The morning after his gully-cricket heroics, the 30-year-old mind inhabiting the 10-year-old body of Siddanth Deva was ruthless. The euphoria of the "AB de Villiers (1%)" template had settled, leaving behind a cold, hard focus. The voice of his past, the memory of the career-ending injury, was a constant, driving whisper.
His second life began not with a bat, but with a grueling physical overhaul.
Siddanth woke before the Hyderabad sun had fully risen, taking advantage of the cool, pre-dawn air. His old room, with its posters and the SS bat, became a makeshift gymnasium.
He started his new routine with a simple, brutal philosophy: train until failure.
The first day was humiliating. His small arms shook uncontrollably as he attempted push-ups. His maximum was four, collapsing on the fifth. For pull-ups, he had to use the low, iron beam that crossed the patio outside, his feet barely clearing the ground; he managed only two pathetic chin-raises. Squats were slightly easier, but his small legs burned after thirty. He finished with a run, jogging the perimeter of the colony until his lungs felt like they were ripping.
But every day, he pushed one more rep. The 1% template was subtle, but it was there. His recovery time was astonishingly fast. His muscles, though tiny, were learning and adapting with unnerving efficiency. He didn't just feel stronger; he felt more controlled. The latent Acrobatic Instincts were translating into better balance and cleaner form, ensuring that every movement was executed correctly, protecting his joints.
In the evenings, he kept his promise to Arjun, joining his friends for gully cricket. He didn't dominate—not yet. He used these sessions as live training drills, forcing his Enhanced Hand-Eye Coordination to process the taped tennis ball's unpredictable bounce and speed. He worked primarily on his defense and rotating the strike, saving the flashy ABdV shots for when his body was truly ready.
That Saturday, true to his word, Vikram Deva drove Siddanth to the famous sports emporium in Abids. The shop, a cavernous, wood-paneled space smelling strongly of rubber and leather, was a sacred place to Siddanth.
"Don't just look at the bats, Siddanth," Vikram instructed, observing his son's wide-eyed reverence. "A cricketer is only as good as his gear. You need protection."
They walked out with a full, professional cricket kit: a lightweight helmet that smelled of fresh plastic, pristine white leg pads, a solid pair of leather batting gloves, and most importantly, a new, heavier English willow bat. It was the most expensive thing child Siddanth had ever held.
"This is an investment, beta," his father said, looking him in the eye as they drove home. "Into your future. Don't let me down."
"I won't, Nanna," Siddanth vowed, clutching the heavy kit bag. This kit wasn't just equipment; it was a physical manifestation of his father's belief, a bond that had been severed in his previous life. He would protect it fiercely.
Over the next week, the continuous physical conditioning and mental integration paid dividends. When the system flashed into his mind one afternoon, the number had shifted: AB de Villiers (1.5%). It was a tiny increment, but it confirmed his strategy: hard work was the key to unlocking the template.
School started. For the 30-year-old mind, the syllabus of 5th grade was laughably easy. Siddanth was academically invisible, maintaining perfect, effortless grades that kept his father happy and left his evenings free.
A month into the term, a notice board pinned near the Headmaster's office drew a crowd. Cricket Trials.
Siddanth found the notification for the Under-12 team. The trials were scheduled for the following Saturday. He signed his name with a new, quiet confidence.
On the day of the selection, the field was crowded with nervous, energetic boys. Presiding over the session was the legend himself: Coach Narendar Chakravarthy. Siddanth remembered him well—a former state player, a man whose booming voice and infectious laugh belied a zero-tolerance policy for laziness.
Coach Narendar, a stout man with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, whistled the boys to attention. "Welcome, future stars!" he boomed, a jovial smile splitting his face. "We are here to find the best, but first, we find the fittest. No fitness, no cricket! Simple!"
The selection began with a battery of grueling physical tests:
The Shuttle Run: A timed sprint between two cones 20 meters apart.
The Plank Challenge: Hold the plank position for as long as possible.
Basic Catching Drills: Gauging agility and hand-eye coordination.
While the other boys wilted under the sun, Siddanth excelled. His training until failure—especially the constant running and the punishing planks—had set him far apart. He lasted almost three times longer than the next-best boy in the plank.
His Shuttle Run was a blur of efficiency. He ran with a clean, low center of gravity, the Acrobatic Instincts translating into flawless turns. He was fast, yes, but more importantly, he was economical in his movement.
"Hey, little fellow!" Coach Narendar chuckled, making Siddanth run an extra lap just to test his reserves. "What's your secret? Too much idli?"
Siddanth just smiled, breathing evenly. "Just stretching, Coach."
After fitness, Coach Narendar called the boys to assign roles.
"Batsmen over here! Bowlers there! Wicketkeepers, don't drop anything!"
When Coach Narendar called his name, Siddanth stepped forward. "Siddanth. What do you play?"
Siddanth took a deep breath. "All-rounder, Coach. Right-hand bat, right-arm fast-medium."
He knew he was taking a risk. Most boys specialized. But he didn't want to rely on the limited scope of a pure bowler again. The AB template was about versatility. And he knew, from his past life, that the team needed a strong, aggressive middle-order bat and a reliable seamer.
"All-rounder, eh?" Coach Narendar looked skeptical. "Big claim for a little man. Let's see your bat first. Boys, bowl some for him!"
Siddanth took guard, the new pads feeling heavy but comforting. He faced a series of boys, mostly nervous, trying to crank out maximum speed.
The difference between Siddanth and the other boys was not just technique; it was time. The template gifted him an eternity to watch the ball.
He played the first few balls conservatively, leaning into exquisite cover drives off the front foot, the sweet spot connecting with a clean thwack. He was hitting proper cricket shots, not gully-cricket swats. He scored quickly, effortlessly rotating the strike.
Then, a tall, clumsy off-spinner tried to turn one sharply. The ball pitched and spun viciously past his outside edge.
Siddanth's internal system registered the gap. The next ball, the spinner tried to bowl it quicker, flatter, into the stumps.
Instantly, Siddanth's feet moved. He didn't just step out; he danced down the pitch, converting the half-volley into a full-blooded loft. The ball soared over the head of the bewildered fielder at mid-on and bounced near the boundary rope.
He didn't hit it hard; he hit it clean.
Coach Narendar, who had been chatting with a colleague, stopped talking. He watched the next few deliveries in silence. Siddanth pulled a short ball with conviction and then, showing remarkable maturity, blocked a full-length delivery.
"Right," the Coach clapped, signaling the end of the batting session. "Time for a rest, All-rounder. Show me the ball."
Siddanth took a five-minute water break, performing quick, focused stretches. He picked up a leather ball—it felt familiar, comforting.
He walked to the top of his mark. He didn't have his 18-year-old pace yet, but he had something more important: rhythm and control. His past life's knowledge of bowling mechanics ensured his action was smooth and repeatable.
His first delivery to a bewildered 11-year-old batsman pitched on the off-stump and just moved away slightly. Perfect line, perfect length. The batsman poked at it and missed.
THUD. Into the keeper's gloves.
He bowled six deliveries. Four were spot-on. One was a beauty that squared up the batsman, missing the edge by a millimeter. The final one, he put slightly too full, and the batsman drove it through mid-off. But the control was undeniable.
Coach Narendar smiled, a wide, satisfied grin that reached his eyes. He stopped the session.
"Alright, boys! That's it!" he announced. He looked directly at Siddanth. "Deva, come here."
Siddanth walked up, heart pounding.
"You, All-rounder," the Coach said, grabbing his shoulder in a strong, tight grip. "You can run, you can hold a plank, you can bat, and you can put the ball where you want. No flash. No nonsense. You're in. Under-12 team. But one thing," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a serious rumble, "the bowling action is good, but the pace is slow. We need you stronger. Don't stop the running, understood?"
"Yes, Coach!" Siddanth replied, a wave of profound relief washing over him. The first hurdle was cleared. He was back in the game.
The coach let go and clapped his shoulder again, his jovial nature returning. "Now go tell your parents. And Deva, keep that bat safe. You hit a very sweet ball."