Ashan shot awake.
The room was dim, the filtered light of Tokyo's early morning creeping through the blinds. He sat up from the floor, stretching with a surprising lightness in his limbs. That ridiculous mountain of food Jerry forced into him yesterday... it actually worked.
Jerry was already awake, of course. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms folded, eyes locked on the wall.
"You slept like a corpse," Jerry said without turning.
Ashan stood, cracking his neck. "I'm ready to go back."
"No."
Ashan blinked. "What?"
Jerry looked at him now, eyes calm but firm. "You're not going back to train."
Ashan furrowed his brow. "I feel great. I can go-"
"You're not going back to train," Jerry interrupted. "You're going back to fight."
---
The stable was alive with grunts and stomps.
Barefoot men of all sizes trained in the wide wooden space: pounding the floor, slamming into practice logs, or throwing each other with thunderous crashes. Ashan stepped in, and a few of the wrestlers from the day before greeted him with enthusiastic bows and broken English.
"Friend!"
"Skinny boy!"
"You come back!"
Jerry slapped Ashan's back hard enough to jolt him forward. "They like you. You're entertaining. Good for morale."
Ashan narrowed his eyes. "Are we seriously doing fights?"
Jerry nodded toward one of the younger men stepping into a small practice ring. "Get in."
---
The first match was a blur.
Ashan barely saw the hands before he was flat on his back, coughing. The second went the same. So did the third.
Every time, Jerry stood back, arms folded. Not helping. Just watching.
But between matches, a stocky man with a thick black mawashi and a sharp jawline approached. He was shorter than most, but his posture radiated control. He bowed to Ashan and spoke in slow English.
"Daisuke. Sekiwake."
Ashan blinked. "Oh... uh, nice to meet you."
"You use arms. Too much arms. You push from chest, not foot. No good."
Ashan looked over at Jerry, who shrugged. "I'm not your coach. He is now."
Daisuke barked a few words in Japanese to one of the younger wrestlers, who grinned and stepped forward. Ashan returned to the ring. This time, he lasted longer.
He remembered Daisuke's words. Lowered his hips. Moved with his whole body. When the push came, he didn't fight it head-on, he flowed. Slid. Countered with his own weight.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't a win. But he stayed on his feet for 30 seconds.
And that made the room go quiet.
One of the higher-ranked wrestlers nodded slowly from the sidelines. "Not bad," he said in rough English. "Still weak. But… maybe something inside."
Daisuke helped Ashan up. "You are not sumo. But maybe... something new. Strong in own way."
Ashan panted, sweat dripping from his jaw. "Thanks... I think."
---
Later that evening, Jerry brought him to a bathhouse tucked away in a quiet alley. The water was hot, almost unbearable at first. Ashan sank into it with a hiss, letting his muscles loosen.
They sat in silence. Steam rose around them, muffling the world.
After a long while, Jerry finally spoke. "I used to get stomped. Every match. I wasn't strong. Not really. Just had guts. I lost for years."
Ashan turned slightly. "Seriously?"
Jerry nodded. "You think I was born like this? Nah. I was dumb, cocky, and didn't know how to fight. Not really. Not until I learned to listen. To watch. To take the beatings and learn from every one."
Ashan looked down into the rippling water. "So... I'm not useless?"
Jerry snorted. "You're worse than useless."
Ashan blinked.
"But that's good news," Jerry said. "'Cause when you've got nothin'? All you can do is grow."
Ashan looked back down… then smiled.
---