Nicknames often come in whispers before they echo publicly. For Arjun, "The Devil" had already been murmured in Guntur. Now it began to spread across state and national circles.
It wasn't a title of fear, nor one of admiration, but a recognition of his uncanny ability to bend games and people without being noticed.
During a practice session at the national under-19 camp, Arjun subtly rearranged field placements, guided a hesitant bowler to a decisive over, and nudged his team toward victory. No one outside the squad noticed his orchestration.
But Sid, who had also made the national squad, did. His frustration grew as Arjun quietly outmaneuvered him in every drill, every match, every subtle psychological battle.
"You're impossible," Sid whispered once after losing a mini-match in the nets. "How do you do this? You're not even trying."
Arjun smiled faintly. "Try to win loud, and you'll lose quietly."
A teammate, overhearing, muttered to another, "That's the Devil."
By the end of the week, the nickname had caught like wildfire among players, coaches, and scouts. Not officially, not in print, but in every mind that tried—and failed—to predict his next move.
The Devil didn't play for applause. He didn't play for recognition. He played to control outcomes. And the name reflected that intangible authority.
Even scouts began to whisper it during reports. "Number 7, the Devil from Andhra… Keep an eye on him. He controls games differently."
Arjun, of course, heard none of it directly. But he cataloged the reactions, the rising tension in Sid, the subtle hesitation among teammates who had underestimated him. It was all data. All control.
And somewhere deep inside, he smiled. Every whisper, every rumor, every misjudged assumption by others was a step toward a larger game.