Bully Lord

Part-59

Thirty seconds had stretched into an eternity, 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 connected with a sickening thud, sending James crashing to the makeshift mat.  The air whooshed out of his lungs, replaced 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 concern.  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 onslaught.

But the fight was taking its toll.  His movements were sluggish, his reactions blunted.  Sourov, sensing his weakness, didn't relent.  Another throw, another bone-jarring impact, and James tasted dirt as his face scraped the mat.  Shame burned in his throat, a bitter mix of defiance and 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 next attack.  He knew he couldn't win a strength-based battle.  He needed to use his agility, his remaining wits.  He remembered a tactic from the martial arts book – a leg sweep aimed at knocking an opponent off balance.  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 connection was imperfect, but enough to disrupt Sourov's momentum.  For a split second, the bigger boy stumbled, his center of gravity momentarily thrown off balance. 

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

The silence that followed was deafening.  James, panting heavily, watched as Sourov slowly rose to his feet, a flicker of frustration replacing 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 seconds had morphed into a minute, a grueling sixty seconds that felt like an eternity.  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 knew that somehow, he had to find a way to keep going.

Two minutes had crawled by, each second a searing eternity etched in pain. James felt like a ragdoll, tossed and slammed 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 escalated to a dull roar, and every breath sent a fresh jolt of agony through his ribs.

Sourov, however, seemed relatively 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, designed to overwhelm James and force a submission.