Chapter 24: A Hero's Welcome
Raghav's world was a roaring, dizzying blur of white uniforms.
He was still on the bench, his entire being a single, throbbing beacon of pain, but he was grinning, a wild, tear-streaked grimace.
They hadn't celebrated. They had run to him.
Vikram, the captain, was the first to arrive.
He didn't say anything. His face was a mess of sweat, dirt, and tears. He just skidded to a halt, grabbed Raghav's good shoulder, and pulled him into a bone-crushing, one-armed hug, his voice thick.
"You... you crazy... I..." He couldn't form the words.
Then Gourav was there, his eyes red. He grabbed Raghav's head, his big hand surprisingly gentle.
"You're insane, junior! Absolutely insane! I've never... I've never seen anything like it!"
The rest of the team piled in, a shouting, weeping, laughing mass of bodies. They were careful of his arm, but they were all trying to pat his back, his head, his leg.
"He did it! He did it!"
"One run! We won by one run!"
"Those catches... my god, those catches!"
"He's a wall! A f*cking wall!"
Raghav was laughing, the sound a half-sob, high on adrenaline and the pure, uncut euphoria of a victory he had literally bled for.
He felt a dozen hands on him, a dozen voices shouting his name. In his past life, he had died alone in an empty apartment. In this life, he was at the bottom of a pile of brothers, a hero.
This was it. This was the feeling he had been reborn for.
A long shadow fell over the celebrating pile.
The shouting died instantly.
The team, as one, looked up.
Thomas, the six-foot Juggernaut, was standing over them. His bat was tucked under his arm, his helmet was off, and his face was slick with sweat.
He was not angry. He was... still.
Vikram and Gourav moved instinctively, creating a partial shield in front of Raghav.
Thomas ignored them. His eyes were locked on Raghav, who was being helped to his feet by his teammates.
Thomas's gaze dropped to the mangled, blood-soaked bandage that Sarma had wrapped around Raghav's hand.
A long, tense second passed.
"You're a maniac," Thomas said, his voice a low rumble.
Raghav, his breath coming in short, sharp pants, met his gaze.
"You shouldn't have done that," Thomas said, nodding at the hand. "It's a school match."
"You were going to win," Raghav replied, his voice a rasp.
Thomas stared at him, the logic of it sinking in. This kid hadn't just played. He had calculated his own body as a resource and spent it to win.
"You," Thomas said, his voice rough with a new, strange respect, "are not a normal player."
He stuck out his left hand.
"What's your name?"
Raghav, surprised, reached out with his own left hand and shook it.
"Raghav. Raghav Roi."
Thomas nodded, his grip firm. "I won't forget it."
He turned, his team's defeat a heavy cloak on his massive shoulders, and walked away.
The Juggernaut had not just been beaten; he had been humbled. The team watched him go, their own celebration muted, replaced by a profound, shared awe.
"Alright. That's enough." Coach Sarma's voice cut through the moment. He was all business.
"The match is over. St. Louis, good game. My team, pack the kit. Roi, you're with me."
The team finally dispersed, their energy still buzzing, as they went to shake hands with the shell-shocked SLS team.
"Coach, I..." Raghav started, but Sarma just put a hand on his good shoulder.
"Not here. Let's go."
As Coach Sarma led him toward his old Bajaj scooter, the world finally, blessedly, went quiet.
And the blue screen lit up.
Ding~
[Match Concluded. System Unlocked.]
[Victory detected against an overwhelmingly superior opponent. Evaluating Host contribution...]
[Host Contribution: Legendary.]
[Despite critical stat deficits, Host was directly responsible for 3 of 4 wickets, shattering enemy morale and leading a 10-man team to an impossible victory.]
[Quest Completed: The Underdog's Victory]
[Calculating rewards...]
[Base Reward: 50 SP]
[Bonus: Victory (x1.5)]
[Bonus: Legendary Contribution (x2.0)]
[Total SP Awarded: 150 SP]
[Stat Growth Detected!]
[+0.5 Batting Technique (For surviving a high-speed pace assault)]
[+0.5 Cricket IQ (For tactical battlefield awareness and sacrifice)]
[Host's Fielding stat has permanently increased by +1.0 (from Iron Grit and Miracle Play)]
======================
[Final Status Update:]
[Host: Raghav Roi]
[Age: 12 (Stat Cap: 25)]
[Stamina: 17.1 (+0.1)]
[Strength: 13.6 (+0.1)]
[Batting Technique: 13.5 (+0.1)]
[Bowling Skill: 5.1 (+0.1)]
[Fielding: 9.5 (+0.1)]
[Cricket IQ: 25.6 -> 26.1]
[Trait: Iron Grit (Lv. 1)]
[System Points (SP): 85 + 150 = 235 SP]
=================
Raghav's eyes widened. 150 SP! It was a fortune. And his Cricket IQ had broken the cap. The +0.1 adrenaline boost from Iron Grit had pushed his stat over the 25-point limit. The system itself was adapting to his will.
'System Store!' he commanded in his mind, his heart hammering.
The store flickered open.
[SYSTEM STORE (Novice Period Expired)]
[All base prices have been permanently increased by 100% (2x).]
[Stat Points:]
[Stamina (+1 Point) - 200 SP]
[Strength (+1 Point) - 200 SP]
[Batting Technique (+1 Point) - 400 SP]
[Bowling Skill (+1 Point) - 400 SP]
[Fielding (+1 Point) - 300 SP]
[New Item Detected (Special Offer):]
[Minor Healing Potion (Single Use): A blend of system energy and biological accelerants. Instantly begins the healing of one minor-to-moderate injury. Mends simple fractures and heals severe tissue damage over a 24-hour period.]
[Cost: 500 SP]
Raghav's heart, which had been soaring, crashed to the earth.
500 SP.
He had 235.
He couldn't afford it. The system, in its cold logic, had offered him a lifeline and dangled it just out of reach. There was no magic fix.
He was stuck. He had to heal like a normal, 12-year-old boy.
--------------------------
(HOSPITAL)
The hospital was a blur of white walls and the sharp, clean smell of antiseptic.
Coach Sarma sat with him, his presence a silent, solid reassurance, as they waited for the X-rays.
The doctor, a kind man with tired eyes, clipped the films onto the light-box.
He sighed.
"Well, son, you certainly did a number on it."
He pointed with a pen. "It's not one break. It's three. Two metacarpals here and here... and a spiral fracture in the third. This wasn't a fall. This was a crush injury. What on earth did you do?"
"Caught a cricket ball, sir," Raghav said, his voice small.
The doctor looked at Sarma, who just nodded.
"Right," the doctor said, rubbing his eyes.
"The verdict is simple. We're going to set this and put you in a hard plaster cast, from your knuckles to your elbow. You'll be in it for eight weeks. Minimum."
"Eight weeks..." Raghav felt the blood drain from his face.
"Eight weeks," the doctor affirmed.
"No cricket. No PE. And with it being your right hand, no writing. You'll need someone to take notes for you at school. This is a serious injury, young man. You're lucky you didn't do permanent nerve damage."
It was 5 PM when Coach Sarma's scooter pulled up to Raghav's house in Jalukbari. The evening sun cast long shadows. Sarma helped Raghav off, his new, heavy white cast a glaring badge of honor and stupidity.
"You're a hero today, Roi," Sarma said, his hand on Raghav's good shoulder.
"But the doctor is right. Eight weeks. Don't even think about picking up a bat. Your semi-final is in three weeks. You won't be playing."
"But Coach..."
"You won't be playing," Sarma repeated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
"You got us there. Now let your team do the rest. I'll see you at school tomorrow."
Raghav nodded, his heart heavy. He turned and walked to his front door.
He pushed the door open with his left hand.
"Ma? I'm home."
Nirmala came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Raghu, you're late, dinner is almost...".
She stopped. Her eyes fixed on the massive white cast that encased her son's arm.
Her hand flew to her mouth, a small, horrified sound escaping.
"Raghav! Oh my god! What happened?! What did you do?!"
She rushed to him, her eyes filling with tears as she held his arm, her touch feather-light, as if the cast itself were fragile.
"It's... it's okay, Ma. I just... I had a fall. At the match."
"A fall? This is not a fall! Umesh! UMESH! Come quickly!"
Umesh Roi walked out of the bedroom, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He had been going over his accounts. He stopped, his gaze falling on Raghav.
He didn't move. He didn't rush over. His eyes just... hardened.
He looked from the cast to Raghav's face, then to the door, where Coach Sarma was still visible, respectfully waiting.
"Coach Sarma," Umesh said, his voice polite.
"Mr. Roi," Sarma nodded. "Your son... he was exceptional today. He won the match for the entire school. He's a hero."
Umesh's eyes didn't waver from the cast. "A hero," he repeated, the word flat.
"He has three fractures," Sarma said, his voice professional. "The doctor says eight weeks. He's in a lot of pain."
"I see," Umesh said. He gave Sarma a short, sharp nod.
"Thank you for bringing him home, Coach."
Sarma, dismissed, nodded back. "I'll see you tomorrow, Raghav."
The coach left. The door clicked shut, leaving Raghav alone in the living room with his parents.
Nirmala was already getting a glass of water, her hands shaking.
"Sit, beta, sit. Does it hurt? Oh, my poor boy..."
Raghav sat at the small dining table, the cast feeling like a 100-pound weight on his arm, and his heart.
Umesh pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. He folded his hands. He was perfectly, terrifyingly calm.
He looked at the plaster cast on his son's right arm. His writing hand.
"Your final exams," Umesh said, his voice quiet, "are in two weeks."
Raghav's blood ran cold. He had forgotten.
"How," his father asked, his voice dangerously soft, "do you plan to write them?"
(To be Continued)