Chapter 5: Mumbai Showdown

I immediately messaged Big Gulmohar, saying I was ready for the offline challenge.

I spammed YouTube comments, Twitter DMs, and sent a polite “Respected Sir” email—Indian upbringing, after all.

He coldly sent me the address: a posh gaming lounge in Lower Parel, Mumbai. I checked train tickets, packed my tiny suitcase, and told my parents I was off for a ‘college competition’.

My mother, worried, asked, “Beta, sure na? Your cousin just joined TCS, safe future hai.” I promised her I’d be careful.

I booked an overnight train.

Vendors walked the aisles selling chai, vada pav, and dreams. I watched Mumbai’s lights blur by, heart thumping between hope and dread.

At the lounge, Big Gulmohar started streaming as soon as he saw me.

He wore a flashy t-shirt with his logo, hair gelled, phone propped on Parle-G biscuits. His team eyed me like I was a wild animal in the zoo.

Verification was simple:

I had to lead four of his viewers in three custom 5v5 matches against him.

He explained the rules twice, flexing his ‘fairness’. “Sab kuch transparent, live, on camera,” he boomed.

If I won two games and averaged three kills per round, I’d be cleared.

The tension was thicker than hostel sambar on a bad day.

My teammates were mostly B+ rank, one barely A. They looked nervous, whispering in Hindi about never playing LAN before.

Big Gulmohar’s squad were Demon King S rank; one ID looked like a retired pro.

It was like facing Team India with gully cricket friends. Odds were stacked.

Chat exploded:

[Isn’t this rank gap too much?]

[Most real viewer challenge ever.]

[If 269 wins, it’s insane.]

[Three kills per round? Even pros can’t.]

Some placed imaginary bets—lose and do 100 pushups, or quit Insta for a week.

Big Gulmohar smirked:

“Online you get four or five kills a round. Don’t tell me you can’t get three offline. If it’s too hard, we’ll call it off.”

His eyebrow arched—back out now, and I’d be meme king of Indian gaming.

Message was clear—back out, and I’d look guilty.

I calmly sat at the PC, nodded to Big Gulmohar, told him to start whenever.

Cracking my knuckles, I whispered a prayer to Ganeshji, and touched the pendant on my neck before gripping the mouse like the handlebar of my old Lucknow cycle.

The Mumbai LAN was buzzing: local trains rumbling nearby, the scent of samosas and chai wafting in, players nervously adjusting specs and wiping sweat with a gamcha.

I closed my eyes for a second, feeling the stakes. One shot at redemption—no excuses.

First map: the classic Desert Black.

Even the lounge music was the Desert Black theme—half suspense, half nostalgia. My hands were cold, but my mind was sharp.

This map was all about raw aim.

Pure skill. No tricks, just desi reflexes and nerves. My teammates looked at me for cues, eyes wide with hope.

Once loaded in, I was on offence first.

I recalled every strat, every YouTube clip. The pressure was crushing, but I took a deep breath.

I asked teammates to buy me a P250 and half armour.

They scrambled to follow, hands trembling. One fumbled his buy, earning nervous laughs.

Using my movement edge, I rushed A short.

I darted through, weaving past corners like dodging aunties in a crowded sabzi mandi. The familiar click of shoes on digital pavement filled my headphones.

At the corner, I strafed and stopped on a dime.

It was poetic—everything slowed. I heard my heartbeat, the AC’s hum, and the low murmur of live chat.

The defender holding the angle didn’t even react—I headshotted him instantly.

The screen flashed with the kill. My teammates whooped, one slapping the table in excitement.

One whispered, "Bhai, tu hi sambhal le, hum toh pakka choke kar jayenge." Another grinned nervously: "Bro, I'll draw fire, tu hi frag le."

Coming out of short, two teammates rushed forward, drawing fire. I peeked, spotted the enemy on A long platform.

A couple of taps—two more headshots.

The room erupted. Even Big Gulmohar looked stunned, hiding it with a forced cough.

We took A site.

Planting felt like planting a flag on Everest. My hands shook, but I smiled—the old rush was back.

After planting, I watched mid.

Timer beeped, lounge air thick with tension. Teammates nervously covered flanks. I held my angle, heart racing.

Sure enough, I ran into the last two rotating over. I...

But I knew—one slip, and all of India would be watching me fall.