Bully Lord

Part-60

James, fuelled by a burning defiance, continued his desperate dance of evasion.  He remembered another tactic from the martial arts book – a low block aimed at deflecting a leg sweep.  As Sourov telegraphed a familiar throw, James dropped low, his forearm slamming into the attacker's knee with a satisfying thud.  The blow didn't stop Sourov, but it bought James a precious moment, a sliver of space to breathe.

The cheers from the crowd, initially a blur in his ringing ears, started to come into focus.

His eyes darted around the makeshift arena, searching for an escape, a strategy.  The System's mission timer, a cruel reminder of his limitations, flickered out of existence at the two-minute mark.  He had survived the impossible, but the fight was far from over.  Thirty seconds remained, an agonizing stretch of time that felt like an entire lifetime.

Sourov, frustrated by James' persistent dodging, lunged with a wild haymaker.  James, on instinct, raised his arm just in time to deflect the blow.  The impact sent a jolt of pain shooting through his arm, but it saved him from a potentially fight-ending blow.  He stumbled back, his legs wobbly, his vision blurring at the edges.

Two minutes and thirty seconds.  Just thirty more agonizing seconds.  James knew he couldn't fight head-on anymore.  He needed to use his remaining energy wisely, exploit any opening Sourov might offer.

The world narrowed to a tunnel vision of Sourov's angry face looming over him. James tasted blood, metallic and sharp, as his head throbbed with each labored breath.  His arms felt like lead weights, barely able to hold themselves up.   Fifteen seconds.  Just fifteen agonizing seconds left before the three minutes were up.

Suddenly, Sourov's massive form slammed into him, driving the air from his lungs.  James felt his back hit the mat with a sickening thud, the world tilting on its axis.  Sourov's weight pinned him down, a knee digging into his chest, restricting his already shallow breaths.  Panic clawed at James' throat.  This was it.  He was going to lose.  He was going to fail the mission, the humiliation, the injury, all for nothing.

Just as the edges of his vision started to darken, a translucent blue screen materialized in the air, hovering inches from his face.  In stark white letters, a question pulsed with an urgency that mirrored the pounding in his chest:

[Will you enter Crisis Mode? Y/N]

A wave of confusion washed over him.  Crisis Mode?  What did that even mean?  But his survival instinct, honed in these past brutal minutes, roared its answer.   James, with a primal grunt that surprised even himself, slammed his mind against the glowing "Y" option.

The world went white for a fleeting moment, then snapped back into focus with a jarring intensity.  The pain was still there, a dull ache throbbing in every part of his body.  But something had changed.  A strange clarity washed over him, sharpening his focus, pushing away the haze of exhaustion.  He felt a surge of energy course through his veins, a desperate burst of power fueled by adrenaline and a newfound…rage?