Part- 357:

  Abbas rolled his shoulders and shot a grin at Dipa. “Looks like we’re getting thrown into the deep shit, huh?”

  Dipa smirked, her nerves repced by a quiet resolve. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Coach Gin cpped his hands, snapping them all bato focus. “Alright. Get ready. We step on that mat, and we fight as a team.”

  The pyers scattered, each moving with purpose. Dipa k beside Tisha, who sat on the bench, ing her hands iape. “Don’t worry,” Dipa said quietly, her voice full of determination. “I’ll hold the line.”

  Tisha gave a weak smile, though the frustration of sitting out still g her. “I know you will.”

  Abbas and Ryan began practig quick throws, the sound of bodies hitting the mat eg through the gym. Nabi tied her hair back, her expressio with fierce determination, while Keya stretched beside her, both girls ready to step into their roles without hesitation.

  Coach Gin stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, watg his team e together. His face was unreadable, but a flicker of pride shone in his eyes. This was his team—battered, tired, missing one of their stro—but they weren’t broken. They were still standing. And that was enough.

  The gym felt different now. The tension was still there, but it had shifted—no longer a weight pressing down on them, but a current running through them, charging them up for the fight ahead. They weren’t just individuals anymore. They were a unit, bound by trust and the shared determination to give everything they had.

  Gin cpped his hands again, louder this time. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice sharp and anding. “It’s time.”

  The team gathered at the edge of the mat, standing shoulder to shoulder. There was no more room for doubt or fear. Whether they stood on the podium at the end or not, they would fight like champions—together.

  The atmosphere in the are suffog, thick with tension. Banani High’s team stood at the edge of the mat, f a tight huddle as they locked eyes with their final oppo—**Mohammadpur High**, the reigning national champions. The sharp hum of murmuring spectators filled the gym, along with the shuffling sounds of feet, bags, aless movements. Everyone knew what was at stake.

  Mohammadpur’s athletes stretched with a casual arrogance, wearing the look of seasoned warriors ready to colleother trophy. At the forefront was **Abu Jel**, his face a portrait of quiet fury. He exuded the kind of fidehat didn’t e from just skill—it came from having been at the top for too long. But now, there was something else in his demeanor, something dark simmering just beh the surface: vengeance.

  Jel’s bruised ego hadn’t recovered from the earlier enter with **James**, when a street altercation ended in Jel sprawled out on the ground. Losing to someone he sidered an outsider—a non-judoka—had shattered his pride. Now, standing face-to-face with James again, Jel’s eyes gleamed with an iy that could burn through steel. This wasn’t just a final mat—it ersonal.

  James stood tall, his expression calm, but a flicker of amusement glinted in his eyes. “Still sore from this m, Jel?” His voice was light, but every word carried weight.

  Jel’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “You got lucky. But luck won’t save you here.”