Chapter 42: The Seventeenth Man
Raghav's walk home from the field was a stark contrast to the previous day's. His arm, which had been a numb, useless appendage, was now a single, throbbing beacon of pain.
He had pushed it too far, and the Iron Grip skill didn't stop the underlying protest of muscles and tendons that had been torn, rebuilt, and then immediately brutalized.
He felt exhausted, a deep, bone-weary fatigue that the 12-year-old body was not equipped to handle.
He entered his house. It was quiet. His father was at work. His mother was in the kitchen, but the suffocating tension from yesterday was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting sounds of chopping.
Nirmala looked up as he entered. She saw his face, pale and slick with sweat.
She saw the way he was cradling his right arm with his left.
Her face, which had been calm, creased with immediate, maternal concern.
"You've hurt it again," she said. It was not a question. Her voice was sharp with worry.
