The Trial of the Hidden Court

The stadium looked different when it was empty.

The bright banners were gone. The crowds, the vendors, the noise—all replaced by silence, interrupted only by the soft creak of Raghav's worn sneakers on the concrete walkway.

He stood at the edge of Court 9, the least-used court in the complex, tucked behind the maintenance wing where no one ever looked. Even during peak tournament season, it was almost always closed off—cracked surface, broken lights, overgrown fences.

But today, it was open.

And he knew why.

The Devourer had guided him here.

It started last night—he'd had another dream. Only this time, it wasn't a match. It was a memory. But not his.

A man stood under a blood-red sky, holding the same racket Raghav now owned. He faced three opponents across a massive stone court. Each one unleashed monstrous serves—balls that moved like meteorites. But the man, calm and silent, absorbed every blow. With each point he won, a mark on the racket glowed, until it shone like a star. At the end, his opponents were reduced to kneeling figures, talent ripped away like thread from fabric.

Then the voice again:

> "Devour. But never forget—every feast has a price."

---

Raghav's hand hovered over the gate to Court 9.

It creaked open.

The inside was still battered—lines faded, net sagging—but someone had cleaned it. Recent footprints marked the dust. The court wasn't abandoned.

It was hidden.

A figure waited at the far end.

He was tall, lean, wearing a faded hoodie and white tennis shorts. His face was shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. But his stance—relaxed, balanced, coiled like a snake—told Raghav this wasn't a beginner.

"You've awakened it," the man said, not unkindly.

Raghav gripped the racket tighter. "You know about this?"

The man nodded. "Devourer. One of the Twelve Relics of the Court. Banned, buried, and long forgotten. Until someone like you comes along."

"Twelve?"

"Rackets… grips… wristbands… even shoes. All infused with pieces of legendary players—spirits of forgotten prodigies, sealed into gear to preserve their genius. But they were too strong. Too addictive."

Raghav's throat tightened. "And this one? What does it do, exactly?"

The man gave a small smile. "It gives you what no training ever could: the skills of those you defeat. But in return…"

He stepped forward.

"It takes. From them. And from you."

Raghav's eyes narrowed. "What's your role in all this?"

"I'm just the gatekeeper of this court. My job is simple: test the chosen. If you pass, you get to keep climbing. If you fail…"

The man pointed to the ground.

Raghav followed his finger and noticed faint outlines in the clay—shadows burned into the court.

Failed challengers?

He swallowed hard.

"Let's begin."

---

The man didn't warm up. Didn't stretch. Just picked up an old, worn racket from the bench and took position.

Raghav nodded silently and served.

It began like a normal match—but quickly spiraled into something else.

The man's returns were unreal—effortless counter-shots that bent physics. Raghav pushed harder, using everything he'd absorbed from Arman and the players he'd watched. But his opponent moved like liquid fire—adaptive, unpredictable.

The Devourer pulsed with every rally. It whispered between points, offering insights:

> "His wrist—tightens before he drops shot. Exploit it."

> "Too flat on the backhand. Attack with top-spin angle."

Raghav listened. Adjusted. Matched the man shot for shot.

And slowly, the tide began to turn.

He didn't just defend.

He hunted.

By the ninth game, Raghav broke serve. Then again. His movements became fluid, aggressive—like the old memories flowing from the Devourer were becoming part of his DNA.

After ninety brutal minutes, it was over.

Raghav won.

Barely.

The man stood, brushing clay from his shirt, and smiled.

"You're the first in five years."

Raghav leaned on his knees, drenched in sweat. "What now?"

The gatekeeper approached, pulling a coin-shaped emblem from his pocket. It bore the mark of a flaming tennis ball with twelve stars around it.

"The Twelve Relics are awakening. Some are already in the hands of monsters. You're part of the game now, whether you like it or not."

He tossed the emblem to Raghav.

"Win three more trials. Survive. And you'll learn the truth behind that racket."

Raghav caught the coin, and in that moment, something clicked inside the Devourer. A small golden rune appeared on its frame—one out of twelve.

"Welcome to the Hidden Court," the gatekeeper said. "Play hard. Or be played."

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