Harsh Truths
The hotel room was nicd. Tokyo's cityscape glimmered beyond the wide windows, but Ashan barely noticed. He dropped his duffel bag onto the hardwood floor of their room with a sigh.
Jerry Tyson, who'd already tossed his luggage on the single bed and claimed it like it was tradition, sat down and leaned back, cracking his neck with a groan. "I forgot how damn cramped Japan can feel," he muttered.
Ashan stared at the room. One bed. No couch. Not even a futon rolled up in the closet. "Wait… I'm sleeping on the floor?"
"Haha, remember that deal we made?" Jerry chuckled.
"Shit."
Jerry shrugged. "You're young. Spine still works. You'll live."
Ashan rolled his eyes and grabbed a spare blanket from the closet. "You're an ass."
"Glad you're catching on."
---
They unpacked quickly. Ashan was mostly quiet, still processing the flight, Tokyo, and the insane encounter with Adam. The man's inhuman physique, the power in his frame, that calm confidence. It was like seeing a lion relax in a cage made of glass.
"I still can't believe that was Adam," he muttered as he rolled out the blanket on the floor.
Jerry snorted. "Believe it. And yeah, he whooped my ass."
Ashan blinked. "I thought that was just exaggeration."
Jerry's tone was flat. "It wasn't."
A moment passed before Jerry stood up, stretching again. His expression turned serious, harder than Ashan had seen since they reunited.
"Kid," he said. "You know I'm rooting for you, right?"
Ashan nodded slowly.
"But the way you are now…" Jerry shook his head. "You got zero percent chance of winning anything."
Ashan bristled. "You serious?"
"Dead serious. You've got the work ethic, the spirit, sure. But that doesn't mean anything if your body and technique can't keep up. You'll get folded like cheap laundry. That's why we're starting now."
"Starting what?"
---
Sumo.
They took the train out to a more traditional district of Tokyo. The air smelled of incense, fried snacks, and summer sweat. Eventually, they stopped in front of a large wooden building with wide eaves and colorful noren curtains hanging by the door. A sign read "Arakuma Sumo Stable."
Inside, it was exactly what Ashan didn't expect.
Monsters.
The sumo wrestlers inside were indeed monstrous. Not just round, but thick, dense muscle covered in layers of functional mass. They slammed against each other with deafening cracks, training in the dirt ring at the center of the building. Sweat flew with every collision.
"Welcome," one of them said in broken English. He was shirtless, towering, with a broad jaw and small eyes. "You Jerry's friend?"
"This is Ashan," Jerry said. "He's gonna train here for a while."
Several of the wrestlers grinned, chuckled, or sized him up. A few gave nods of approval, others smirks of amusement.
One particularly thick sumo stepped forward. His skin was a patchwork of scars, and he had a flat topknot barely tied. He jabbed a thick thumb at his chest. "Togetsu. Sandanme." He stood at about 5'10, maybe 340 pounds. "Jerry-san beat me before. Very strong." He smiled at Ashan. "But I stronger now."
Jerry gave Ashan a nudge. "Yeah, he's the guy I fought last time. He's moved up in rank since."
Ashan blinked. "Sandanme?"
"Fourth division," Jerry explained. "Still pro, still dangerous."
"Jerry-san," another wrestler called. This one was taller, leaner, with wide shoulders and a proud posture. "I'm Sazanami. Makushita. I big fan of Kiozan Takeru. He legend."
A few others chimed in. "Takeru strong. Family very strong. We try be like him."
Ashan listened, fascinated. He had only seen sumo in passing, on YouTube, in old sports documentaries. He thought they were just fat men shoving each other. But watching the way these men moved, their footwork, their explosive drive, their posture: it was like watching bulls trained in ballet.
---
Then came the training.
And the pain.
Squats, hundreds of them. Shiko leg lifts, where they stomped down with crushing force. Leg sweeps. Footwork drills. Ashan struggled to keep up. He was gasping within minutes.
They carried logs. Slammed into padded walls. Practiced grappling. Sweated until their bodies steamed in the humid stable.
He rubbed his abs, worried. "I'm not trying to get fat, man…"
Jerry cracked a grin. "Don't worry. You wouldn't get fat even if you tried."
Ashan scowled. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's a fact. You don't have enough time or calories in your soul to become a real sumo. But this training? It'll make you explosive, grounded. Real fighting power. And you need that."
---
That night, Ashan lay on the floor, sore and aching, his blanket barely cushioning the wood. Jerry snored like a dying bear on the bed, dead to the world.
Ashan stared at the ceiling.
Adam, Jerry, now these sumo monsters… Everyone was on another level. But for some reason, that didn't discourage him.
It lit something.
He whispered to himself, almost a prayer: "I'll catch up."
And maybe he believed it.