The 10th June. The date was burned into his mind.
Siddanth didn't take an auto rickshaw. He didn't ask his father to drop him. He woke at 4:30 AM, completed his grueling, two-hour body-conditioning routine—a routine now so advanced it bordered on professional gymnastics—and then he ran.
He ran the eight kilometers from his house to the Gymkhana grounds, his A- Stamina making it a light, steady-state jog. He arrived as the sun was just beginning to burn the morning mist off the grass, his kit bag a familiar, lightweight on his back.
This was it. The Gymkhana. "The Lords of Hyderabad."
He didn't go to the U-19 nets. He walked, his footsteps echoing on the old concrete steps, towards the main pavilion. Towards the senior dressing room.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the one with the peeling "MEMBERS ONLY" sign.
The smell hit him first. It was the smell of men. Not boys. It was the sharp tang of cheap shaving cream, the deep, acrid scent of liniment oil, the unmistakable musk of old, sweat-stained leather, and the bitter aroma of day-old coffee.
The room was a cave of talent and cynicism. Unlike the U-19s, there was no loud music, no horseplay. Just a low, serious murmur. Men, most in their late 20s, were quietly taping bats, stretching, or reading the sports page. They were pros. This was their job. Their livelihood.
Siddanth was an anomaly. A 16-year-old kid walking into their office.
He felt a dozen pairs of eyes—hard, appraising, unwelcoming—flicker over him. Another schoolboy wonder. Let's see how long he lasts.
He recognized those looks. It was the same look the VPs gave the new, hotshot MBA intern.
"Kid," a gruff voice called. A senior wicketkeeper, a man with a magnificent mustache and a permanently cynical expression, nodded at him. "You're Deva? "
Siddanth just nodded. "Yes, sir."
"No 'sirs' here," the keeper grunted, though his eyes softened a fraction. "Just... don't be late, and don't touch my gear. Find a corner."
Siddanth found a corner. He stayed quiet. He observed. He downloaded.
And then, he saw him.
In the opposite corner, isolated, was another player. He wasn't big, but he was compact, coiled like a spring. He was taping his bat with a ferocious, precise intensity. He looked young—maybe 19 or 20—but his eyes, when they briefly flicked up. They were hard, suspicious, and burned with a white-hot, impatient fire.
Ambati Thirupathi Rayudu.
The original prodigy. The U-19 captain. The one who, in this timeline, was already being compared to Sachin. The man who, Siddanth knew, would have a brilliant, turbulent, and star-crossed career. He was, in this moment, the most talented and most volatile young batsman in India.
And he was Siddanth's new teammate. And rival.
Siddanth's AB template, a global-level talent, recognized its state-level peer. Rayudu's all bristling edges and raw genius, recognized... something.
Their eyes met across the dressing room.
It wasn't a challenge. It was a question.
Who the hell are you?
Siddanth didn't smile. He didn't look away. He just... held the gaze.
Rayudu's brow furrowed. He hadn't expected the new kid to hold his stare. He gave a curt, almost angry, nod and went back to his bat.
The first, silent test was over.
A man in a Hyderabad Cricket Association blazer walked in, clapping his hands. This was Coach Vijay Paul, a former state player who was all-business.
"Alright, lads! Listen up!"
The room went silent. The pros, the veterans, the kids—everyone's attention snapped to him.
"Welcome, probables. For those of you who are new," his eyes flicked to Siddanth, "congratulations. You've earned a seat at the table. Now the work begins."
He stood in the middle of the room, his presence dominating it.
"This isn't the U-19s. This isn't a one-off final in Warangal."
Siddanth felt the subtle dig, and so did everyone else.
"This... is the Ranji Trophy," the coach said, his voice dropping, adding reverence to the name. "It's a league. That means it's not a sprint. It's a marathon. It's a six-match, two-month grind. You'll be on buses. You'll be in bad hotels. The food will be terrible. You will be tired. You will be sore."
He paced, his eyes scanning each man.
"I don't care if you score 100 in the first match if you get a duck in the next five. I don't care about your talent," his eyes flicked to Rayudu. "I don't care about your hype," his eyes flicked to Siddanth.
"I care about consistency. I care about men who can score 50s on a green-top in Delhi when it's 10 degrees. I care about bowlers who can run in all day on a dead-flat track in Chennai. I am looking for professionals. Men who can do the job, day in, and day out."
For Siddanth, this was his language. This wasn't a call for heroes. This was a job description. This was the "corporate grind" he'd left behind, but this time, the product was runs.
"The league format is unforgiving," the coach continued. "Every team in the South Zone is a monster. Tamil Nadu, Karnataka... they will not give you an inch. This is where legends are made, and where prodigies are... broken."
Another pointed look.
"We have three weeks. Three weeks to find the fittest, toughest, and most reliable eleven men. The final squad will be 15. That means half of you will be going home. Other half, don't go home."
He clapped his hands again, the sound sharp as a gunshot.
"Right. Enough talk. Nets. Now."
The main nets at Gymkhana were a different world.
These were the pro nets. Four pitches, each a perfect, green-tinged, hard-rolled strip of clay. The netting was new. The bowlers were paid to be here.
The hierarchy was iron-clad.
The captain, a 30-year-old opening bat, went in first. Then the vice-captain. Then Rayudu.
Siddanth watched, analyzing them. Rayudu's net was art. He was all quick feet, sharp wrists, and a kind of elegant violence. He treated the net bowlers, who were trying to kill him, with contempt, dispatching them to all corners. He was, Siddanth admitted, unbelievably good.
Then, it was Siddanth's turn.
"Kid! You're in Net 2!"
He walked in. He felt a low, electric hum under his skin. His new Predator's Focus was active. The world was a high-definition, slow-motion movie.
The bowler at the other end was not a kid. He was a 28-year-old man named Rajesh, a Ranji veteran. He was 6'1", strong, and had the "workhorse" reputation the coach loved.
"Just bat, kid," Rajesh grunted. "Don't try and kill it."
Siddanth took his stance. It was classical, still, balanced. The Connoisseur of Fine Art skill had given him a perfect, aesthetic foundation.
Rajesh ran in. A good, solid 130kph. He angled it in, trying to cramp the 16-year-old.
Siddanth saw the angle. His Dancing Skills' footwork took over. It wasn't a step. It was a glide. His front foot moved, not at the ball, but alongside it, creating space. He just... blocked it.
Thud.
The ball dropped, dead, at his feet.
The block was so clean, so final, that Rajesh blinked.
Ball 2: Rajesh pushed it fuller, faster, swinging it away.
Siddanth: The 'welcome-to-the-pros' outswinger. He wants me to drive. He wants me to edge it to the (imaginary) slips.
He didn't move his feet. He just... let the ball come. At the last possible nanosecond, he didn't drive. He just pushed. A pure, wristy, bottom-hand punch.
PING.
The ball rocketed, past Rajesh's head, and would have been a 100-mph cover drive, but it was just a push.
Rajesh stared. Coach Paul, watching, nodded. Soft hands.
Ball 3: Rajesh dug it in. A bouncer. Fast, at the helmet.
Siddanth didn't hook. He didn't duck.
He waited.
He saw the seam spinning.
He just arched his back, his Acrobatic Instincts making the movement fluid, and...
He did nothing.
He let the ball pass, an inch from his nose. His eyes never left it.
Rajesh stopped, hands on his hips. "Lucky."
Siddanth just smiled.
A new bowler. A senior leg-spinner. A man with a thousand tricks.
First ball. A perfectly-pitched googly.
Siddanth: He didn't pick it.
He hadn't read the hand. He'd read the ball. He was tracking the seam. He knew it was coming in before it even landed.
He went back, balanced base, and just... waited.
He played it, late, off the back foot, through the (imaginary) cover.
The leg-spinner stopped. "He... he picked it."
Coach Paul was now watching only Siddanth.
"Rajesh!" he yelled. "Test him. Really test him."
Rajesh grinned. This was permission.
He ran in, all fury, and dug it short. It wasn't a bouncer. It was a 135kph rib-tester.
Sid knew this was the "injury ball." The one designed to make him flinch. The one that, in his old life, would have broken him.
Siddanth didn't flinch..
He didn't pull. He didn't hook. He was too cramped.
So... he helped it.
He swiveled, making the turn a single, fluid pivot. He didn't hit the ball. He just... met it.
With a flick of his Sleight of Hand-enhanced wrists, he just... guided it.
The 135kph ball, aimed at his ribs, changed direction, as if by magic. It flew, fast and fine, over the (imaginary) fine-leg, for a perfect six.
It was a shot that shouldn't exist.
The sound of batting... stopped.
Rajesh, the bowler, was just... staring.
The leg-spinner... had his mouth open.
Coach Paul... had a pen in his hand, and he'd stopped writing.
Ambati Rayudu, who had just finished his net and was walking behind the stumps, stopped. He'd seen it. He'd seen the impossible physics.
Siddanth just... tapped the crease, as if nothing had happened. He looked at Rajesh.
"Next?" he asked, his voice calm, but his eyes were cold.
Rajesh, shaken, just shook his head and walked back.
Siddanth batted for another thirty minutes. He didn't play another circus shot. It was all classical drives, perfect blocks, and beautiful, boring leaves.
The statement was made.
The threat was implied.
The 10-second burst of chaos was intentional. The 30 minutes of perfect, boring defense were the real message.
He finished his net. He was sweating, but not breathing hard.
"Good knock, kid," Coach Paul said, his voice a low grumble as Siddanth walked past. "But Ranji matches aren't won with circus tricks."
"No, sir," Siddanth said, toweling his face. "They're won with consistency."
The coach's eyes widened. He'd just heard his own speech parroted back at him. He broke into a rare, genuine smile. "Go on. Get out of here."
Siddanth walked back to the dressing room with a low, satisfied hum. He passed Rayudu, who was un-padding.
Rayudu didn't look at him. He was staring at his own bat.
"That shot," Rayudu said, his voice a low, intense murmur. "The... flick. The one off Rajesh."
"Yeah?" Siddanth said, stopping.
Rayudu finally looked up. The suspicion was gone. The anger was gone. His eyes were... clear. It was just a pure, raw, talent-to-talent communication.
"You... meant to do that."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Siddanth considered all the angles. The lie. The evasion.
He settled on the truth.
"Yeah," Siddanth said. "I did."
Rayudu stared for another second. A slow, dangerous, respectful smile spread across his face.
"Okay," he said. "This... this is going to be fun."
Siddanth just nodded and walked to his corner. The ice was broken. The real game had begun.