CHAPTER 47: THE PRICE OF THE POTION

Chapter 47: The Price of the Potion

The ten-minute break between innings was just long enough for the Kamrup team to catch its breath and for the Sivasagar team to collapse. Raghav sat on the metal bench on the sideline, his cap pulled low, his right arm buried in a plastic bag of melting ice that dripped cold water onto his trousers.

The rest of the team was electric.

"48! We bowled them out for 48!"

"That was a massacre!"

Coach Sarma let the energy build for a moment before cutting through it. "Quiet!"

The team flinched.

"The job is not done," Sarma said, his voice a low growl. "A win is not a win until the last run is scored. You go out there, you get arrogant, you lose three quick wickets... and 48 looks like 148. This is cricket. It is a game of momentum. We have it. Do not give it back."

He pointed at his captain. "Rohan. Rishi. You open. You do not get fancy. You do not get arrogant. You get the runs. You finish this in ten overs. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach," Rohan and Rishi said in unison, their faces serious.

"Good. The rest of you..." Sarma’s eyes swept the bench, and he saw the two sources of dissent.

He saw Chinmoy, the all-rounder, sulking, his arms crossed, angry that his own three-wicket haul had been overshadowed.

And he saw Rajat, the fast bowler, his foot propped up, his face a mask of pure, venomous resentment.

Sarma stared at Rajat for a long second, his gaze like iron. "Rajat. Ice your foot. Keep your mouth shut."

He then turned to Raghav. His gaze was different. It was analytical. He just looked at the bag of ice on Raghav’s arm, his expression unreadable.

"Roi. You did your job. You’re done for the day."

Rohan and Rishi, their pads on, walked past the bench. They were the "golden pair," the two best batsmen in the district.

"Right, let’s finish this," Rohan said, tapping his bat on the ground.

Raghav watched from the bench, a silent observer. The game was no longer on the field; it was right here, on this metal plank.

Rajat, his foot propped up, slid, wincing, down the bench. He stopped, pointedly, right next to Raghav.

He didn’t look at him. He just... radiated hostility.

Chinmoy sat on the other side, creating a tense, resentful triangle.

"So," Rajat sneered, his voice a low, rough growl. He was talking to the air, but the words were aimed at Raghav. "One-trick pony. You got lucky."

On the field, the demoralized Sivasagar team was taking their positions. Their shoulders were slumped. They looked beaten.

Raghav said nothing. He just watched.

[Ball 0.1]

The Sivasagar medium-pacer, his spirit broken, ran in. He delivered a slow, wide Full Toss.

Rohan Sharma, a picture of calm, just leaned on his front foot and Drove the ball.

CRACK!

It raced, perfectly, through the Cover gap for four.

[Score: 4/0. Target: 49. Overs: 0.1]

Rajat let out a frustrated grunt. "See? This is easy. We didn’t need your little... ’trick.’ We would have bowled them out for 60 anyway."

Raghav just watched.

[Ball 0.4]

The bowler, desperate, dug one in Short.

Rishi, the "problem-solver," had no problems. He rocked back and Pulled it, hard, to the Mid-Wicket boundary.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 8/0. Target: 49. Overs: 0.4]

The first over ended. 10/0.

"You ruined your arm," Rajat continued, his voice low and venomous. "For nothing. You’re useless now. You’re a cripple. You won’t bowl for the rest of the tournament."

Chinmoy, on Raghav’s other side, finally spoke. His resentment was different. It was quieter, more bitter.

"He took my spot," Chinmoy muttered, staring at his own hands. "I’m a proper all-rounder. I can bat and bowl. I got three wickets. After the team had given up. What did you get?"

Raghav’s seasoned mind, his older, deeper perspective, understood them both perfectly. Rajat was a bully, terrified that his status as the "alpha" was threatened. Chinmoy was a worker, resentful that his work had been overshadowed by "magic."

They were both just... kids.

On the field, Rohan hit another boundary.

[Score: 19/0. Overs: 2.2]

"Look at that," Rajat hissed. "This is our team. This is our level. We don’t need a... a charity case."

Raghav’s eyes, cold and analytical, stayed on the game. He watched Rohan and Rishi, his "teammates," as they effortlessly dismantled the Sivasagar attack.

He felt the truth in Rajat’s words. They were good. They were the best.

But they were also arrogant.

And they were wrong.

Raghav turned his head, just slightly. He wasn’t looking at Rajat. He was looking at the ground.

"You were on the sideline," Raghav said, his voice so quiet, so devoid of emotion, that it cut through Rajat’s anger like a knife.

Rajat froze. "What did you just say to me?"

Raghav’s eyes lifted. They were not the eyes of a 12-year-old. They were cold, ancient, and utterly unimpressed.

"I said... you were on the sideline. Your foot was propped up."

He turned his gaze to Chinmoy. "You... were on the sideline."

He looked back at the field, where Rohan was taking a single.

"They were 35 for no loss," Raghav stated, his voice a flat, simple recitation of fact. "Their openers were set. They were confident. The game was... fifty-fifty."

He paused, his eyes still on the field.

"Now... it’s not."

He wasn’t bragging. He was not showing pride. He was telling them a simple, cold, analytical truth. He was an auditor, reading a balance sheet.

Chinmoy’s face went pale. He had no answer.

Rajat’s face went from angry to a dark, blotchy red. He was showing his fury. He was being dismissed, not by an equal, but by an accountant.

"You..." Rajat started, his hand clenching into a fist.

"Rajat."

Coach Sarma’s voice was a whip-crack from ten feet away. He hadn’t moved, but he had been listening. To every word.

Rajat flinched, his anger instantly vanishing, replaced by the fear of a schoolboy. "Yes, Coach?"

"Ice. Mouth. Shut," Sarma said, his voice flat.

Rajat’s face went white. He snapped his mouth shut.

Sarma’s cold gaze slid to Chinmoy, who instantly looked down at his shoes, his resentment now mixed with shame.

Sarma had, without moving, re-established the hierarchy.

He was the alpha. Raghav... Raghav was just his weapon.

CRACK!

A loud, clean sound from the middle.

Rohan Sharma had hit another boundary.

[Score: 47/0. Target: 49. Overs: 6.3]

The Sivasagar team was just... walking. They had given up.

[Ball 6.4]

The bowler, a young spinner, tossed a defeated Full Toss on Rohan’s legs.

Rohan just Flicked it, an effortless, elegant shot.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 51/0. Kamrup wins by 10 wickets.]

It was over.

The Kamrup team, in a quiet, professional manner, clapped. Rohan and Rishi touched their bats, took off their helmets, and walked to shake hands with the Sivasagar team.

There was no wild celebration. This was not a victory. It was a procedure.

The team gathered by the sideline, packing their kit bags.

Sarma stood before them, his face impassive.

"One," he said. He held up a single finger. "That is one win. Out of fourteen. You did your job. You did not get arrogant." He looked at Rohan and Rishi, who nodded.

"But Sivasagar was weak. They were broken before you even padded up."

His eyes swept the team.

"Tomorrow... we play Goalpara. They are not Sivasagar. They are fighters. They are scrappers, just like we saw. They will not give you the game. You will have to take it."

He looked at the two boys on the bench.

"Rajat. Ice that ankle. I need my fast bowler."

"Yes, Coach."

"Roi."

Raghav looked up, his face pale, the bag of ice clutched to his arm.

"Ice. Rest. I need my bowler, not a one-over gimmick."

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Bus is in ten minutes. Be on it."

The meeting was over.

That night, in Room 304, the air was thick with the smell of linseed oil.

Aakash, the keeper, was at his desk, methodically rubbing his gloves, his book on technique open beside him.

Raghav was on his bed. The ice was gone. The pain was no longer a sharp, localized thing. It was a deep, systemic throb that seemed to pulse with his own heartbeat. He felt broken.

He couldn’t sleep. He knew, with his seasoned, adult knowledge of injury, that this was not a "tight muscle." This was a severe strain. He had torn something. He would be lucky to bowl again in a week, let alone 24 hours.

And tomorrow, he had to play Goalpara.

He had to play. He had to get that potion.

He closed his eyes.

’System. Inventory.’

The blue screen lit up the dark room. Aakash, his back to Raghav, didn’t see it.

In the center of the screen, a single, glowing, purple vial sat in a slot.

[Super Healing Potion: 1x]

[Can heal any wound or broken bone instantly.]

He stared at it.

It was the answer. It was the "magic" button. He could drink it, and the pain would be gone. He would wake up, his arm at 100%. He could bowl his Off-Cutter all day. He could win this tournament, all by himself.

He... could...

His hand, the 12-year-old’s hand, twitched, as if to reach for it.

And then... he saw his father’s face.

He saw him in the dark room, a hollowed-out man, defeated by the weight of fifty thousand.

He saw the future he had lived once before. The accident. The sterile hospital room. The moment when all the money in the world couldn’t fix what was broken.

This potion... it wasn’t for this. It wasn’t for a U-14 cricket tournament. It wasn’t to win the approval of Coach Sarma or the fear of Rajat.

It was for that. It was for a life.

He had a choice. His glory... or his father’s future.

His seasoned mind, the part of him that was 42 years old, that had lived with regret, made the choice.

It wasn’t even a choice.

’Close inventory.’

The glowing vial vanished.

The room was dark again. And the pain... the pain in his arm... rushed back in, seeming to double in intensity.

It was a grind. It was a war. And he had just, voluntarily, thrown away his only weapon.

He was just a 12-year-old boy again, with a torn, weak arm.

"You alright?"

A voice from the darkness. Aakash. He hadn’t been reading. He’d been watching.

"You’re... shaking," Aakash said, his voice quiet, analytical. "Your arm. It’s... it’s bad, isn’t it?"

Raghav didn’t answer for a long time.

"Yeah," he finally whispered in the dark. "It’s bad."

"You shouldn’t have bowled today," Aakash said.

"I had to."

"That... thing... you do," Aakash’s voice was curious. "The ball that... moves. It’s your arm, isn’t it? It’s the cost."

"Yeah."

Aakash was silent. He processed this new data.

"You’re done, then," Aakash said. It was a simple statement. "You can’t bowl tomorrow. You have to tell Sarma."

Raghav looked at the dark ceiling. Tell Sarma. Be put back on the bench. Lose his spot to Chinmoy. Fail the quest. Lose the next potion, the one he might need...

No.

"I’ll play," Raghav said, his voice a low, hard whisper.

"You can’t bowl," Aakash countered.

"Then I’ll bat," Raghav said, his jaw tightening in the dark.

Aakash was silent. "You’re batting at seven. You might not even get to bat. You’ll be a liability in the field. You won’t be able to throw."

"I’ll stop it with my Iron Grip," Raghav muttered, his mind racing.

"And what? Underarm it back? They’ll run three. You’ll cost us the match." Aakash’s voice was cold, practical. "You’ll be a hero for one day, and a fool for the next. Tell Sarma. Rest. It’s the logical thing to do."

Raghav turned, his eyes burning in the dark.

"It’s not about logic," he hissed, his voice full of a pain Aakash could not understand. "It’s about staying in the game."

Aakash just stared at him from across the room. He was seeing the irrational, stubborn, burning core of the boy.

"Fine," Aakash said, turning back to his desk. "It’s your funeral."

Raghav closed his eyes. The throb in his arm was his only companion. Tomorrow... tomorrow he would have to find another way.

(To be Continued)