First Blood on the Court

Raghav woke the next morning before dawn, heart pounding, palms slick with sweat. The same dream again.

He stood at the center of Centre Court, lights blazing down on him, the crowd chanting his name like a war cry. He held the black racket high in victory—his opponent lay crumpled on the other side of the net, as if drained of all life. But every time he turned to the crowd, their faces melted into shadow. The cheers turned to whispers. Then to screams.

And the racket… it pulsed in his hand like it was alive.

> "Devour."

He shook off the feeling and pushed himself out of bed.

No time for weird dreams.

He had something to test.

---

The neighborhood courts were empty, as usual. It was too early for the college kids and weekend warriors. Just the way Raghav liked it.

He brought the Devourer with him, hidden in a ragged bag under an old t-shirt. Something about it felt… sacred. Like it didn't belong to this world. Or maybe it shouldn't.

As he stepped onto the court, he saw someone already waiting on the far side—Arman, his friend and occasional sparring partner, stretching with a slight limp in his right knee.

"You're early," Arman called out.

"Couldn't sleep," Raghav replied, tossing him a new can of balls. "Up for a set?"

Arman smirked. "Only if you're not going to pull any more of those magic forehands like last time."

Raghav didn't answer. He just gripped the black racket.

The moment he touched the handle, he felt it again—a silent hum beneath the grip, a warmth climbing up his arm like adrenaline.

They warmed up for ten minutes. Raghav started slow, letting Arman take the lead. His movements were still a little stiff, but his instincts were unnaturally sharp. He didn't need to overthink anymore. His body responded like it was operating on a higher level.

Then they began the set.

First game: Arman served, and Raghav lost narrowly.

Second game: Raghav served—his stance adjusted automatically, his toss more precise than ever before. He aced the first point.

By the fifth game, Raghav was up 3–2. Arman was sweating, breathing harder than usual.

"You're… different today," he said between games. "You weren't this fast last week."

Raghav only shrugged.

Inside, he knew.

The Devourer was working. Slowly, surely, it was integrating not just Arman's top-spin, but the rhythm of his serves, the pivot of his footwork, the way he adjusted his weight before a slice shot.

It wasn't just copying.

It was perfecting.

---

Midway through the sixth game, something strange happened.

Arman went for a drop shot—one of his old signature moves—and Raghav instinctively lunged forward, countering with a flicked return down the line. Perfect placement. Like he'd practiced it a thousand times.

He hadn't.

He'd only seen Arman do that move once.

Arman froze. "That was my shot."

Raghav stared at the racket in his hand. The grip felt hotter. The strings vibrated after every point, like they were feeding on something.

"I guess I picked it up," Raghav said, trying to play it off. But his voice shook slightly.

The next few points felt… different.

For Arman.

His steps slowed. His form loosened. He double-faulted twice—rare for him.

After Raghav closed out the set 6–2, Arman slumped against the fence, pale.

"I feel like I just played five sets, not one," he muttered. "You're a monster today."

Raghav opened his mouth to joke, but the words wouldn't come.

Because he saw it too.

Arman didn't just look tired—he looked drained.

And Raghav felt stronger.

Faster.

Lighter.

His grip on the racket tightened. Was this what the voice meant?

Devouring talent… wasn't just learning.

It was taking.

---

That night, Raghav sat in his room, lights off, staring at the Devourer propped against the wall. It shimmered faintly in the dark. Like it was waiting.

He thought about Arman.

Had he actually… stolen part of him?

He didn't want to believe it. But his instincts said otherwise.

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

He thought of all the players who mocked him. The sponsors who wouldn't even return his emails. The coach who told him to "try cricket instead."

If this power could close the gap… if it could let him stand shoulder to shoulder with the elite…

Was it so wrong to use it?

His hands trembled slightly as he reached out and placed the racket into his old duffel bag.

Tomorrow, he'd return to the stadium.

Not as a ball boy.

But as a hunter.

_ _