Part- 350:

  Pain exploded in Sourov’s knee, and his vision blurred for a moment. The bandages felt like they were cutting into his skin, and every fiber of his being screamed at him to stop. But he couldn’t. **Not yet. Not here.**

  "Sourov!" James called out from the sidelines, his voice sharp with . "Don’t push yourself too hard!"

  But Sourov barely registered the words. All he could think about was the fight—surviving it, winning it.

  "e on, big guy!" Ryan shouted, smming his fist into his palm. "You’ve got this!"

  Sritted his teeth and twisted violently in Jiko’s grip, managing to break free. Both fighters staggered backward, breathing heavily.

  Jiko’s eyes gleamed with excitement. "You’re better than I expected," he admitted. "But you’re still going to lose."

  Sourov didn’t respond. He wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his stance, ign the throbbing pain in his knee. **One more push. I just need one more opening.**

  The referee’s whistle blew again, signaling a brief pause. Both fighters returo their ers, panting and dripping with sweat.

  James exged a worried gh Ryan. "He’s barely holding on," James muttered. "We o do something, or he’s going to break."

  Ryan ched his fists. "He won’t quit. You know how Sourov is."

  James nodded, but the uneasy feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away. **This fight is far from over—and it’s only going to get harder.**

  Sourov sat on the bench, his leg shaking untrolbly. While hiding his hand, he adjusted the bandages again, pulling them tighter, as if sheer willpower would be enough to hold everything together.

  Dipa’s gaze never left him. "He’s not okay," she whispered to James. "He’s barely hanging on."

  James gave a small nod, his expression grim. "But what we do? He won’t listen to us."

  The whistle blew again, and the fighters returo the ter of the mat. Sourov’s heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. **This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is survival.**

  Jiko rolled his shoulders, his grin widening. "Let’s finish this," he said, his tone dripping with fidence.

  Save a small nod, his expression hard aermined. **No matter what happens, I won’t go down without a fight.**

  The referee raised his hand, ready to start the round. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation.

  And the whistle blew.

  The fight raged on.

  The air ihe arena buzzed with tension. Every breath Sourov took felt like a burden, as if his lungs were filled with molten iron. His throat burned, and his heart raced like a drumbeat on the edge of rupture. He staggered slightly, feeling the sharp, biting pain in his knee. His body screamed at him to stop. Every step against Jiko had been brutal—an uing war of strength and endurance.

  Jiko stood across from him, still as a predator ready to pouhere was no sweat on his brow, no sign of exhaustion. His posture radiated trol, every movement precise and deliberate. Each of Jiko’s throws carried the weight of his 312 bined power—raw force Sourov could barely keep up with.