The sun hadn't risen yet, but the sky was a bruised purple. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and the exhaust from the early morning milk trucks.
Sai stood alone in the center of the empty plot. The "pitch" was just a patch of hard-packed red soil where the grass had died years ago.
He held the heavy Kashmir Willow bat. It felt like a log in his hands.
Okay, Sai thought, rolling his shoulders. Let's see what this body can actually do.
In his previous life—as a 20-year-old in 2025—he was decently strong. He could bench press his body weight. He could clear the boundary with raw power. His brain was still wired for that strength.
"Let's go for a lofted off-drive," he whispered. "Lofted. Power."
He threw a tennis ball up in the air. As it dropped, he stepped forward, intending to smash it over the imaginary long-off boundary (the apartment wall). He summoned every ounce of energy in his 10-year-old frame, tensing his biceps, gripping the handle tight to generate maximum torque.
He swung.
[DISSONANCE]
CRACK-FIZZ.
It felt like a shockwave of nausea rippled through his wrists. His shoulders screamed. The bat was too heavy for a "power" swing; the drag made his bat speed pathetic.
The ball clunked off the bottom edge and trickled ten feet away.
Sai gasped, dropping the bat. His wrists throbbed with a dull, warning heat.
System Feedback: Inefficient.
He looked at his trembling hands. "Right... I'm an idiot," he muttered. "I'm trying to drive a Ferrari engine in a Maruti 800 body."
The "Dissonance" wasn't just telling him his technique was bad. It was telling him his physics were bad.
My core is weak. My forearms are twigs. If I try to muscle the ball, the system punishes me because I'm fighting my own lack of strength.
He picked up the bat again. He had to reset his expectations.
Forget Andre Russell, he told himself. Forget Kohli's power. Think... VVS Laxman. Think pure timing. Use the weight of the bat, don't fight it.
He adjusted his grip. He choked up on the handle (holding it higher) to make the bat feel lighter—a technique small kids use to control heavy bats.
[Feedback]
The nervous "hum" in his arms quieted down. The system approved.
Okay, better.
He threw the ball up again. This time, he didn't try to hit it hard. He barely tried to hit it at all.
He watched the ball fall. He waited. He waited until it was right under his nose.
Instead of swinging at the ball, he simply guided the heavy bat forward, letting gravity do the work of the downswing. A gentle, defensive push.
[CLICK]
It was the softest sound, but it felt amazing.
[RESONANCE]
The bat met the ball perfectly in the sweet spot. Sai felt zero vibration in the handle. It felt like he hadn't hit anything at all.
Despite the lack of effort, the tennis ball zipped off the face of the bat, racing across the bumpy ground until it hit the boundary wall with a solid thud.
Sai stood there, holding the pose. High elbow, soft hands.
That's it, he realized. That's the secret.
The "Golden Finger" wasn't going to let him cheat physics.
If he tried to play a shot he wasn't strong enough for, it would give him Dissonance.
It would only give him Resonance if he played within his physical limits.
It forces me to be efficient.
He picked up the ball.
If I want to hit sixes, I have to go to the gym later. Right now, if I want that 'Click', I have to be the most technically perfect defensive player Hyderabad has ever seen.
He got back into his stance.
Fine. I'll bore them to death with perfection.
He threw the ball up again.
Tap. Click.
Tap. Click.
By the time the sun fully rose and the other kids started trickling into the ground for their morning game, Sai was sweating, but he was grinning. He had hit 100 balls. 40 were "Dissonant." 60 were "Resonant."
He was learning his new body's manual, one click at a time.