The finals court felt different.
Not louder—just heavier.
Felix sensed it the moment he stepped onto the polished surface. The lights above seemed brighter, the boundaries sharper. The crowd filled more seats now, their presence no longer casual curiosity but invested attention. Conversations quieted as players took their positions.
This was the final.
Felix adjusted his grip and walked toward the net.
From the opposite side, Aditya Soni approached with the same calm stride he had shown throughout the tournament. He didn't rush. He didn't hesitate. His posture was upright, composed, almost formal.
They met at the center.
A brief handshake. Firm. Respectful.
"Let's have a good match," Aditya said, voice even.
Felix nodded. "Same to you."
No challenge. No bravado.
Just acknowledgment.
They stepped back to their sides.
Felix rolled his shoulders once and glanced instinctively toward the stands. His parents were there again—Radha sitting straight, hands folded tightly in her lap, Krishna beside her, expression unreadable but intent. They weren't smiling. They weren't anxious.
They were watching.
The umpire's voice echoed through the hall.
"Final match begins. First game."
Felix took his position.
The shuttle rose.
The first rally was cautious. Both players tested depth, placement, and rhythm. Felix lifted high, Aditya returned deep. Felix dropped, Aditya answered cleanly at the net. Neither committed.
Then suddenly Aditya changed pace.
A sudden flat drive. Felix reacted quickly, returning it cross-court. Aditya stepped in early and placed the shuttle just inside the line.
Point.
Felix nodded once, resetting.
The next few rallies followed a similar pattern. Felix tried to control the tempo, but Aditya dictated spacing effortlessly. He didn't smash often. He didn't force winners.
He waited.
At 4–4, Felix found an opening and took a sharp point with a clean drop shot. A small murmur rose from the crowd.
But Aditya adjusted immediately.
He began pushing Felix deeper, forcing him to move backward before drawing him forward again. The rallies lengthened. Felix felt his legs working harder now, the court suddenly larger than before.
8–5.
Blue Heritage led.
Felix wiped sweat from his forehead as he prepared to serve. His breathing remained controlled, but his chest rose more noticeably with each inhale. He served low and tight.
Aditya returned safely.
Felix tried to accelerate, stepping in for a faster exchange—but the shuttle clipped the net and fell back.
A rare mistake.
Felix closed his eyes for half a second.
Too eager, he thought.
At 11–7, the interval came.
Felix sat down, a towel draped around his neck. He stared at the floor, listening to the muted hum of the crowd. He didn't feel overwhelmed. He didn't feel afraid.
He felt watched.
Not just by the audience—but by the moment itself.
Across the court, Aditya sat calmly, taking measured sips of water, gaze steady. He looked exactly the same as he had at the start.
The game resumed.
Felix pushed harder now, trying to reclaim initiative. He won two quick points with sharper net play.
11–9.
The crowd stirred again.
Aditya didn't react.
He slowed the next rally deliberately, returning everything safely, forcing Felix to commit first. When Felix attempted a risky cross-court smash, Aditya was already there.
Point.
The lead widened again.
15–10.
Felix's legs began to feel the cost of longer rallies. Not exhaustion—just accumulation. His timing slipped once, then again. Aditya capitalized quietly, efficiently.
No celebration.
No expression.
Just control.
Felix managed a late surge, pulling back a few points with disciplined placement rather than force. He adjusted his breathing, focused on angles instead of power.
18–15.
For a moment, the game felt within reach.
Then Aditya served deep, followed by a tight net exchange that Felix barely reached. The return sat up for a fraction of a second.
Aditya didn't smash.
He placed it.
Game point.
Felix returned the serve one last time, pushing the rally wide, trying to break rhythm—but Aditya was already moving. The shuttle landed just inside the line.
The whistle blew.
First game: Blue Heritage.
Felix stood still for a moment.
No frustration.
No disbelief.
Just recognition.
He walked back to his side as the crowd applauded politely. Aditya bowed slightly before returning to his position.
Felix sat during the break, shoulders rising and falling steadily now. Sweat dripped from his chin to the floor. His grip tightened briefly around the racket before he loosened it again.
Across the net, Aditya remained composed.
The umpire called them back.
Second game.
The opening rallies told Felix everything he needed to know.
Aditya hadn't slowed.
Felix, however, was being pushed harder now—drawn into longer exchanges, forced to defend more than attack. The score ticked upward, slowly but unmistakably, in Blue Heritage's favor.
6–10.
Felix retrieved the shuttle and paused.
Not long.
Just long enough to breathe.
The pressure pressed down—not crushing, but undeniable.
He raised his racket again as Aditya prepared to serve.
The second game was slipping too.
And Felix knew—
If something didn't change soon,
This final would end before he was ready.