The batter committed early.
Too early.
Rudra saw it before the front foot landed—shoulders opening, bat coming down with ambition instead of control.
The red ball didn't swing.
It didn't seam sharply either.
It simply held its line.
A fraction straighter than expected.
The bat came through, meeting air first, then edge.
A thin sound followed—soft, dangerous.
The ball flew low toward second slip.
Time compressed.
Rudra reacted on instinct, not hope. He sprinted forward two steps, then launched himself sideways, arms fully extended.
The ball struck his palms hard.
He held on.
For a heartbeat, the ground stayed silent.
Then—
"OUT!" the commentator roared. "WHAT A CATCH! In those conditions, at that pace—Rudra Sharma has plucked it out of nowhere!"
Teammates rushed in, voices overlapping, hands thumping his back, but Rudra only checked the ball once before tossing it to the umpire. His breathing was fast, but controlled.
That wasn't luck.
That was positioning.
That was anticipation.
Coach Raghav finally made a mark in his notebook.
Not a tick.
A line.
Maharashtra slowed further after the breakthrough. The new batter took guard cautiously, eyes darting between pitch and field.
"Good partnership broken at the right time," the commentator noted. "And it's not the fastest bowler doing it—it's the smartest one."
Rudra completed his spell soon after.
Figures weren't dramatic.
Six overs.
One wicket.
Eighteen runs.
But the rhythm of the innings had changed.
When Karnataka came out to bat, the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the pitch. The red ball looked darker now, heavier.
Rudra walked in at number three.
Early.
Too early for comfort.
The opener had fallen cheaply, nicking behind to a ball that straightened just enough. The score read 14 for 1.
The Maharashtra bowler—tall, loose-armed, visibly confident—smiled as Rudra took guard.
"Let's see what the fielder can do with the bat," the commentator said lightly. "He's impressed in the field already."
First ball.
Short of a length, angling across.
Rudra let it go.
Second ball, fuller, inviting.
He stepped forward, head still, bat coming down in a straight line. The ball met the middle and rolled calmly past mid-off.
No run.
But the contact was clean.
Third ball.
Same length.
Same line.
This time, Rudra opened the face just enough, guiding it through cover.
The outfield was quick.
Two runs.
"Nice shot," the commentator said. "That's classical. No rush, no drama."
The bowler adjusted, trying a shorter length.
The ball climbed.
Rudra swayed back, riding the bounce, dropping it softly at his feet.
Dot.
Over by over, something quiet formed.
Rudra didn't dominate.
He didn't retreat either.
At the other end, Varun Khanna had just walked in.
The contrast was immediate.
Varun took guard with confidence bordering on ease. First ball he faced—a half-volley—was driven crisply through extra cover, the timing sharp enough to silence the bowler.
"Oho!" the commentator reacted. "What a cover drive! First ball, no sighters. That's natural talent on display."
The boundary rope rattled.
Applause rippled through the ground.
Varun smiled faintly.
Rudra didn't look at him.
He looked at the pitch.
Two different methods had arrived at the crease.
One built on repetition.
One on instinct.
They stood together now, pads dusty, bats grounded, sharing the same strip of turf.
A partnership began—not in runs, but in contrast.
And somewhere deep inside, the system recorded without emotion:
Rival Presence — Confirmed
Performance Comparison Mode — Passive
The bowler turned at the top of his mark again.
Two batters waited.
Only one rhythm would survive the day.
The ball was already on its way.