Akiko stared out the cracked windshield of the old jeep as the rugged road wound through towering pine forests and jagged cliffs. Dawn's pale light was just catching the edges of Project 83's hidden facility, a glass-and-steel fortress tucked between mountains. His heart hammered against his ribs. Months of relentless training had led to this moment. Now, finally, he was here – at the gate of the most elite, mysterious cricket program in the country. Akiko's thoughts whirled: This was more than a selection camp. This was a legend.
The jeep came to a grinding halt. Through the open window came the roar of distant trainers and the sharp bark of a whistle. Akiko slid his duffel bag off the seat with shaking hands. The chill mountain air felt like an omen. A tall guard in dark blue uniform stood beside a scanner at the gate, looking just as intense as the entire program's reputation. The guard's eyes skimmed over him as Akiko stepped down. Project 83 was rumored to push players beyond human limits, molding gifted athletes into something extraordinary. The guard didn't ask for any documents or long introductions. He simply pointed inside with an almost imperceptible nod.
Akiko swallowed and walked in. The moment he passed through the gate's biometric scanner, a small panel nearby buzzed to life and illuminated his name in neon letters. It flickered green, then white: Akiko – Accepted. Proceed. A voice crackled overhead, neutral and mechanical: "All recruits, welcome to Project 83. Protocol One: Step inside and prepare for orientation." The voice held no warmth. Akiko's skin prickled. Inside the walls, it felt like stepping into another world—one built for otherworldly talent.
The first thing that struck him was the silence. Not total silence, but a muted hush. Steps echoed on polished concrete floors, low hums of machinery vibrated underfoot. High-tech monitors lined the corridors, displaying frantic graphs or looping clips of legendary cricket matches and feats Akiko had only read about. He felt a ping of nerves remembering why he was here. I trained for this, he muttered to himself. Father's expectations, the old coach's laugh, the night I swore I'd be the best—it all led here.
Around him, other young players shuffled along. They wore identical training tracksuits: gray jackets and black pants. Akiko tugged at the zipper of his jacket, suddenly aware of the name embroidered on it: "Akiko — Batsman, 19." He was among dozens of recruits, each radiating that same determined energy and anxiety. A lanky bowler from the west side—a tall kid named Riku—gave him a quick nod. "Nervous?" Riku asked, adjusting a baseball cap backward.
"I'm alright," Akiko lied, forcing a grin. Inside, his stomach was tied in knots. Nervous doesn't even cover it. The corridors branched and split like a maze. Everywhere he looked, there were symbols of performance: dynamic graphs showing heart-rate spikes, countdown clocks, arrows signifying progress or elimination. On one wall, a massive stylized logo shone: PROJECT 83 with the silhouette of a batsman ablaze in light. Akiko thought of his name's meaning — Bright Light — and shivered. Was it a sign?
The group was funneled into a large atrium. Here, the high-tech feel gave way to intimidating austerity. The high ceiling, hung with massive floodlights, turned the room into a cavern of glare and shadow. At one end stood a raised platform draped in crimson, and on it sat a solitary figure in a crisp suit, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. A hush fell over the recruits. The figure cleared his throat, and the only sound was his leather shoes clicking against the metal stage as he walked to a podium.
"You have been chosen," he began, voice deep and calm, each word carrying weight. The trainees perked up. He reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a small device—an implant scanner, standard for the program. "Project 83 is not for the ordinary player. Here, we unlock your potential beyond ordinary limits. We forge new champions capable of the extraordinary. You are not just cricketers. You are future legends." Akiko felt goosebumps even as beads of sweat trickled down his back. The man paused, staring at each recruit in turn like a hawk scanning its prey. "But know this: we demand absolute dedication. We demand your all—mind, body, and spirit. The Demon Stage awaits those who can find the courage to go beyond."
The term "Demon Stage" hit Akiko like a line drive. He swallowed. That was the stuff of myth. He had only heard of it in whispers. The idea of a Demon Stage was rumored among elite circles: a state where a cricketer's instincts and body synchronize to a supernatural level, where balls zip slower as he swings, or his bat crackles with raw energy. It sounded insane. A faint smirk on one recruit's face told him others were thinking the same. But Akiko's mind raced with possibility. If I could tap that… If I could harness that light within…
Before he could dwell too long, an assistant next to the stage clicked a remote. The wall behind the coach flickered to life with high-definition footage: legendary players smashing impossible boundaries, spinning impossible deliveries, all in slow motion. One clip showed a bowler who hurled a ball so fast it seemed to ignite — then the screen flashed to a batsman intercepting it with a fierce gaze, sending it soaring into the stands as if charged by lightning. "These are examples," the man said, "of the Demon Stage. Capabilities beyond normal cricket. And you are here to awaken these. But first..." He lifted his hand. In response, a door behind him opened with a mechanical hiss, revealing a polished hall filled with nets, pitching machines, and countless obstacles. "The selection trials begin now."
A murmur swept through the recruits. Rows of wickets were set up, and each had futuristic drones hovering with cricket balls. Lights clicked on one section at a time, spotlighting a batsman at the crease. Akiko's pulse accelerated as he realized this was the first round. Each person would face a batting trial, and only the standout performers would proceed. This is it. My first real chance.
Akiko stepped forward with the rest, his feet firm. A female trainer in a crisp suit clipped a sensor to the back of his neck. She typed something on a tablet. "Name?" she asked coolly.
"Akiko Hashi," he answered, voice steady despite his pounding heart.
"Batting Position: Opening Batsman," she read, nodding.
He took a deep breath and walked to the batting net. Inside was nothing fancy yet — just a practice wicket, a tall robotic bowler, and a digital display with his name. His gloved hands tingled on the wood of his bat. This was tradition meeting future. He tightened his grip. Focus, he told himself. "A calm mind," his old coach had said. "Think strategy, not fear."
The trial began with simple balls — at speeds training pace. Akiko blocked, drove, flicked, adjusting for spin and pace. With each strike, sensors around him captured his stance, timing, angles. A small green light blinked for each well-placed shot. Good start, he thought. He tried not to look at the leaderboard on the wall behind the nets — it listed recruits and scores. Caution and wisdom, not arrogance, he told himself. Still, glimpses showed a red marker slowly inching up.
After a dozen balls, the machine ramped up speed. Now it pitched near-highway fastballs — 140 kph raging towards his stumps. Normally he would be thrown, but here, adrenaline sharpened his senses. Time seemed to dilate: each ball's seam and curvature revealed itself in slow motion. Akiko's every muscle tensed. He planted his feet, locked his eyes, and swung. Crack! The ball shot off the edge of his bat in a powerful cover drive. Behind him a sensor flashed red — a bullseye hit. Cheers erupted from somewhere beyond the net; other players clapped quietly, impressed. Akiko's blood surged. I'm ready for this he thought, remembering all he sacrificed to be here.
A trainer came to him, clipboard in hand. Her expression was neutral as she said, "Five more, Hashi." She swapped the ball machine to different modes — spin first, then reverse swing. Each test was a puzzle and Akiko solved them one by one. He anticipated a slower spinner, using his footwork to set up a crunching shot. He out-thought a yorker by stepping back at the last moment, turning it into a whip shot. Each success lit up the scoring panel beside his name.
As he finished his trial, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. That release was only a momentary relief; he still had to see the results. A hush fell over the net area as all the trials ended. Trainers tallied scores and stats on tablets. Others whispered among themselves. Riku, the bowler he met earlier, gave Akiko a thumbs-up. "Not bad for your first time," he said quietly. Akiko shrugged modestly, thinking, Not bad? That was survival. In truth, he was buzzing inside. For the first time since the coach's speech, he dared to wonder: Could this be my path to Demon Stage?
Suddenly, the lights in the atrium dimmed and a new holographic display lit up. The coach from before reappeared on a giant screen, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Impressive starts," he began, "but raw skill alone will not carry you through. Project 83 tests more than talent – we test resolve under pressure." The screen shifted, showing a high-speed obstacle course. It depicted players dodging spinning stumps, reacting to illusions. "Your next trial will challenge not just your technique, but your mind and spirit. But before that, a demonstration of what lies ahead." The screen flickered again, revealing a silhouette of a batsman hitting a ball wrapped in deep blue flames. The cheers of an unseen crowd roared in the background.
Akiko's jaw clenched. The silhouette was encircled by the program's logo — Project 83 — and above, in flaming letters, The Demon Stage. Every muscle in his body tensed.
The figure in the image spoke suddenly, like they were addressing the room. "I'm Kaito Renji," came a confident voice booming over the speakers. A door opened on the stage, and to Akiko's shock, Kaito himself walked out. The other recruits parted respectfully; Kaito was legendary — a recent graduate of Project 83 and now the youngest-ever national team captain. He looked no older than twenty. His presence was electric: shaggy hair under a sweatband, intense eyes, and arms covered in training tape. The crowd of recruits fell nearly silent, bursting occasionally into cheers and excited murmurings.
Kaito stepped forward into a shaft of light. His smile was cocky as he scanned the room. "You're the newbies, huh? I've heard some of you talk about the Demon Stage like it's some fairy tale." He laughed softly. "It's real — and it's cruel. When you're in it, you see the future of the ball you're about to hit. You can feel the seam, even if it's midnight. Your bat becomes an extension of your arm." He waved an arm, creating an invisible arc. "But you also feel everything. The weight of every expectation, every doubt. People call me Demon King now, but I still doubt myself every day. That's the stage."
Some recruits applauded, while others exchanged uneasy glances. Akiko's mind raced. That description of sensing the ball's future — that could explain what happened in his mind when he hit those fastballs. Was that his own mind inching towards Demon Stage? A trickle of fear and excitement ran through him.
Kaito's gaze locked on Akiko. Maybe it was the cameras analyzing faces, maybe sheer instinct. "You, Hashi," Kaito said, pointing. The room hushed entirely. "I've been watching you hit. You handle fastballs like you expected them." From behind, one trainer whispered to another, "He clocked 150 kph in that last batch." That was faster than many international bowlers. Kaito's eyes narrowed in interest. "Your technique is sharp. But how deep does your resolve go?"
Akiko's cheeks heated as all eyes turned to him. He steadied himself and met Kaito's stare. "I'm here to push past my limits," he said firmly. "To become better than I ever dreamed." His voice echoed off the walls. There was truth in it — this was why he endured the long hours of study and practice and pain.
Kaito gave a small nod, as if evaluating an opponent. For a moment, Akiko felt like he was being sized up for a duel, not an interview. Then Kaito smiled wider. "Good answer. Remember it." He turned toward the gathering. "Tomorrow, you'll start the Main Trial. But tonight…" His eyes glinted. "Tonight, those brave enough may train in the Hall."
Overhead, the lights switched off in the atrium and the recruits were led back to their quarters — a blocky dormitory buzzing with electric excitement. Akiko's head was spinning with all that had happened: the orientation, the trials, the demonstration. He felt a million questions in his mind. But deep down, he realized one truth: he wanted more. The mention of an optional training hall set his heart racing. Without a second thought, he volunteered.
The corridor led him to a long, echoing hall. At its center was a single net chamber unlike the others. Inside, a modern batting cage glowed under powerful lights. This was the "Hall" Kaito mentioned. It was empty now except for one pair of gloves and a bat on a bench, as if waiting for someone to take them up. "Opportunity only favors those who prepare beyond the call," Akiko recalled Kaito's words. He could hear faraway cheers from the directions of other nets. On impulse, he entered the cage.
Immediately, the digital displays mounted on the walls ignited. Three electronic boards flickered to life: "Target Practice: Next Level." On one board, a hologram of Kaito's silhouette appeared, displaying an array of colored markers on the field. The others showed spin-axis charts and ball trajectories. Akiko's eyes widened. This was clearly an advanced drill left for those hungry enough to tackle it. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded to himself and stepped up to the mark.
He picked up the bat, feeling its familiar curve. In contrast to the long nets outside, the floor here was painted with a pattern — neon arrows, curved lines, and a glowing rectangle at stumps. The drone above whirred to life. "Welcome, selected trainee," boomed a robotic voice. "Demonstrate your adaptability: hit all target zones as directed." A meter on one display counted down from five.
Akiko set his stance. The first ball came in as a slow leg-spinner, drifting wide. The display on the ground lit up a golden crescent on the off-side. Spinner to off, nice. He moved, danced on his back foot, and flicked a wristy drive. The ball soared along the ground, clipping the target zone, and a chime sounded. Score +10. His confidence soared.
"Next," the voice continued. A bouncer slammed into his thigh pads. The glowing target now was behind square. Instinctively, Akiko pulled out the bat in a graceful hook. Again, he hit the marked zone with precision and a bold yell.
As he hit target after target, the challenge ramped up. Balls were thrown with insane pace, weird angles — even an occasional flashing sphere that changed color mid-air. As each ball came, Akiko's mind became a whirlwind of analysis. Spin or seam? Body lean left or right? He advanced on the faster deliveries, ducked under certain angles with silky reflexes, guiding each shot to the designated zones. The numbers on the board skyrocketed with combos of perfect hits. It felt electric: mind and body in perfect harmony.
Sweat dripped down Akiko's temple as the last ball, a lightning-fast swing from straight, thudded into his bat with a satisfying ping. He had closed out the entire sequence, hitting every zone. The hall burst into cheers from speakers — a recorded effect or maybe hidden microphones; Akiko wasn't sure. He exhaled, feeling a rush that dwarfed any normal training session. As the cage's doors beeped open, the lights dimmed and a message flashed: Trial Complete. You have performed admirably.
Akiko stepped out, breathless. In the dim hallway, he clutched the bat to his side, heart racing. What was that? He felt alive in a way he'd never felt before. It was as if the room itself had tested him and approved. A calm satisfaction settled in him. Tomorrow's main trial still awaited, but he had taken the initiative.
Just then, down the corridor's shadows, Akiko spotted a tall figure leaning against the wall – Kaito Renji, arms folded, observing. Akiko's face reddened. He hadn't noticed someone else enter. "Not bad," Kaito said softly, without stepping forward. "I assumed most kids wouldn't dare use that hall tonight." His words were more statement than question.
"Thought I should make the most of the time," Akiko replied. He swallowed the admiration swelling in him. Kaito didn't smile, but his eyes held a spark. "Your technique is solid. But remember, this is only the beginning."
Akiko nodded firmly. "I understand. I'll give everything I have." The hall's echoes seemed to fade.
Kaito studied him a moment longer, then pulled out a small digital device. He tapped something, and an image appeared between them in thin air. It was a pitch analysis: real-time trajectory of a previous ball Akiko hit. A red curve traced the ball's path. Kaito's finger hovered over one spot on the curve. "See this," he said quietly, voice a shade mysterious. "What do you feel here?"
Confused for a second, Akiko peered at the plot. It showed that when Akiko had hit a fast, swinging delivery earlier, the ball's flight had wavered inexplicably, like it hesitated in mid-air. "I…I don't know. It's like it just…lost power?" He trailed off.
Kaito smiled faintly, though his eyes remained serious. "That's the Demon Stage, kid. That slight ripple in the ball's course – someone at the crease sent a bit of themselves into the shot. It's not noticeable to most, but advanced sensors like ours can see it. When you hit that last ball, I saw a trace." He pointed at the display. "Just a whisper. But it's a start."
Akiko stared at the screen, heart pounding again. Had he really tapped into something unknown just now? It felt subtle — more instinct than strategy. But Kaito was saying it was there, an aftereffect of his swing. Kaito nodded, as if reading his mind. "Don't chase it yet," he advised quietly. "Let your technique stay true. If the Demon Stage comes, it will be when you need it."
Light footsteps approached behind them. The corridor opened into the main hall where mats and nets waited. Other recruits clumped together, chatting nervously about the next day. Sensing it was late, some started towards the dorms. The tranquility of the moment broke as the trainers reappeared, lining up the recruits like a military parade.
"Attention!" the robotic voice thundered. The trainees snapped straight. Even Kaito's casual stance straightened. "Tomorrow's Main Trial will begin at 6 AM. Gather in the atrium then. Dismissed." Each recruit shuffled out, some whispering about the day's events. Akiko walked through, feeling both drained and strangely elated.
As he walked away from the hall toward his dorm, Kaito's final words floated back to him: Let your technique stay true. Was he truly on the brink of this Demon Stage? Akiko looked ahead at his reflection in the darkened glass—a boy with intense eyes, braids sticking sweatily to his forehead, the bat still clutched in his hand like a talisman.
The sky outside had turned inky midnight. He walked under silent lights toward the dorm's entrance, every step feeling lighter, as if carrying not just the bat but a seed of something powerful. Tomorrow, he would face the selection program's next test. And maybe, just maybe, this Bright Light within him would ignite a little more.
As the lights in the hall dimmed, another shadow turned—watchful, confident—and followed Akiko with quiet, keen eyes. The stage was set, the players ready. The journey into the unknown had begun.