense pose, his bat hovering over the empty dirt where the ball was supposed to be. He slowly turned his head backward, looking at his shattered stumps in absolute, stunned disbelief.

He had overcome his trauma. He had conquered his fear. He had awakened his Unique Skill.

And yet... he was out.

The stadium erupted into deafening cheers from Team 9. The spinner roared in triumph, pumping his fists into the air.

Up in the pavilion, Rohan stared at the glowing blue System panel, and then down at the shattered stumps on the pitch, completely speechless. The reality of the State Crucible crashed down upon them both like a ton of bricks.

Aryan Singhania, the Captain and the anchor of the run chase, was bowled out for 48 runs.

The real nightmare had just begun.