CHAPTER 36: THE NEW CALCULUS

Chapter 37: The New Calculus

The ride back from the ACA Stadium was a funeral procession.

The old Don Bosco bus, which had been buzzing with nervous, hopeful energy on the way there, was now a tomb of suffocating silence. The only sound was the rattle of the windows and the cough of the old engine.

No one spoke.

The players were slumped in their seats, staring out at the streets of Guwahati passing by. They were showing their defeat in a dozen different ways.

Sunil, the left-arm spinner, had his face pressed against the cool glass, his eyes puffy and red. He was staring at nothing, his mind replaying the umpire’s shake of the head.

Vikram sat near the front, not with the other boys, but alone. He was slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, just staring at the floor between his feet. He was replaying his arrogant, top-edged Pull Shot.

Ajit, the "Wall," was quiet, but his exhaustion was different. It was the bone-deep weariness of a man who had done his job perfectly, only to watch the building collapse around him.

Raghav sat in the back, his broken arm resting on his kit bag. The dull, throbbing ache had returned, a physical echo of the team’s loss. He was no longer the 12-year-old strategist. He was just a boy with a broken bone, and he felt tired.

He watched his teammates, not as a friend, but as the 42-year-old analyst. He saw their limits.

Vikram had heart, but he lacked discipline.

Parag had one good trick, but no stamina.

Ajit had discipline, but no skill.

The rest? They were just... boys.

The loss, he realized, wasn’t just the umpire. The "robbery" had only accelerated the inevitable.

They were too weak. They didn’t have the skill to score more than 86. They didn’t have the discipline to avoid the hero-ball.

And they didn’t have the power—the political clout of a school like Spring Dale—to survive a bad call.

’Skill, discipline, power,’ he repeated in his mind. ’I’m missing all three.’

The bus rumbled to a stop outside the school gates. The players filed off, a silent, shuffling line of dirty, grass-stained uniforms.

Coach Sarma stood by the door.

"Vikram," he said.

Vikram stopped, his head still low.

"You made a mistake," Sarma said, his voice flat.

Vikram flinched.

"But you were the only reason we were in a position to make that mistake at all. You led them. I’m proud of you."

Vikram looked up, his eyes wide.

Sarma clapped him on the shoulder, a hard, firm grip.

"Go home. All of you. The season is over. Go. Focus on your exams."

The team, given their dismissal, just nodded and scattered, melting away into the side streets.

Raghav was the last one left. He stood before the coach.

Sarma’s hard eyes softened for just a fraction of a second. He looked at the plaster cast.

"That was your plan," he stated. It wasn’t a question.

"It was our only chance," Raghav replied.

"Hmph. A good plan. A brave plan." Sarma nodded, looking back at the empty bus. "But a plan is only as good as the soldiers who execute it. We... are not Spring Dale."

He turned back to Raghav, his face serious. "Go home, Roi. Rest. Get that thing off your arm. Your father is right, so focus on your exams. Pass them."

He started to walk away, then paused.

"When the cast comes off," he said, not looking back. "Come find me. We’ll talk."

It was the hook. The promise of the next stage.

"Yes, Coach."

The walk home was long. The adrenaline had worn off completely, and now his arm just hurt. The weight of the cast, combined with the emotional exhaustion, made every step feel heavy.

He opened the gate to his small house. It was late afternoon.

He could hear the quiet clink of utensils from the kitchen.

He pushed the door open.

"Ma? I’m home."

Nirmala came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her sari. Her face was a mask of anxiety.

"Raghu! How did... oh, beta (son), you look so tired." She saw his slumped shoulders, the dirt on his clothes, the defeat in his eyes. She didn’t need to ask if they had won.

"We lost, Ma," he said, dropping his kit bag by the door.

"It’s okay, it’s okay," she said, her voice soft. "You played. You were brave. That is all that matters. Now, wash your hands. I’ll make you some tea."

He nodded, grateful for the simple, uncomplicated comfort.

He walked past her, towards the small washroom.

"So."

The voice came from the dining table. It was heavy, and final.

Raghav stopped.

His father, Umesh, was sitting at the table, a cup of tea in front of him. But he wasn’t reading his accounts. He was reading the Assam Tribune.

He had it folded open.

Raghav didn’t need to see the page to know. The local sports section. The semi-final pairings.

His father had been paying attention.

Umesh looked up, his eyes meeting Raghav’s. There was no "I told you so." There was no anger. There was just a quiet, profound weariness.

"So, it is finished," Umesh said. It was not a question. It was a statement.

Raghav paused, his hand on the washroom door. "The school tournament is, yes."

Umesh nodded, taking a slow sip of his tea. He placed the cup down with a deliberate click.

"Good," he said.

The word hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

"Your final exams are in two weeks," Umesh continued, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

"This... distraction... is over. You have had your ’game.’ Now, it is time to focus on what is real. On what matters."

Raghav’s 12-year-old self wanted to scream. It wasn’t a distraction! I was robbed! I broke my arm for it! It’s the only thing that matters!

But the 42-year-old man, the one who understood strategy, knew that a head-on collision was a losing battle. His father wasn’t being cruel; he was being practical. He was offering the only path he knew.

Raghav met his father’s gaze. He held it for a second.And then, he looked down.

"Yes, Papa," he said, his voice quiet.

He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He just... conceded.

Umesh gave a single, curt nod, as if to say, ’Good. You are a sensible boy.’ He picked up his newspaper, and the conversation was over.

Raghav turned and went to wash his face, the cold water stinging his skin, but not as much as the quiet, crushing weight of his father’s pragmatism.

Later that night, Raghav lay in his bed. His arm was propped on a pillow, throbbing. His house was silent. His mind, however, was on fire.

He replayed the loss. The dropped catch. Vikram’s shot. The umpire.

’Skill. Discipline. Power.’

The Don Bosco team had none of them. He had none of them.

He needed to get stronger. He needed to get better. And he needed to get on a team that mattered. A team with influence.

’The District Team.’

He closed his eyes.

’System,’ he thought.

The blue screen instantly filled his vision.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]

[Main Quest: ’Win the School Tournament’]

[Status: FAILED]

A cold jolt went through him. He had never failed a quest before.

[Penalty Assessment...]

[Host has shown exceptional strategic planning and resilience in the face of failure.]

[Host has correctly analyzed the three core components of victory: Skill, Discipline, and Power.]

[Penalty Waived.]

[Calculating rewards based on performance...]

[Rewards Issued: ’The Warrior’s Defeat’]

[+100 System Points (SP) for advanced strategic planning.]

[+0.5 Cricket IQ (Permanent) for accurate post-match failure analysis.]

[+0.5 Strength (Permanent) for enduring match play with a hairline fracture.]

Raghav let out a slow breath. So, the system rewarded analysis and endurance, not just victory. This was crucial.

He looked at his stats.

[Host: Raghav Roi]

[Age: 12]

[Stamina: 17]

[Strength: 13.5]

[Batting Technique: 12]

[Bowling Skill: 10]

[Fielding: 8]

[Cricket IQ: 25.7]

[Age 12 Stat Cap: 25.0]

[System Points (SP): 300]

His Cricket IQ had bypassed the cap. It must be a "special" stat. But the rest were still pathetically low.

He had 300 SP, but the store prices were doubled. He could only buy 3 points of Strength, or 1.5 points of Batting. It wasn’t enough.

The school tournament was a dead end. He needed a new path.

As if reading his mind, the system flashed again.

[NEW MAIN QUEST ISSUED]

[Quest: The District Stage]

[Objective: The School Tournament was merely a prequel. The true stage is the U-14 District Championship. You must represent your home district.]

[Goal: Get selected for the Kamrup District U-14 Team.]

[Obstacle: The official district trials are in three days. Your broken arm (Type: Buckle Fracture, Ulna) renders you medically ineligible to attend.]

[Note: A ’textbook’ path is no longer available. You must find another way. Seek the gatekeeper.]

[Reward: +5 to all Core Stats, 200 SP, 1x [Standard Lottery Spin]

Raghav stared at the screen, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face.

The obstacle was the point. The system was confirming his thoughts. The "textbook" path, the one his father loved, was closed.

He had to force his way in.

’Seek the gatekeeper.’

His mind went to the last thing Coach Sarma had said to him.

"When the cast comes off. Come find me. We’ll talk."

The exams were in two weeks. The cast would be on for at least four.

The path was set.

First, he would do exactly what his father wanted. He would be the perfect, obedient son. He would study, and he would ace his exams.

And then, he would go see the gatekeeper.

(To be Continued)