The First Challenger Appears

Raghav stared at the emblem in his hand long after the gatekeeper disappeared into the shadows of Court 9.

The twelve-pointed star etched into the center pulsed with a dim golden light. It felt heavier than its size should allow—as if it carried not just metal, but meaning. Responsibility. Maybe even fate.

He slipped it into the side pocket of his bag and looked down at the Devourer. The golden rune now inscribed near the handle still glowed faintly.

One of twelve.

He didn't know what the others looked like—or who held them—but the gatekeeper's warning echoed loud in his mind.

> "Some are already in the hands of monsters."

---

The following week passed in a blur.

Raghav trained like never before. It wasn't just physical anymore—he was faster, sharper, and more explosive, but what truly changed was his perception. The Devourer continued to whisper during matches, feeding him tiny tactical adjustments, mechanical tweaks, even emotional reads on opponents.

He began challenging anyone who would play him—college kids, former semi-pros, cocky academy brats. He crushed them all. Every win made him a little better.

A little more complete.

But the Devourer didn't awaken with just anyone. It only responded when his opponent held real skill—true talent. And when it did, the after-effect was always the same.

Raghav felt stronger.

His opponents looked… emptier.

Tired. Sluggish. As if a tiny part of their spark had been dimmed.

It bothered him. But he buried it.

> They would've wasted their talent anyway. I'll put it to real use.

I don't take it—I preserve it.

At least that's what he told himself.

---

It was a humid Friday evening when the first real challenge came.

Raghav had just finished a practice set at a quiet local club, wiping sweat from his brow, when a slow clap echoed from the far corner of the court.

A boy, around his age, stepped out from the shadows.

He had sharp features, a stylish cut to his dark hair, and wore a pristine academy jacket with the logo of "Echelon Elite"—a private international tennis academy known only to the rich and ruthlessly talented.

"Raghav Rao," the boy said, voice smooth but cold. "The one with the black racket."

Raghav's back tensed. "You know about it?"

The boy smirked. "You're not the only one who can feel the pulse of the Relics."

He unzipped his bag and drew out his own racket—silver frame, woven with dark red strings that shimmered like veins.

Raghav's stomach tightened.

The Devourer shivered in his grip. Instinctively, he felt it: another Relic.

> Dangerous.

Hungry.

Familiar.

"I'm Rehan Verma," the boy said, spinning the racket casually in his hand. "Holder of the Bloodstring. And I've been looking forward to this."

He tossed a ball up and served without warning.

It hissed through the air like a shot from a gun, slamming into the baseline just inches from Raghav's feet.

The court trembled.

"I challenge you," Rehan said, eyes burning. "Let's see whose Relic is stronger."

---

They didn't bother with formalities. No line judges. No scorecards.

Only two players. Two cursed rackets. And a single goal.

Devour, or be devoured.

The opening rallies were intense. Rehan's style was aggressive, razor-sharp—he played like someone who enjoyed causing pain. His racket gave his shots extra sting; every strike felt like it carried venom, and Raghav's arms stung just trying to return them.

But Raghav had something else.

The Devourer adapted.

Every point he survived, he learned.

Rehan went for a backhand slice—Raghav read it.

Rehan tried a sharp-angled volley—Raghav anticipated the footwork.

The black racket sang in his hand with every successful counter.

> "Bloodstring feeds on fear," the Devourer warned. "Stay calm. Own the rhythm. Break his control."

Raghav fought to steady his breath. The more confident he felt, the more Rehan faltered.

By the third game, Rehan grunted in frustration. "You're using it already? Impressive. Most newbies get swallowed alive by their own Relic."

"Guess I'm not most people," Raghav shot back.

Rehan's eyes narrowed.

He stopped playing pretty.

He began to hunt.

---

The match reached a fever pitch. Raghav's legs ached. His palms blistered. But the rush—the high of keeping up with someone like Rehan, of pushing past his own limits—made it all worth it.

Until Rehan changed his stance.

He adjusted his grip, and suddenly, the shots came with new angles, impossible curves.

Raghav recognized it.

Aryan Malhotra's serve.

Arman's drop shot.

Even one of Raghav's own signature returns.

Rehan wasn't just using the Bloodstring—he'd absorbed talents, too.

How many had he defeated?

How many had he drained?

The thought chilled Raghav's blood.

But it also fueled his fire.

He roared inside, pushing his body harder, returning every impossible shot, until the court felt like it was shrinking around them, their battle compressing into a vortex of pure talent, grit, and will.

Then, with a final forehand down the line, Raghav broke Rehan's serve.

Match point.

Rehan stood at the baseline, breathing hard, face pale. For the first time, he looked uncertain.

"You're not normal," he said quietly.

Raghav didn't answer.

He just tossed the ball into the air—

And served.

---

The ball smashed past Rehan's desperate reach.

Silence.

The Devourer pulsed once—stronger than ever—and another golden rune etched itself into its frame.

Two down. Ten to go.

Rehan fell to his knees, gasping. "So this is what it feels like… to be devoured."

Raghav walked over, still breathing heavily. "Why'd you come after me?"

Rehan didn't answer for a moment.

Then he looked up, smiling bitterly. "Because this is how the Hidden Court works. You rise, or you're consumed. And we're not the only ones playing this game."

He pushed something into Raghav's hand before limping off into the night.

Another emblem.

But this one was different—etched with two symbols instead of one.

A dual court.

> A team match?

Raghav looked down at his racket.

And smiled.

---