The Flesh That Shouldn't Exist
"They called me a freak. A machine. A cheater. But I was just... born like this. And I hated that more than they ever could."
I remember the feeling before everything changed — the way a room could go silent when I walked in, the hush that followed my victories, the whispers that tried to define me. I was seventeen, National Champion, unstoppable in the ring, and yet constantly accused, doubted, feared. They tested me repeatedly, each time confirming I was clean. Still, the rumors roared louder than any victory, shaping how the world saw me.
I trained endlessly, not for medals or applause, but to tame the power inside me. Every morning at 5:30, every evening until the night swallowed the gym, I pushed my body past reason. Weighted vests, cold plunges, suplexes until my muscles screamed — I sought control over something I didn't fully understand yet.
The Momo Dojo was my crucible. My father, Tetsuro Momo, was harsh but fair, teaching me through pain and discipline, showing me that strength was as much about endurance as raw power. "Stand up. Even gods respect that," he said, and I believed it. Every scar, every bruise, every broken knuckle, was a step toward understanding the fire burning inside me.
It was in those quiet, solitary moments — standing in the locker room, staring at my reflection, feeling my muscles twitch in ways that scared me — that I first asked myself, almost whispering:
"What am I becoming?"
I didn't know yet. But soon, the world would answer.
The sun glinted off the polished roof of the national tournament hall as the helicopter touched down. Cameras flashed even before my boots hit the ground. Paparazzi swarmed, microphones thrust forward, voices colliding in a chaotic chorus.
"Shojiro! Are you a natural?"
"Do you ever feel pressure being so strong already?"
"Is it true your dad trains you with extreme methods?"
I kept my pace calm, nodding politely, answering honestly. "Yes, I'm natural," I said. "And I train hard, just like any athlete aiming to improve."
A small voice piped up from the crowd — a kid with bright eyes and a crumpled notebook. "Can I have your autograph? And a selfie, please?"
I crouched slightly to meet his gaze, smiled, and handed him my pen. "Of course. Let's get it right."
He grinned, snapping the photo with shaking hands. For a brief second, the frenzy around me melted away. The flash of cameras, the whispered rumors, the doubts — none of it mattered. Just a kid happy, and me giving him that moment.
Even in the chaos of fame and expectation, moments like that reminded me why I did this. Not for the headlines. Not for the medals. But for the people who believed in me — and the person I was trying to become.
The matches began, and I moved across the mat like I belonged to no one but the rhythm of my body. First match, a senior with years of experience, met my gaze. He lunged, confident, but within seconds I had him pinned. Three seconds. The crowd gasped; disbelief etched into every face.
Next match, a taller opponent tried to leverage his weight against me. I countered with a single-arm throw, lifting him effortlessly, slamming him to the mat with precision and control that seemed unnatural. Again, it ended in seconds.
Every bout followed the same script: wrestlers entering with bravado, attempting strategies I'd been anticipating for years, then being dismantled by speed, strength, and reflexes that weren't just advanced — they were otherworldly. I twisted, flipped, and pinned like the body obeyed commands beyond conscious thought. Moves that should have required perfect timing and effort flowed from me naturally.
By the semifinals, whispers filled the hall, some in awe, some in accusation: *How is this human?* *Impossible.* *Not fair.* I ignored them all. I wasn't performing for them; I was performing for myself, for the control I sought, for the mastery of what I had been given.
The finals came, a gauntlet of the best the nation had to offer. Each opponent fell to the same rhythm, the same precision, the same unstoppable force. When the final whistle blew, it was over. I had won the entire tournament. The trophy felt heavy in my hands — not because of its weight, but because it carried the weight of every doubt, every whisper, every eye that had ever doubted me.
The crowd erupted, a mixture of awe, respect, and incredulity. Some cheered with genuine admiration, others whispered about anomalies and genetics, but all of them were witness to the same undeniable truth: I was different.
Helicopter blades sliced through the air as I was lifted from the arena. The city fell away beneath me, the world shrinking to a distant grid of streets and lights. On the way back to the dojo, I held the trophy on my lap, staring out at the horizon, feeling the quiet satisfaction of absolute dominance and the promise of what was still to come.
The helicopter touched down at the Momo Dojo, the familiar scent of polished wood and tatami mats filling the air. As I stepped inside, my eyes widened at the sight of a celebratory feast — steaming bowls, carefully arranged plates, the works. My father, Tetsuro, stood there, arms crossed, a rare, warm smile breaking across his face.
"I hope you didn't break anything too badly," he said with a chuckle, gesturing toward the spread.
We talked for a while, laughter mixing with pride, recounting each match and move. The way the city had reacted, the whispers, the disbelief — it all felt distant now, irrelevant in the warm glow of the dojo.
Eventually, Tetsuro's tone softened, a shadow passing across his face. "Your mother would be proud of you if she were still here," he said quietly, the words carrying the weight of memory and loss.
I nodded, feeling a pang of longing for a presence I'd never fully known.
He then clapped me gently on the shoulder. "Get some rest tonight. Big training tomorrow. We're just getting started."
I didn't argue. Exhaustion and satisfaction tugged at me, and as I made my way to my room, I could still feel the warmth of my father's pride and the echo of a woman I never met but who had shaped part of who I was.