The tunnel hummed again.
But this time, the buzz wasn't nerves — it was something older. Something tribal. The Blasters' final AFC Champions League group match was moments away, and the air itself seemed thick with expectation.
Arjun stood with his palms pressed against the wall, breathing deeply. The stone beneath his fingers was cool, grounding. Around him, the team moved like quiet waves — focused, alert, steady.
He shut his eyes and thought of Thrissur. The rooftop. The coconut tree swaying in the breeze. His father's voice calling out, "Monu! Left foot! Balance!" That evening light, the kind that coated the world in honey and promise. His chest tightened.
In the dressing room earlier, Coach Sameer had said only five words.
> "Make them remember our name."
No chalkboard scribbles. No strategies. No fiery speech.
Because they didn't need any.
They had the song.
They had the march.
They had each other.
---
From the stands, the chant began again, like a tide rolling in:
> "Oru paadam, oru veeran... Marannilla njangale…"
The chenda drums beat like a heartbeat. The yellow smoke flared behind the West End goal. Flags fluttered like they were alive. Painted faces. Bare-chested youth. Old men in mundu. The sea of yellow didn't sway. It surged.
And at the center of it all was Arjun Dev — soaked in meaning, sweat, and the weight of thousands.
As the national anthem ended, Arjun looked up — not to the sky, but to the box where his mother sat. Her palms were pressed together in silent prayer. Next to her, Faizan's father raised a fist. They had fought once — old men, arguing about who was better. But tonight, they stood shoulder to shoulder.
Arjun whispered to himself.
> "For Acha. For Amma. For them."
---
The whistle blew.
From the opening second, Kawasaki Frontale pressed high. Fast. Sharp. Clinical. The kind of tempo that could suffocate a lesser team. Their movement was like calligraphy in motion — neat, refined, deceptively swift.
But Arjun was no longer just a player.
He was the rhythm. The anchor. The flame.
A quiet clearance. A no-look backheel. A diving block that left grass and blood on his knee. Every moment screamed fight.
Faizan drew a foul near the edge of the box. As he got up, he looked over his shoulder and grinned at Arjun.
> "One each?" he said.
Arjun smirked, breathless. "Only fair."
The free kick was textbook. Faizan curled it past the wall with poetry in his foot. The net rippled. 1–0.
The crowd chanted the song louder. But this time, they added a new line — not rehearsed, just felt:
> "Arjune... njangale pole..."
Arjun's name. Not as a hero. As one of them.
---
Halftime came and went like a breath. The dressing room was still. Nobody said a word.
Then Faizan stood.
"Let's make sure they never forget this night," he said. His voice wasn't loud — but it was firm, grounded in conviction.
A beat of silence.
Then Rahul added, "Make it a memory they'll tell their kids."
The team roared back out.
---
The second half was a siege. Kawasaki came harder. Smarter. The goal came in the 72nd — a triangle pass, cut inside, then a tap-in. Precise. Japanese football distilled into one play.
1–1.
But Arjun didn't flinch. He couldn't afford to.
In the 80th minute, a crunching tackle from Rahul saw the ball break loose in midfield. Arjun sprinted — not thinking, just trusting.
He reached it a second before the Japanese midfielder, flicked it forward, then chipped a diagonal ball across the box — instinct, memory, and madness.
It was audacious. Risky.
It was perfect.
Faizan volleyed it in.
2–1.
And this time, Faizan didn't run to the crowd.
He ran to Arjun.
The two hugged — short, hard, heavy with everything they'd been through.
> "Now," Faizan said in his ear, "you're not just marching."
> "You're carrying us all."
---
Later that night, under the stadium floodlights, Arjun sat on the pitch long after the fans had left. The noise still lived in the seats.
Kalyani's text came in again.
> "I didn't take the film." "I want to tell you that in person." "Let's talk."
His heart kicked.
But he didn't reply. Not yet.
From the corner of the field, he heard a boy's voice.
"Arjun bhai…"
It was Adarsh — the 14-year-old from the blog.
The same one whose tribute had gone viral.
Arjun stood slowly. "Hey."
The boy looked nervous, holding out a tiny flag. Hand-painted. The elephant crest on it was shaky, but earnest.
> "This is for you," he said. "Appa used to say... anyone can score. But only elephants carry legacies."
Arjun bent down, accepted it with both hands.
Then he pulled out his match-worn armband.
> "Trade?"
The boy's eyes widened. He nodded, too stunned to speak.
---
As Arjun walked back through the tunnel, flag in hand, a new chant started to echo faintly from outside the stadium.
No drums this time.
Just voices. Hoarse. Raw. Honest.
> "He marches. He remembers. He carries."
Arjun looked at the elephant crest now etched on the flag.
He didn't smile.
But something lit in his chest.
Because this was no longer about revenge or rebirth.
This was about love.
This was yellow blood.
And it was forever.