Ashan stood shirtless before the mirror in the cramped sumo stable bathroom, sweat dripping down his nose. Two months ago, he could see his ribs. Now? They were buried beneath the layers of muscle he'd earned.
150 pounds. Still lean, no softness — but his chest had filled out, shoulders broader, traps climbing his neck like mountain ridges (more like hills.) His forearms looked like they belonged to someone who worked construction, not someone who hesitated to push open heavy doors.
"Not bad," Jerry said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Still got ways to go, but you're not a twig anymore."
Ashan chuckled, flexing slightly. "You said I was hopeless."
"I meant it. And I'll say it again if you start slacking."
---
[Two Months Earlier]
The first couple weeks had nearly broken him.
But it became tougher.
The sumo stable was brutal. Cold water to the face, warm-ups that felt like marathons, then hours of shiko — stomping exercises designed to build balance and leg power. Then teppo — slamming hands and forearms into thick wooden poles until the skin bruised and thickened.
The sumo wrestlers weren't like those bloated cartoon characters Ashan had had imagined long ago. These guys were dense. Under the layer of mass was explosive strength, honed through tradition and pain. Some were ranked Makushita, a step away from the salaried elite. Others were Sandanme or Jonidan, but all were hungry.
They admired Kiozan Takeru, the former sumo who fought in Kengan matches. His name came up often, especially from the elder stablemaster, who watched old Kengan matches like holy scripture.
"Takeru-san… he fight like god," one said in broken English, tapping his chest. "We learn. We grow. One day… maybe we strong like him."
Jerry made sure Ashan trained with everyone. Daisetsu, who had broad shoulders, a nasty charge, and a permanent scowl. The others respected him, even if they avoided sparring with him.
"Daisetsu's a wall," Jerry warned. "You'll bounce off until you stop moving like a civilian."
Ashan bounced off him plenty.
But by the fourth week, he wasn't bouncing quite so far. He could dig in, use his hips, twist, counter. The sumo wrestlers grunted approval. They still beat him, but they acknowledged him.
---
[The Eating]
"You want to grow?" Jerry would ask, slamming bowls of rice, pork, fish, and chanko nabe (sumo stew) in front of him.
"Eat like you mean it. Then eat more."
Ashan tried. Then failed. Then vomited. Then tried again.
They'd track his weight on a chalkboard. 132… 136… 141… 147… 150. All hard-earned.
---
[The Final Test]
On the final week, the stable held a mini in-house keiko basho, a practice tournament. Ashan wasn't required to join.
He joined anyway.
He didn't win. But he didn't come last either.
And in one of the rounds, against Daisetsu, Ashan managed to absorb a charge and sidestep, guiding the larger man forward with a grunt and letting his own momentum carry him out of the ring.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't flashy.
But it was a win.
The stable erupted in cheers.
---
Now
Back in the hotel, Ashan lay on the floor, the designated sleeping spot while Jerry had the bed — sipping a protein shake, arms behind his head.
"I feel different," he said.
"You are," Jerry replied.
Ashan looked toward the ceiling, his body sore but alive.
"Think I'm ready?"
Jerry smirked. "For what's next? Not even close. But you're no longer at zero."
---