The thumping bass of the after-party and the roar of the Bullring had finally faded, replaced by the hushed, carpeted silence of the hotel corridor. It was 4:00 AM in Johannesburg. The dawn was threatening to break over the Highveld, but Siddanth Deva felt wired, his mind a kaleidoscope of golden confetti and flashing wickets.
He swiped his key card and entered his room. Halhadar Das was still downstairs, likely trying to out-dance Herschelle Gibbs—a futile endeavor. The room was cool, the air conditioning humming a low, steady note.
Siddanth dropped his kit bag by the door, the heavy thud echoing his own physical exhaustion. He placed his awards on the desk. They caught the glint of the streetlights outside.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. He was an IPL Champion. He was the MVP.
But he knew that celebrations were fleeting. The anchor needed to be dropped. He needed to hear the voices that made this reality real.
"Hello?" The voice was instant, breathless. They had been waiting.
"Amma," Siddanth said, exhaling a breath he felt he'd been holding since the first ball of the final.
"Vikram! Come here! It's him!" Sesikala shouted away from the receiver, then her voice came back, warm and trembling. "Siddu... my champion. My golden boy. We saw it all. Every ball. We saw you lift the cup."
"Siddanth?" His father's voice was thick, heavy with an emotion that men of his generation rarely showed. "You did it, son. You kept your promise."
"I did, Nanna," Siddanth smiled, leaning back against the headboard, closing his eyes. "We won."
"You didn't just win, you dominated!" Vikram's voice gathered strength. "That final over... the way you bowled to Kumble... and that innings! 88 not out! The whole colony is still awake, Siddu. They are bursting crackers in the street. Mr. Sharma says he wants to paint a mural on the compound wall!"
Siddanth chuckled. "Tell him to wait until I get home, Nanna. I don't want my face scaring the milkman."
"Are you okay, beta?" Sesikala asked, her tone shifting instantly from celebration to maternal interrogation. "You looked so tired at the end. And sweating so much. Are you eating properly? The hotel food... is it good? Is it spicy?"
Siddanth rubbed his temples, a smile playing on his lips. He had just conquered the best cricketers in the world, yet to his mother, he was still a boy liable to skip lunch.
"I'm eating well, Amma. I have a diet plan, remember? High protein, good fats. The chefs here cook whatever I tell them to. And if I wasn't fit, Boof—I mean, the coach—wouldn't let me play. You see me on TV every week, Amma. You can see I'm not starving."
"That doesn't mean we are not worried about you," Vikram chuckled softly. "Parents don't look at run rates, Siddu. They look at cheekbones. And yours are looking a bit sharp."
"Sorry," Siddanth said softly. "I'll eat a double portion at breakfast."
"You better," she admonished gently. "So... tell us. What is happening? How was the party?"
"It was... loud," Siddanth admitted. "But good. Gilly is happy. Everyone is happy."
He spent the next twenty minutes just listening. He asked about the colony—who had bought a new scooter, whose daughter had gotten married, and which uncle was complaining about the water supply. It was mundane, trivial, and utterly grounding. It was the tether that kept his mind from floating away into the ego-trap of stardom.
"When are you coming back?" Sesikala asked, the longing evident in her voice. "Your room is ready. I've aired out the sheets."
Siddanth did the mental math. The IPL was over. The team would disband tomorrow.
"Maybe in two days," he said. "We have the final team debrief tomorrow morning, then checkout. I'll probably catch a flight the day after."
"Come home soon, son," Vikram said.
"I'll be there, Nanna. Love you both."
"Love you, beta."
The line clicked dead. Siddanth sat there for a moment, the silence of the room rushing back in. Two days. He could almost smell the Hyderabadi biryani.
He picked up the phone again. One more call.
He dialed Arjun's mobile.
"CHAMPION!"
The scream was so loud Siddanth physically recoiled, holding the phone an arm's length away. He could hear the distortion of the speaker as Arjun bellowed into the receiver.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? EIGHTY-EIGHT NOT OUT! TWO WICKETS! YOU ARE A GOD! A LITERAL GOD!"
Siddanth waited until the shouting subsided into heavy breathing and excited laughter. He brought the phone back to his ear.
"Finished?" he asked dryly.
"Finished? I'm never finishing!" Arjun yelled. "Dude! Do you know what it was like here? When you hit that six off Kallis? I thought the roof of the community hall was going to collapse! Ravi tore his shirt! Literally ripped it!"
Siddanth laughed. "Tell him I'll buy him a new one. A DC jersey."
"You better! Man... Sid... you actually did it. You won the IPL. You're the MVP. It's insane."
"It's been a wild ride," Siddanth agreed. "But listen, Arri. Enough cricket talk. I need an update."
"Update? On what? The fan clubs? Because I've had to reject about fifty friend requests on your Orkut profile today."
"No," Siddanth's voice dropped, becoming serious. "The project. About Bitcoins."
Arjun groaned loudly. The dramatic, long-suffering sigh of a best friend who thinks his genius pal has one specific, weird flaw.
"Oh god. The internet money. Sid, seriously? You just won the IPL. You're a crorepati ten times over. Why do you care about the magic computer coins?"
"Just tell me, Arjun."
"Fine," Arjun sighed. "I'm doing it. Just as you told me. The rig is running 24/7 in the spare room. It sounds like a jet engine, and it heats the whole house. My mom thinks I'm running a server for NASA."
"And the count?"
"I checked this morning," Arjun said, his voice bored. "We hit the milestone. 50,000 Bitcoins. Five zero, zero zero zero. Sitting in that digital wallet you made me set up."
Siddanth closed his eyes. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
50,000 BTC.
In 2009, it was worth nothing. Zero. It was a hobbyist's toy.
In 2021, in his previous timeline, one Bitcoin was worth $60,000.
50,000 times 60,000.
Three Billion Dollars.
He was sitting on the GDP of a small nation, and only he knew it.
"Good," Siddanth said, his voice vibrating with intensity. "Good. Keep mining, Arri. Don't stop. Not for a second. The difficulty rate is going to spike soon. We need to grab as many as we can while it's easy."
"But Sid," Arjun whined. "What is the point? I looked it up. The value is less than a rupee. It's like... it's like collecting dust bunnies! It's spare change!"
"It looks like change now," Siddanth said, his tone shifting to the one he used when setting a field for a death over—absolute command. "You won't understand it now, Arri. The world doesn't understand it. But you will. In the future, this 'change' will be the empire."
"I don't know, man..."
"Listen to me," Siddanth cut in. "You trust me with cricket? You trusted me with the stock market crash?"
"Yeah... obviously."
"Then trust me with this. Just do it for my sake. Keep the machines running. And if you really think it's worthless... if you think I'm wasting your time... then sell me your share."
"What?"
"I'll buy your half of the coins," Siddanth said. "Right now. Or in the future. I'll pay you double whatever the market rate is whenever you want to cash out. But don't turn off the machines."
There was a silence on the other end. Arjun was processing the sheer confidence in Siddanth's voice. It was the same tone he'd used before the U-19 final, before the stock market crash. It was the tone of a man who had already read the script.
"Okay," Arjun said quietly. "Okay, Sid. I won't sell. And I won't turn them off. If you're this crazy about it, there must be something there. I'll keep the fan running."
"Good man. You won't regret it. I promise."
"Now, sponsorships?"
"Oh, yeah. My phone is blowing up too," Arjun said, flipping papers in the background. "Since the final, it's been crazy. Local brands mostly. 'Hyderabad Spices', 'Deccan Cement', and some energetic drink company I've never heard of. They want you for billboards, store openings. Easy money."
"Hold them off," Siddanth said immediately.
"What? Why? It's cash."
"It's small cash," Siddanth corrected. "We wait to see if I get selected to the Indian squad for the T20 World Cup. If I get selected, the negotiation price increases, so tell them I'm reviewing options. We'll talk when I get back to India."
"You're ruthless," Arjun said admiringly. "Okay. I'll stall them. 'Mr. Deva is currently focusing on his cricket'. The usual PR line."
"Perfect. Go sleep, Arri. You sound dead."
"I'm buzzing. But yeah. See you in two days?"
"Two days," Siddanth confirmed.
Siddanth hung up. He looked at the trophy again.
Cricket gave him fame. It gave him cash flow.
But this... the 50,000 coins on a hard drive in Hyderabad... this was freedom. This was power.
He stripped off his clothes, brushed his teeth, and collapsed into bed. Sleep came instantly, a dark, dreamless void.
He woke up at 7:00 AM.
His body was stiff, the aftereffects of the match and the travel. Most players would sleep until noon today. But he wasn't like most players; he wanted to etch his name in cricket history.
Siddanth put on his gym gear.
Being a champion didn't mean you rested. Being a champion meant you trained when no one was watching so you could stay a champion.
He went down to the hotel gym. It was empty.
He hit the treadmill. 20 minutes of interval sprints.
Then weights. Deadlifts. Squats.
He focused on his core. The "Javelin" (Lv. 4) skill put immense torque on his spine. The "The Rock" (Lv. 1) passive he got from the Kallis template was integrating, making his bones denser, his ligaments tougher, but he had to feed it with stimulus.
He pushed the iron. He sweated out the champagne and the fatigue.
He was building a dynasty, not just a career.
By 8:30 AM, he was back in his room, showered, and feeling fresh. He called room service.
"Six egg whites, one yolk. Omelet with spinach. Steel-cut oats with almond milk and berries. And a green tea. Thank you."
He sat on the balcony, watching the South African morning unfold. The city was waking up. He felt a profound sense of peace. He was going home in two days. He would see his parents. He would play gully cricket with Arjun.
Rrrr-ring.
His phone buzzed on the table.
He frowned. It wasn't his parents. It wasn't Arjun.
It was an unknown number. International code. +91-22... Mumbai.
He picked it up.
"Hello? Siddanth Deva."
"Good morning, Siddanth. This is Prof. Ratnakar Shetty from the BCCI."
Siddanth sat up straighter. "Good morning, sir."
"Siddanth, I'm calling with some news. I assume you're sitting down?"
"I am, sir."
"Good. The selection committee met last night in Mumbai. We've been monitoring the IPL very closely. Performance demands attention."
Siddanth's heart began to hammer.
"We have selected you for the Indian Squad for the ICC T20 World Cup in England."
The words hung in the cool morning air.
England. The World Cup. The senior team.
He had thought he would have to wait. He thought he was being groomed for the future.
But the future was now.
"Sir..." Siddanth breathed. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"You earned it, son. Player of the Series in the IPL? We couldn't leave you out. Dhoni was very insistent. He wants you in the squad."
"I won't let him down."
"We know. Now, listen closely. Logistics. You cannot come back to India."
Siddanth blinked. "Sir?"
"The team is assembling in London in five days. Sending you back to Hyderabad and then to London is a waste of time and adds jet lag. We have arranged a flight for you directly from Johannesburg to London Heathrow."
The realization hit him.
He wasn't going home.
He wasn't going to meet his parents.
He wasn't going to eat his mother's biryani.
"My... my passport? My visa?"
"All taken care of. Your diplomatic passport facilitates this. The team manager has the details. Your ticket will be emailed to him. Pack your bags, Siddanth. You're going to England."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
The call ended.
Siddanth stared at the phone. A mix of elation and a sudden, sharp pang of homesickness washed over him.
He was going to the World Cup. It was the dream.
But he had promised his parents.
He looked at his breakfast, which had just arrived. He lost his appetite for a second, then forced himself to eat. Fuel. You need fuel for England.
He finished the meal mechanically. Then, he picked up the phone.
He had to make the call.
He dialed home.
"Hello? Siddu?" It was his mother. She sounded happy. "Are you packing? Did you buy the chocolates for Arjun?"
Siddanth took a deep breath. He pitched his voice low, serious. Grave.
"Amma. I need to talk to both of you."
"Vikram!" Sesikala's voice spiked with panic. "Vikram, come! Siddu sounds serious!"
There was a scuffling sound.
"Son? What is it? Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Vikram's voice was laced with instant, terrified concern. "Did something happen at the hotel?"
"Nanna... Amma..." Siddanth let the silence stretch for a cruel two seconds. "I... I can't come to Hyderabad."
"What?" Sesikala gasped. "Why? What happened? Are you in trouble? Did the police stop you?"
"Is it the flight?" Vikram asked rapidly. "We can book another one. Tell us, Siddu!"
Siddanth couldn't hold it anymore. A bubble of laughter burst in his chest.
"I can't come to Hyderabad..." he said, his voice breaking into a grin they could hear, "...because I have to go to England. I've been picked for the T20 World Cup, Nanna!"
Silence.
Absolute, stunned silence on the line.
Then, Vikram let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh. "You... you rascal! You nearly gave your mother a heart attack!"
"Oh my god!" Sesikala cried, sounding relieved and furious and ecstatic all at once. "You bad boy! You scared me! I thought you were in jail or the hospital! Don't do that!"
"Sorry, Amma," Siddanth laughed. "But I had to! The BCCI just called. Direct flight from Johannesburg to London. I'm joining Dhoni and the team. We're going to defend the title."
"England..." Vikram breathed. "The World Cup. The senior World Cup. Siddu... this is... this is everything."
"I know, Nanna. I'm sorry I can't come home. I know I promised."
"Forget the promise!" Vikram shouted happily. "Who cares about home? You go to England! You go play at Lord's! You go win another cup! We will wait. India cannot wait!"
"Are you happy, Amma?" Siddanth asked gently.
"I am happy," she sniffled. "I am very happy. But you are still a naughty boy for scaring me. Pack your warm clothes. England is cold. Do you have a sweater?"
"I have the team kit, Amma. I'll be fine."
"Okay. Go. Go and play. We will watch. We will tell the whole colony."
"Love you both."
"Love you, son. Go make history."
Siddanth hung up. He looked around the hotel room. The view of Cape Town. The trophy on the desk.
He stood up and walked to the window.
And he was going to the World Cup.