The rain over Kochi was thin, like a misted veil hung over a city still in the afterglow of a miracle. But inside the Kerala Blasters training complex, the air was sharp with purpose.
The impossible had happened — Kerala Blasters had qualified for the AFC Champions League Round of 16, topping their group.
And yet, in the dressing room that morning, there was no wild celebration. Just stillness. The kind that comes when history begins to feel... familiar.
Coach Sameer stood at the front, holding a printed draw schedule in one hand, a cup of black coffee in the other.
"They announced it," he said. "It's official."
He placed the paper down.
"Al Nassr."
There were no cheers. No fear either. Just silence — the weight of a name. Cristiano Ronaldo's club. A team with oil money, international pedigree, and players whose boots cost more than some of their youth team's entire budget.
Faizan leaned back slowly, arms crossed. "So we're playing the final boss early?"
A few chuckles broke the tension.
Coach Sameer nodded, smiling faintly. "Good. Better to see where we stand now than pretend we're ready later."
He looked around the room.
"They'll come at us fast. They'll expect us to bend."
His eyes settled on Arjun.
"But they forget—we've already crossed oceans just to stand here."
---
During the last group stage match,
Two rows from the top of the East Stand, a tall man sat alone, scribbling quietly into a notebook damp at the corners. The hood of his windbreaker was pulled low, his posture unassuming.
Rainer Graf, talent scout for Hannover 96.
He'd played midfield in the Bundesliga once. Clean passes. Late tackles. Nothing flashy. He respected players who didn't need to be noticed to make an impact.
But Arjun Dev was something else. Not flashy — no. But every touch felt deliberate, like he played with the echo of someone else's voice in his head.
He carries memory like a second jersey, Rainer thought.
He jotted one word:
> "Uncut."
Then underlined it twice.
---
After training, Faizan caught Arjun walking off the pitch alone.
"You got a second?"
Arjun nodded.
They stopped near the goalpost. The turf smelled of wet earth and rubber.
"They reached out again," Faizan said.
"The Belgian club?"
"Yeah. Trial in Brussels. Starts in two weeks."
Arjun didn't say anything.
"They want me to leave before the knockout match."
Arjun met his eyes. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking it's a door I prayed would open. But I'm also thinking... this — what we're doing here — doesn't feel finished."
Arjun rested his hands on his hips. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone."
Faizan gave a tired smile. "I'm not trying to prove anything. I just… don't want to leave mid-story."
The silence between them was full of loyalty. And ache.
---
Café Kaloor
Later that evening, Arjun sat across from Rajan Thakkar, a London-based football agent with a quiet smile and precise words. They were at a corner café not far from the Kaloor stadium, seated by the window.
"First thing," Rajan began, "I'm not here to sell you a dream."
"Good," Arjun replied. "I don't need one."
"What I am saying," Rajan continued, "is that the people who used to ignore Indian football are now watching. And some of them are ready to invest."
He leaned forward.
"Clubs in Germany. Austria. The Netherlands. I've been in those rooms. They're asking your name."
Arjun stirred the sugar into his black tea.
"I'm not going unless it's the right fit," he said. "I won't sit on a bench for months to wear a bigger badge."
Rajan smiled. "You're already smarter than most who've gone."
They didn't shake hands that night. Not yet. But the door was open — and it was real.
---
Somewhere in Pollachi, under the shade of banyan trees and studio lights, Kalyani sat between shots on a film set.
Someone was streaming the Blasters match on a phone. The volume was low, but the image was unmistakable.
She didn't say anything. But when Arjun's face appeared on screen after that final assist, her lips moved in sync with the now-famous chant:
> "Oru paadam, oru veeran…"
A beat. A pause. Then the next line, quieter:
> "Marannilla njangale…"
The words weren't rehearsed. They were remembered.
She touched her necklace absently.
Later that night, she called him.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Exhausted," Arjun said. "But it's a good tired."
A pause. Not awkward. Just full.
"You think you'll leave… soon?"
Arjun exhaled. "I'm not done here yet."
And that was enough.
---
Training resumed the next morning. The sky was clear. Fans had already begun gathering outside the gates before sunrise.
A boy — no older than twelve — shouted through the fence, "Arjun bhai! Will you go abroad?"
Arjun turned. Walked to the gate.
He bent down to the boy's eye level and smiled.
"Maybe one day," he said. "But not before we finish this chapter."
The boy nodded like he understood the difference between ambition and abandon.
---
Rainer Graf POV
In his hotel room, Rainer Graf sat on the balcony, feet up on the rail, eyes on a cloudy Kochi skyline.
He opened his laptop and typed.
> To: Hannover Sporting Director
Subject: Indian Midfielder — Recommend Trial
Name: Arjun Dev
Age: 21
Role: Central Midfield
Summary: Reads the game well above his age. Plays with instinct, leadership, and something I can't define. He's raw. But the potential is real.
Recommend: Summer trial.
Optional: Early signing with domestic loan extension.
PS: We won't be the only ones watching next month.
He clicked send.
Then leaned back.
He wasn't sure if it would lead to anything.
But something told him: this player didn't come from nowhere. He came from somewhere ancient.
And he was still marching forward.
---