The day of the Inter-School Tournament opener arrived with a sky the color of bruised steel. St. Jude's High School felt like a pressure cooker. This wasn't just a match; it was a collision of philosophies. On one side stood the Champions Academy, the "Factory" that churned out disciplined, technically perfect soldiers modeled after the Australian gold standard. On the other stood St. Jude's—or more accurately, the chaotic storm centered around Jatin Ninaniya.
"Listen to me!" Coach Sharma shouted over the wind, his clipboard trembling. "Kabir Malhotra is going to bowl full. He's going to tempt you. Do not—I repeat, do not—go for the big shots early. We need to exhaust him. We play the long game. We play the Australian way."
Jatin, leaning against the kit bag, didn't even look up. He was adjusting his wristbands, his eyes narrowed as he watched Kabir warming up at the far end of the pitch. Kabir's run-up was a work of art—smooth, rhythmic, and deadly. Each time the ball left his hand, it hissed through the air.
"Sharma Sir," Jatin said, his voice cutting through the Coach's frantic instructions. "The Australian way is about dominance. You don't beat dominance with patience. You beat it with a bigger threat."
The Toss and the Trap
St. Jude's lost the toss. Champions Academy elected to bowl first. It was exactly what Kabir wanted. He wanted to dismantle Jatin's "Ego" in front of the state scouts.
As Jatin walked out to the middle, the atmosphere shifted. The crowd of students fell silent. Kabir stood at the top of his mark, the red cherry in his hand looking like a weapon. He didn't smile. He didn't sledging. He simply stared at Jatin's off-stump with a predatory hunger.
Jatin took his guard. Tap. Tap.
He didn't crouch. He stood tall, his bat held high, mocking the traditional "V" defense. He was using his [Spatial Awareness], measuring the gap between point and cover. He wasn't looking for a single; he was looking for a statement.
The First Ball: The Ghost Swing
Kabir began his run-up. It was a blur of white flannel and dark hair. He hit the crease with a thunderous snap. The ball was released at over 135 kph—a lightning bolt aimed right at Jatin's toes.
But mid-air, the ball did something impossible. It didn't just swing; it seemed to vanish and reappear three inches wider. This was Kabir's signature: [The Ghost Swing]. It was a late, late outswinger that relied on the perfect seam position and the humidity in the air.
Jatin's eyes widened. His reflexes, honed on the football pitch, kicked in. He didn't move his feet—he couldn't. Instead, he snapped his wrists, trying to "slash" the ball away.
Whiff.
The ball whistled past the outside edge, missing by a fraction of a millimeter. The wicketkeeper caught it with a loud thwack and a triumphant roar.
"Found your limit already, Ninaniya?" Kabir asked softly as he walked back. "That was just the warm-up."
The Side Character: Arjun's Calculation
From the non-striker's end, Arjun Singh watched the exchange with a cold sweat. He could see the [Kinetic Energy] vibrating off Kabir. As the team's "Observer," Arjun wasn't just watching the ball; he was watching the air currents.
The ball is tilting at a 20-degree angle at the point of release, Arjun thought, his mind racing through the physics he had studied for his own "ninja training." If Jatin keeps clearing his leg, he's going to get caught at third man. Kabir is baiting him.
"Jatin!" Arjun called out, walking halfway down the pitch. "He's using the wind. The Magnus effect is stronger today. Stop the horizontal bat. You need to hit it straight!"
Jatin just gripped his bat tighter. "Straight is what he expects, Arjun. I'm going to hit him where it hurts."
The Egoist's Counter-Attack
The third ball of the over. Kabir came in even faster. He saw Jatin shuffling to the off-side. Kabir smirked. You want to play the scoop? I'll bowl it into your ribs.
The ball was a vicious short-pitched delivery, aimed straight at Jatin's chest. It was the "Australian Rib-Tickler."
In a split second, Jatin's football brain took over. He didn't see a cricket ball. He saw a defender's shoulder coming in for a tackle. Instead of ducking or pulling, Jatin used a footballer's pivot. He rotated his entire torso on his left heel, a move that required immense core strength and [Pivot Joint] flexibility.
CRACK!
It wasn't a pull shot. It was a "Jatin Hook." He caught the ball right in front of his face and dispatched it over the square-leg boundary. It didn't just clear the rope; it cleared the school fence and landed on the main road.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the scouts stopped writing.
"That... that was 95 meters," Rohan whispered from the dugout. "Against Kabir?"
The Crack in the Armor
Kabir's face transformed. The cool, "Sasuke" composure shattered. His eyes turned a dark, angry red. For the first time in three years, someone had treated his pace with such utter disrespect.
He lost his discipline. The "Invincible" machine glitched.
The next ball was a wide, angry delivery. Jatin didn't even let it go. He reached out and slapped it through the covers for four.
The over ended with 11 runs—the most Kabir had conceded in an opening over in his entire career. Jatin stood at the crease, leaning on his bat, staring directly at the Champions Academy dugout.
"Is the era over yet, Kabir?" Jatin asked.
But as Jatin turned to take his guard for the next over, he felt a sharp twinge in his right ankle. The pivot—the football move he had used to hit the six—had put immense strain on his [Talus bone].
He hid the wince. He couldn't show weakness. Not now. Not when the system was finally starting to crack.
[Author's Note: The first blow has been landed, but at a cost. Chapter 4 will reveal if Jatin's injury will allow him to finish the innings, or if Kabir will regain his "Invincible" composure to finish the job.]