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  Part- 331:

  The team erupted into ughter. Sourov doubled over, clutg his sides. "Did you see his face?!" Ryan howled, tears f at the ers of his eyes. "He looked like he just saw a ghost!"

  Coach Gin cpped James on the back as he returo the bench. “Nice work, kid. That’s how you start a match.”

  James gave a small shrug. “He kind of threw himself at me. I just helped him along.”

  Ezaz, still groaning as he was helped off the mat by his coach, shot James a withering gre. But the gre didn’t carry much weight ing from someone who’d just been pnted into the ground like a garden gnome.

  As Ezaz limped away, Ryan leaned over to James, grinning like a mischievous fox. “So, what do you think Ezaz will say now? *‘I don’t shake hands with winners?’*”

  The whole bench burst into ughter again hearing a dad joke, and even James couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Sourov patted James on the back. “You should’ve given him a handshake after the match. You know—just to rub it in.”

  James smirked. “Nah. No need. I think the mat did all the talking for me.”

  Meanwhile, o. Abraham side, Ezaz’s teammates sat in stunned silence. One of them muttered, “Maybe we should’ve joihe basketball team instead.”

  As the match was called, James rexed on the bench, enjoying the banter with his teammates. Ryan leaned in again. “If all the matches go like this, we might as well start pnning the afterparty.”

  Srinned. “Yeah, but don’t tell Ezaz. He might not want to shake hands at the door.”

  The team doubled ain, their ughter eg through the gym. For the first time all day, James felt light, the weight of the petition lifting off his shoulders. This tour was going to be a lot of fun—at least for them.

  And as for Ezaz? Well, he’d have plenty of time to refle his handshake policy while lying on his back.

  High in the dimly lit stands, two figures sat at the edge of the crowd, their gazes fixed on the judo mat below. Their presence was shrouded by the noise of the spectators, but their silent exge carried more weight than anything happening in the arena. They weren’t ordinary students. They were predators the emergence of a new tender, and the tensioween them crackled like stati the air.

  “That’s him, huh?” muttered the boy with fmboyant, rainbow-colored hair. He slouched in his seat with an air of amusement, his grin wide and dangerous, as though he found the eour beh him. His name was **Kibria**, known across the Banani High school as the **Western Bully Emperor**—one of the four schoolyard kings who domiheir respective territories with overwhelming strength.

  Beside Kibria sat a far more posed figure: **Robin**, the president of the student cil. His sharp, calg eyes followed every movement James made o. While Kibria exuded mischief and chaos, Robin embodied cold precision. His presence alone could and a room, though today, he sat quietly, arms crossed and his expression unreadable. When James delivered the final throw to his oppo, a faint spark flickered behind Robin’s gsses, a subtle indication that his i had been piqued.