The Broken Racket

The crowd roared like a crashing wave, the sound echoing through the open-air stadium as the final serve cut through the air like a bullet. It was match point. All eyes were glued to the center court, where India's number one junior player, Aryan "The Cobra" Malhotra, was about to seal his win.

And off to the side, crouched near the ball cart with a faded towel draped over his shoulder, stood Raghav Rao—seventeen, skinny, invisible.

He'd been here every weekend for the last year, volunteering as a ball boy just to be near the court. It wasn't glamorous. No one respected the ball boys. Players barked orders at them. Coaches ignored them. Spectators treated them like furniture. But Raghav didn't care.

He was watching. Learning.

He studied every serve, every footstep, every emotion that flickered across a player's face during high-pressure moments. He didn't just love tennis—he needed it. It was the only thing that kept him sane since his father died two years ago, leaving behind a broken family, medical bills, and a dusty racket that now hung on the wall of their crumbling one-bedroom flat.

> "Don't just play to win," his father used to say. "Play to become someone no one can ignore."

The final point was a blur. Aryan served a 208 km/h ace down the T-line, and the stadium erupted. The victor lifted his hands, basking in the applause like a Greek god.

Raghav didn't cheer. He clenched his fists. Not out of jealousy—well, maybe a little—but out of frustration. He had the heart. The brain. The grit. But none of it mattered without the money, the coaches, the access.

He was just a kid from Begumpet with nothing but callused palms and dreams too big for his reality.

As the crowd began to file out, Raghav returned to his duties, collecting scattered balls and wiping sweat from the court with an old rag. The sun dipped behind the stadium roof, casting long shadows across the emptying stands.

That's when he saw it.

Beneath the far bleachers, half-concealed under a tarp and wedged between old cleaning equipment, something glinted. Curious, Raghav moved toward it, pulling aside the tarp to reveal a dusty black case. The zipper was almost rusted shut. It took a good minute of effort to pry it open.

Inside was a racket—unlike any he'd seen before.

It was sleek, midnight black, with faded gold lining that shimmered oddly in the dim light. The strings were worn, but intact, and the grip felt molded to his hand the moment he picked it up. As if it belonged to him.

Then he saw it—engraved into the throat of the frame:

> DEVOURER

He blinked. That had to be some kind of custom branding, right?

Then everything changed.

A sharp jolt shot up his arm, and the world around him blurred. The sounds of the stadium vanished. The air turned dense, like he was underwater. His vision swam.

And then a voice—deep, ancient, almost godlike—spoke directly into his mind.

> "You who are unseen… devour the world that denied you."

> "Absorb their strengths. Take their essence. Rise."

Raghav stumbled back, nearly dropping the racket. The air snapped back to normal, sounds of distant chatter returning as if nothing had happened.

He looked around. No one else was nearby.

"What the hell…" he whispered, breathing hard.

The racket was still in his hand. It felt heavier now. Or maybe... stronger.

---

The next few days were a haze. Raghav tried to go about life as usual, but everything felt different. The moment he touched a tennis ball, his instincts sharpened. He anticipated spin, direction, and timing with eerie clarity. It was like he knew where the ball was going before it even left the opponent's racket.

And it got weirder.

During a casual match at the rundown local courts, he played against Arman, a former junior circuit player who had quit due to an injury. Within the first five minutes, Raghav could feel Arman's signature topspin forehand. It wasn't just imitation—it was as if his muscles remembered the movement.

He copied it. Perfectly. On the first try.

Arman was stunned. "What the hell, Rao? Since when could you hit like that?"

Raghav had no answer.

Later that night, as he held the black racket in his small bedroom, he stared at it under the flickering tube light. The words came back to him:

> Absorb their strengths.

He tested it again. He replayed matches in his mind, matches he'd seen live at the stadium. Aryan's signature flat serve. Another player's footwork.

Piece by piece, it was all coming to him.

The racket didn't just grant power.

It let him devour talent.

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