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  Part- 337:

  As the referees moved into position and the arena staff finalized the match setup, the tension in the air thied. Both teams were given a few mio warm up before the official annous, but her side made any sudden moves. It was a battle of minds as much as bodies—a silent war waged with gnces and subtle shifts in posture.

  Jiko took another sip from his bottle, sav the tartness of the lemon juice. The acidity sharpened his focus, grounding him in the present. He exhaled slowly, as if releasing any stray thoughts or distras. Then, with the fai of smiles, he whispered to himself, "At the end of the day, we’ll win this tour."

  It wasn’t a boast. It was a statement of fact—at least in Jiko’s mind. His certainty wasn’t born fra from cold, hard analysis. He knew his team’s strengths, uood the opposition’s weaknesses, and had already crafted a strategy to exploit them.

  Oher side, James and his teammates tiheir warm-ups, exging lighthearted bao ease the tension. But deep down, James khat the match ahead wouldn’t just be about physical prowess. It would demand every ounental resiliehey had.

  As the referee blew the whistle to signal the start of the annous, James squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. His muscles tensed, ready for the uping battle. Across the arena, Jiko stood tall, his eyes gleaming with quiet determination.

  This was no ordinary match—it was a battle between two philosophies: the raw energy of Banani versus the calcuted precision of Badda. And by the end of the day, only one would stand victorious.

  Down in the locker room, tension simmered beh the surface as Banani High’s pyers prepared for their match. Sourov sat on a wooden bench, sweat glistening on his forehead, though the match had ended ho. His hands shook slightly as he ed a fresh roll of white athletic tape around his swollehe dull ache that had been b him sihe Super 16 match was now a stant throb, and with every move, it grew harder to ignore. But Sourov couldn’t—*wouldn’t*—stop now. Not wheional title was within reach.

  The tape from his st match had e loose, and he grimaced as he wound the fresh baighter. The strain in his knee was relentless as if every twist and step threateo snap the fragile joint. Despite his efforts, the pain lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind like a relentless drumbeat.

  Leaning against the etal lockers, Zia crossed his arms, his face shadowed with . “You sure this is a good idea, Sourov?” His voice was low, careful. “If Coach Gin finds out about your khey’ll bench you for sure.”

  Sourov’s hands paused mid- for the briefest moment. His jaw tightened, and a flicker of frustration fshed in his eyes. “They *’t* bench me,” he whispered fiercely. “Not now. We’re this close to winning the championship.”

  Zia k beside his friend, worry etched deeply into his expression. “But you’ve been limping sihe Super 16. This could get worse, Sourov. If it does, you won’t be able to fight at all.”