Chapter 22: SVS v/s SLS [4]
THWACK.
The sound was not a clean 'thud' of leather on willow. It was a wet, sickening crunch.
A white-hot explosion of pure agony erupted from Raghav's right hand. It was a pain so total, so blinding, that his 42-year-old mind, which knew the feeling of strains and sprains, instantly recognized this as something far worse. This was the feeling of bones grinding.
His vision went white. The air was punched from his lungs in a silent scream.
He had, in that split second, made his choice. He had forced his already damaged hand into the path of the ball. The impact was brutal. The sheer, kinetic force of Thomas's sliced shot was meant to shatter bats, not the delicate bones of a 12-year-old.
Raghav collapsed onto his side, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. He couldn't even look at his hand. He just cradled his entire right arm to his chest, his body curling into a fetal position as waves of nausea washed over him.
But he had done his job. He had stopped the boundary.
The ball hadn't stuck. The impact was too much for his shattered grip. It hit his "cup" and popped loose, rolling to a stop on the grass about ten feet away from him.
On the pitch, the play was still live.
Thomas and the #3 batsman had seen the ball rocket off the bat and were sprinting for an easy single. When they saw Raghav go down, Thomas, ever the opportunist, bellowed,
"AGAIN! GO AGAIN!"
They turned for a second run.
"RAGHAV! THE BALL! GET THE BALL!" Vikram's voice was a desperate shriek from the infield.
Raghav heard the voice as if from a great distance. His world was a tunnel of roaring pain.
He tried to open his eyes, his vision swimming. He saw the ball, a blurry red sphere on a green field. He saw the batsmen, two white blurs, charging down the pitch.
'Get up,' his mind commanded. But his body wouldn't obey.
'THE BALL!'
He looked at his right hand. It was already a swollen, purple mass. It was useless. He couldn't move his fingers.
Sacrifice. The word echoed in his head. His own. Coach Sarma's.
'If I fail here... everything was for nothing.'
With a guttural groan, he shoved himself with his left shoulder, rolling onto his knees. Ignoring his mangled right hand, he scrambled forward, half-crawling, and scooped up the ball with his left hand.
He was still on his knees, dizzy and sick. He could barely see. He just saw Rohan, the wicketkeeper, sprinting towards the stumps, his own glove off, screaming.
Raghav didn't have the strength to stand. He was 60 yards from the stumps.
He pulled his left arm back and threw.
It was a weak, underarm lob. A pathetic, wobbly throw from his non-dominant hand. It was the throw of a small child. It barely had the strength to make it halfway.
But it was on line.
The #3 batsman, his eyes wide in panic, was now scrambling to get back. Thomas was already safe.
Vikram, from his position at Cover, saw the wobbly throw. He saw it was going to be short. He charged in, intercepted the throw on the full, took two steps, and fired a perfect, flat throw to the keeper.
The keeper grabbed the ball.
Smashed the stumps.
The bails flew.
The umpire's arm went up.
WICKET! RUN OUT!
Score: 58/3!
The field was silent. Utterly, completely silent.
The SLS dugout, which had been on its feet, sat down as one.
Thomas, safe at the non-striker's end, was bent over, hands on his knees, staring at Raghav. He wasn't angry. He was in disbelief. He couldn't comprehend what he had just seen.
A 12-year-old, who he was sure he had broken, had just created a wicket from the ground.
Then, the roar from Raghav's team was deafening. It was a sound of pure, impossible hope.
Vikram and Rohan were the first to reach Raghav, who was still on his knees, his head bowed, shaking from the pain.
"Raghav... Raghav, my god..." Vikram didn't know what to say.
And then, the blue screen flickered, pulsing in time with his throbbing hand.
Ding~
[UNYIELDING WILL DETECTED!]
[Host has consciously chosen to sacrifice personal well-being for the objective. You have pushed beyond the established limits of a 12-year-old body.]
[Your spirit is being forged in pain. Your determination is carving new pathways.]
[A new Trait is being permanently etched into the Host's foundation...]
[New Trait Unlocked: IRON GRIT (Passive, Lv. 1)]
[Iron Grit (Lv. 1): You are not easily broken. When injured in a match, your willpower and determination are amplified. Pain tolerance is moderately increased. All stats receive a temporary +0.1 "Adrenaline" boost as long as you remain on the field.]
[Bonus Reward: +30 SP (For Unlocking a Foundational Trait)]
[System Points (SP): 85]
========================
A strange, cold clarity washed over Raghav, cutting through the hot agony. The new trait, Iron Grit, flared to life.
The pain didn't go away, but it retreated. It was no longer a blinding, all-consuming fire. It was a distant, roaring furnace, caged by his will.
He felt the +0.1 "Adrenaline" boost. It was tiny, but it was everything. It was a thread of strength.
"Get up, Rag..." Vikram was saying, his hand on Raghav's good shoulder.
"I'm... I'm okay," Raghav gritted out, the words tasting like metal.
"UMPIRE! TIME!"
Coach Sarma was striding onto the field, his face a mask of thunder. The umpire met him.
Sarma didn't even look at the scoreboard. He walked straight to Raghav, who was being helped up by Vikram.
"Show me," Sarma commanded.
Raghav, his face pale and slick with sweat, slowly held up his right arm.
The hand was unrecognizable. It was swollen to twice its normal size, a grotesque, purple-black claw. It was visibly, horribly broken.
Vikram and Rohan, seeing it up close, both recoiled, their faces pale.
Sarma's expression didn't change, but his eyes were burning. He looked from the mangled hand to Raghav's eyes, which were clear, intense, and—frighteningly—ready.
"I can stay, Coach," Raghav said, his voice a low rasp. "Put me at Mid-On. I can stop with my legs. We're not short a fielder. I can stay."
The Iron Grit was talking. The 42-year-old was talking.
Sarma looked at him for a long, silent moment. The man who had been a taskmaster, a distant, hard coach, was now looking at him with something Raghav had never seen before. It was a deep, profound, and terrifying respect.
"No, son," Sarma said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You're done."
"But Coach, we're 10 men if I leave—"
"You will not lose your hand for a school match," Sarma said, his voice now steel.
"You've done more than enough. You've taken three wickets with your hands. You've given them a chance. Now get off the field."
The umpire nodded. "He's 'Retired Hurt'. He must leave the field of play."
Sarma put his own hand on Raghav's back. "Vikram. Rohan. Help him."
As his two teammates flanked him, supporting his weight, Raghav finally let the adrenaline go. His legs felt like water.
They began the long walk back to the boundary.
The entire SLS team, including Thomas, stood where they were and clapped.
The small crowd in the pavilion, parents and teachers from both schools, rose to their feet, giving him a standing ovation. They had just witnessed one of the most incredible displays of courage they would ever see
Raghav didn't hear them. He just watched the scoreboard.
Score: 58/3.
Target: 97.
They still needed 39 runs.
Thomas was still at the crease.
And his team now had to defend those 39 runs with only ten men on the field.
He had given them a spark. He had given them a chance. But as he crossed the boundary rope, his head spinning, he knew the truth.
He had won the battle, but the monster, Thomas, was still very much alive. And now, Raghav was helpless to stop him.
__
Vikram and Rohan helped Raghav across the boundary line, the applause from the crowd and the St. Louis team still ringing in the air.
The moment his feet touched the grass on the other side, the Iron Grit trait seemed to flicker. The "cage" holding the pain buckled, and a wave of sickening, throbbing agony surged up his arm, making him gasp.
"Easy, easy," Vikram muttered, his own voice shaky as they lowered Raghav onto the team's simple wooden bench.
Coach Sarma was already there. He hadn't run onto the field. He hadn't joined the applause. He had simply walked back, his face unreadable, and retrieved a large, white first-aid kit.
He knelt in front of Raghav. The noise of the match, the distant calls of the fielders, all faded for a moment. There was just the coach's intense, focused gaze.
"You are a fool, Roi," Sarma said, his voice a low rumble.
Raghav, breathing hard through his teeth, looked up in confusion.
"A brave, stubborn, incredible fool," Sarma continued, his expression not softening, but the words carried a weight Raghav had never heard.
He began deftly opening packets of gauze and a roll of bandages, his movements economical and precise.
"We are going to the hospital as soon as this is over. For now, we immobilize it. Don't move."
Sarma didn't try to set the bone. He just wrapped the hand and wrist, creating a tight, supportive, and agonizingly painful cast of bandages and tape.
Raghav looked down at his 85 SP. 'System, can I buy anything? Healing? Pain reduction?'
But the System Store was greyed out. A new line of text was visible: [Store & Missions are locked during active matches.]
He was on his own.
"I... I can't," Raghav said, his voice strained as Sarma tightened the tape.
"Bite on this," Sarma said, holding out a clean towel.
(To be Continued)