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  Part- 322:

  But it wasn’t just the appuse he wanted. He craved something deeper—the quiet, personal satisfa of knowing he had given it everything. That he had faced the challenge head-on and emerged stronger. Because, in the end, that’s what judo was really about. Not the medals, not the trophies, but the endless pursuit of being a better version of yourself.

  And if, in the process, he could unlo Ultimate Skill—well, that would just be the ig on the cake.

  James let out a slow breath, his heart steady and his mind sharp. The stadium around him was still quiet, but soon it would be filled with noise and energy.

  As James finished a series of shoulder rolls, the soft scrape of his gi against the mat was the only sound iherwise empty stadium. The m air was cool, crisp, and sharp, a perfect setting for quiet preparation before the chaos of the day. He rolled his shoulders and exhaled, ready to focus again—until a voice shattered the stillness.

  "Yo! Pretty boy!"

  The words slithered across the arena like poison, low and sneering. James straightened and turoward the source. His expression, once calm, hardened as he locked eyes with Abu Jel.

  Jel leaned casually against the bleacher, his wiry frame draped in an oversized, faded judo jacket. The sharp angles of his face were atuated by a crooked grin, the kind that promised trouble. His eyes, dark and darting, never seemed to rest in one pce for too long, as if stantly searg for weako exploit. Abu Jel wasn’t just another petitor—he redator in human skin, always cirg, always scheming. His reputation preceded him: a fighter with a venomous mouth, a style that thrived on uability, and a pent fetting inside people's heads.

  They had crossed paths in in this tour before, but there was no camaraderie between them. James saw, Jel never fought fair—on or off the mat in this mat despite being one of the strong guy in this tour. He thrived oal warfare, throwing insults that lingered long after the match was over, poisoning his oppos from the i.

  James didn’t flinch. His cool, dark eyes gave away nothing as he asked, "What do you want?"

  Jel’s grin widened, exposih that were slightly yellowed, as if the very words he spoke corroded everything they touched. "What a cold bastard. ’t a guy just say hi?" His tone was syrupy, mogly friendly, like the way a cat toys with a mouse before sinking its cws in.

  James’s voice was ft, emotionless. "You said it. Now leave."

  Jel sauntered closer, his movements loose and snake-like, as if he owhe space between them. "Someone’s in a mood today, huh?" He clicked his tongue, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Lighten up, pretty boy. Or is the pressure getting to you?"

  James didn’t respond. He saw through Jel’s game—he kly what the wiry fighter was trying to do. Get into his head. Turn focus into frustration. But James was no rookie, and he wasn’t about to let someone like Jel rattle him before the petition even began.