Part-59

  Thirty seds had stretched into ay, but with each passing moment, the tide seemed to be turning against him. Sourov, his initial surprise fading, charged forward with renewed fury. This time, James wasn't fast enough. Sourov's powerful Judo throw ected with a siing thud, sending James crashing to the makeshift mat. The air whooshed out of his lungs, repced by a sharp pain that radiated from his back.

  A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Even Coach Gin's face, usually stoic, etched with . James gritted his teeth, willing himself to rise. The stupid System mission, the three minutes without skills, seemed like a distant nightmare now. All that mattered was getting to his feet, surviving this onsught.

  But the fight was taking its toll. His movements were sluggish, his reas blunted. Sourov, sensing his weakness, didn't relent. Ahrow, another bone-jarring impact, and James tasted dirt as his face scraped the mat. Shame burned in his throat, a bitter mix of defiand desperation. He wouldn't give up, not yet.

  With a surge of adrenaline, fueled by a primal instinct for survival, James rolled away from Sourov's attabsp; He knew he couldn't win a strength-based battle. He o use his agility, his remaining wits. He remembered a tacti the martial arts book – a leg sweep aimed at knog an oppo off banbsp; A risky maneuver, but his only option.

  As Sourov lunged again, James dropped low, aiming his foot for the inside of Sourov's knee. The e was imperfect, but enough to disrupt Sourov's momentum. For a split sed, the bigger boy stumbled, his ter of gravity momentarily thrown off banbsp;

  James saw his bsp; With a desperate lunge, he grabbed Sourov's arm, using his entire weight to pull the rger boy off banbsp; It was a clumsy, unorthodox maneuver, but it worked. Sourov, caught off guard, crashed to the ground with a surprised grunt.

  The silehat followed was deafening. James, panting heavily, watched as Sourov slowly rose to his feet, a flicker of frustration repg the earlier anger in his eyes. The crowd, initially stunned, erupted in a cacophony of cheers and surprised shouts. Even Coach Gin offered a rare nod of approval.

  Thirty seds had morphed into a minute, a grueling sixty seds that felt like ay. James had defied the odds, survived the impossible. But the fight wasn't over. He looked at Sourov, his own body screaming in protest, and khat somehow, he had to find a way to keep going.

  Two minutes had crawled by, each sed a seariernity etched in pain. James felt like a ragdoll, tossed and smmed by Sourov's relentless attacks. His vision swam, his once crisp movements reduced to sluggish dodges and desperate scrambles. The throbbing ache in his shoulder had escated to a dull roar, and every breath sent a fresh jolt of agony through his ribs.

  Sourov, however, seemed retively unscathed. His initial surprise at James' agility had morphed into a frustrated rage. He bulldozed forward, his throws more forceful, his strikes less precise. It was a strategy of brute force, desigo overwhelm James and force a submission.