Capítulo 2 - El peso del camino

El sol caía espeso sobre el patio de tierra. El aire olía a polvo caliente y hojas cocidas por la luz. Allí, en el corazón de su pequeña casa rural, Buchimaru se estrellaba una y otra vez contra la barriga impenetrable de su padre. Genzō, un viejo hipopótamo de lomo ancho y ojos sabios, resistía cada embate con la firmeza de una montaña. El cuerpo de Buchi, aún redondo, tierno y torpe, rebotaba contra ese muro de músculo y grasa compacta, cayendo de espaldas entre risas, resoplidos y gritos guturales.

-¡Otra vez! -tronaba la voz de Genzō mientras se daba dos enormes palmadas en la panza-. ¡Ahora dosukoi!

Buchimaru se tambaleaba, levantando una nube de polvo, los cachetes rojizos y los ojos brillando con determinación. Lo imitaba con dificultad, palmeándose su barriga más blandita y sacando el pecho como podía.

-¡D-Dosukoi...! -balbuceaba, antes de lanzarse de nuevo.

El choque era brutal, cómico, glorioso. Terminaban embadurnados de barro, la piel brillando de sudor, jadeando con la lengua afuera como si fuesen luchadores de verdad. El mundo entero se reducía a esos minutos en el patio, a ese ritual secreto entre padre e hijo.

Luego venía el premio.

Se sentaban frente al gran tazón humeante de chankonabe que preparaba Genzo junto a grandes tazones de arroz. Comían como si tuvieran que alimentar tres cuerpos cada uno, vaciando la olla sin dejar rastros.

-Tienes que comer mucho, Buchi -le decía su padre, acariciándole la cabeza con la mano ancha y rugosa-. Tienes que ser un macho grande y fuerte. No solo aquí -y le tocaba el pecho-, también aquí. -Y le daba un golpe suave en la frente.

Pero no todo era tan fácil.

A veces, cuando entrenaban en el patio, Buchimaru miraba de reojo la calle de tierra que pasaba frente a su casa, temiendo que algún compañero de escuela lo viera medio desnudo, empujando y resbalando por el suelo con ese trozo grueso de tela enrollado entre las piernas.

-Papá... ¿y si se ríen? -preguntó una tarde, mientras se ajustaba el mawashi con torpeza-. ¿Si me ven así? A ti también...

Genzo se agachó frente a él y le habló con firmeza, pero con cariño.

-Escúchame bien, Buchimaru. El mawashi no es una ropa cualquiera. Es un símbolo. En Japón, un macho que entra al dohyō lleva solo su cuerpo y su mawashi. No es vergonzoso. Es honorable.

Buchi bajó la mirada. Genzo tomó la tela y comenzó a atársela con calma, firme, con manos acostumbradas.

-Esto es lo que te abraza cuando luchas. No un uniforme, no una máscara. Solo esto. Porque un verdadero rikishi lucha con lo que es. El mawashi representa tu hombría, tu honor, tu orgullo. Es lo único que te cubre... porque no tienes nada que esconder.

El padre le levantó el mentón con suavidad.

-Así luchan los machos en Japón. No con vergüenza, sino con el corazón abierto, con el cuerpo dispuesto. Luchan por sus sueños, por sus padres, por sus amigos. Y eso, hijo, es lo que hace al sumo el combate más honorable que existe.

Desde ese día, Buchimaru ya no se quejó más del mawashi. Aprendió a atarlo con las manos grandes de su padre guiando las suyas, repitiendo los nudos, la tensión exacta, el equilibrio entre fuerza y cuidado. Y cuando se lo colocaba, lo hacía con reverencia. Como quien se pone una armadura sagrada.

Casi nadie en su pueblo practicaba sumo. Lo veían como una rareza, una tradición lejana que apenas sobrevivía en los festivales. Pero Genzo sabía que el sumo era más que un deporte: era un camino. Y su hijo tenía madera.

Cada vez que se enteraba de un torneo local, ya fuera infantil o abierto, Genzo se levantaba antes del amanecer, empacaba lo necesario y llevaba a Buchimaru a competir en los pueblos vecinos. Montaban su viejo carrito, cruzaban los caminos de tierra, y al llegar, el pequeño hipopótamo causaba sensación.

"Pequeño" era solo un decir. A su edad, Buchimaru ya era enorme. Un tamaño normal para una cría de hipopótamo, sí, pero aun así, imponente entre los demás niños.

Con su mawashi bien atado, los pies firmes sobre la tierra, Buchimaru se ganaba la atención de todos. Algunos lo subestimaban al principio por su juventud o su carita redonda, pero bastaba un combate para entender que había algo en él.

Los rikishis delgados salían volando con el primer empuje. No tenían cómo resistir su fuerza bruta. Y los más pesados, como jabalíes, tigres o rinocerontes, quedaban atónitos al sentir que ese joven hipopótamo sabía moverse y empujar como si llevara años haciéndolo. Era lento, sí, pero era peso vivo, inamovible. Y cuando avanzaba, lo hacía como un río.

Con cada torneo, Buchimaru crecía. No solo de tamaño, sino de presencia. Sus compañeros ya no se metían con él. Había dejado de ser el niño regordete del que se burlaban; ahora lo miraban con cuidado, con miedo o respeto. El cuerpo de Buchi se endurecía, su empuje era brutal. Chocaba como un tren sin frenos. Disfrutaba de hacer retroceder a sus oponentes, de hacerlos volar fuera del círculo, de verlos revolcarse en la tierra.

Cada vez que ganaba, levantaba los brazos como su padre le había enseñado, con orgullo. Apretaba los puños, inflaba el pecho. El dohyō comenzaba a parecerle un lugar donde podía reinar.

También comenzó a notar otras cosas. En las competencias de adultos donde su padre subía al dohyō con su viejo mawashi ceñido, Buchi observaba los cuerpos de los otros rikishi. El modo en que el mawashi apretaba las entrepiernas, cómo se les metía entre las nalgas cuando se movían. A veces, el roce, el peso, los gruñidos... Un calor extraño le subía a la cara. Sacudía esos pensamientos, incómodo, sin saber qué hacer con ellos. Pero el sumo tenía sus propias formas de hablar con el cuerpo, y él apenas empezaba a entenderlas.

Un día, entrenando en el patio trasero de su casa, pasó algo inesperado. Genzo y Buchimaru estaban cubiertos de tierra, empapados en sudor, gruñendo entre empujones. Entrenaban butsukari, uno de los ejercicios más duros. Genzo lo recibía como una montaña, firme, enorme. Buchi jadeaba, empujando con todo su cuerpo y cuando llegaba al borde del dohyo Genzo hacia caer a Buchi una y otra vez. Solo llevaban sus mawashi. Los músculos temblaban bajo el sol. La tierra se les pegaba al cuerpo como costra viva.

Fue entonces que un leve carraspeo los sacó del trance. Un extraño los observaba desde la entrada: un viejo león enorme, de porte majestuoso, vestido con un yukata oscuro y una melena plateada. Buchimaru dio un respingo, y justo en ese momento Genzo volvió a empujarlo con fuerza. El joven cayó de bruces... justo frente al visitante.

Buchi dio un respingo justo cuando su padre volvió a empujarlo con fuerza, y cayó rodando por el polvo... hasta detenerse justo frente al visitante.

-¡Ugh! -bufó, sacudiéndose la tierra con la cara roja, sin entender de inmediato quién era aquel imponente león vestido con un yukata oscuro.

Frente a él, el visitante lo observaba con una sonrisa tranquila. Era un león corpulento, de melena blanca recogida con discreción, vestido con un yukata elegante de lino oscuro, su porte era majestuoso aún más de cerca que contrastaba con el patio polvoriento. Su voz sonó grave, clara.

-Soy Daigozan, ex-Ōzeki. Dirijo el heya Shiranui, en la capital.

Genzo abrió los ojos de par en par. Su sorpresa se convirtió en una carcajada orgullosa. Caminó hacia el león y lo abrazó con fuerza, empapándolo de sudor y tierra sin siquiera pensarlo. Solo después se dio cuenta del desastre.

-¡Qué honor tenerlo aquí, oyakata! ¡Perdón por el estado!

Daigozan rio con una sonrisa serena.

-Estoy acostumbrado -dijo-. Cuando uno entrena a machos jóvenes, el barro y el sudor se vuelven parte del aire. Hasta se vuelven... familiares.

-¿Y a qué debemos su visita?.

El león volvió la mirada a Buchi, que ya se había puesto de pie, aún jadeante, cubierto de tierra, con el mawashi empapado de sudor.

-Vi a tu hijo en el último torneo local -dijo, esbozando una leve sonrisa-. Tiene lo que se necesita. Vine a invitarlo a entrenar en mi heya. Si acepta, puede comenzar su camino como profesional.

Genzo soltó una carcajada de alegría y, sin pensarlo dos veces, volvió a abrazar a Daigozan... y lo levantó del suelo como si estuvieran en medio de un yorikiri. El viejo león rio con fuerza, atrapado en el pecho sudoroso de aquel macho fornido.

-¡Ja ja ja! ¡No lo puedo creer! ¡Mi hijo en la capital!

-Supongo que eso es un "sí" de tu parte -dijo Daigozan, riendo entre sofocado-, pero necesito saber si tu hijo también acepta.

Buchimaru no respondió de inmediato. Seguía respirando agitado. Su corazón golpeaba como un tambor de guerra.

Entonces asintió. Una vez. Con firmeza.

Ese era su camino.

Y ahora fue Genzo quien lo levantó a él, riendo como un niño.

-¡Vamos! ¡Tenemos que luchar frente a Daigozan-sama! ¡Enséñale de qué estás hecho! ¡Y cuando terminemos, les serviré mi famoso chanko!

El patio volvió a llenarse de polvo y energía. Y por un momento, entre risas, tierra y sudor, el sumo se sintió como lo que era: el centro del mundo.


***********


Capítulo 3 - El Silencio de los Grandes Pasos

El tren avanzaba con ese zumbido constante que parecía arrullar y recordar al mismo tiempo. Las ventanas temblaban ligeramente con el movimiento, y el paisaje se deslizaba como un sueño largo: colinas lejanas, campos de cultivo inundados por la lluvia reciente, árboles que se inclinaban con la brisa como si saludaran a los viajeros.

Buchimaru iba sentado junto a la imponente figura de Daigozan. El viejo león de melena cana, mirada fija y cuerpo ancho como el tronco de un árbol viejo, lo acompañaba en silencio. No era un silencio incómodo, sino lleno de respeto, de comprensión no dicha. El tipo de silencio que solo los guerreros conocen.

El joven hipopótamo mantenía la mirada baja, observando sus propias manos. Fuertes, gruesas, con los nudillos abultados por años de lucha. Había entrenado desde niño, empujado neumáticos, cargado piedras, lanzado a otros pequeños al polvo. Su cuerpo era poderoso, pero dentro... algo se le estrujaba aún. Un nudo que no era físico.

No podía quitarse de la cabeza la despedida con su padre.

Decían que los hipopótamos eran de mal carácter, que eran bestias agresivas y bruscas por naturaleza. Pero quienes decían eso jamás habían visto llorar a Genzo.

Genzo, el coloso de piel curtida, espalda ancha y pecho cubierto por un vello espeso como un bosque . El padre que había construido con sus manos un ring de práctica para su hijo, que cada noche le servía arroz con pescado seco sin pedirle que ganara, solo que diera lo mejor. El mismo que, ese mismo amanecer, se quebró al ver a su hijo partir.

Lo recordó con una precisión punzante.

---

-Ve por ellos, hijo -le dijo Genzo, con la voz pastosa, temblorosa-. Tienes todo para triunfar... Que el fuego de tu corazón te guíe.

Extendió una de sus manazas y la posó sobre el pecho desnudo de Buchimaru, justo sobre su corazón. Los dedos se arrastraron con lentitud hacia arriba, como si quisieran llevar esa llama consigo, como si quisieran trazar con ellos una promesa.

-Y no dejes que nada te detenga... -añadió, mirándolo con fuerza-. Ni tú mismo. ¿Me oíste?

Y sin esperar respuesta, lo golpeó suavemente en la frente con los nudillos. No era un golpe. Era una marca. Un sello invisible entre padre e hijo.

Buchimaru había querido hablar, pero solo atinó a abrazarlo con fuerza, a enterrarse en su pecho de roble y decir entre sollozos lo único que sabía decir:
-Te amo... lo haré, papá.

---

En el vagón del tren, el joven no había llorado. Se lo prohibía a sí mismo. Pero esa imagen lo acompañaba como si Genzo estuviera sentado al otro lado del pasillo, con los ojos aún húmedos.

No sabía qué decir. Ni a Daigozan, ni a sí mismo.

Entonces, la voz grave del oyakata rompió el silencio:

-Es normal...

Buchimaru parpadeó, sin entender.

-¿Hee...?

Daigozan giró ligeramente el rostro hacia él, sin perder esa expresión serena, autoritaria pero humana.

-Te digo que es normal -repitió, más suave esta vez-. Muchos de los chicos que invito a mi establo están emocionados, llenos de orgullo por la oportunidad de entrar al mundo del sumo profesional... pero no dejan de ser niños, como tú. Corpulentos, sí. Fuertes. Pero en el fondo aún están dejando a sus padres, sus casas... su mundo. Sentirte así, ahora, es parte de tu formación. Parte de convertirte en un verdadero rikishi.

Buchimaru sintió que el nudo en su garganta apretaba un poco más. No por debilidad, sino porque esas palabras le cayeron como agua sobre una herida. Respiró hondo, contuvo el llanto y solo asintió con la cabeza, apretando los labios.

Daigozan asintió también, y volvió a mirar por la ventana, como si respetara la batalla interior que el joven libraba en silencio.

El tren seguía su curso, como la vida misma. Rumbo a la capital. Rumbo al heya.

Buchimaru, por primera vez, comenzó a preguntarse qué clase de rikishis conocería allá. ¿Serían como él? ¿O más grandes, más bravos, más rápidos? ¿Serían nobles o crueles? ¿Habría amistad... o solo competencia?

No lo sabía.

Pero algo sí tenía claro: ese fuego que su padre le nombró... aún ardía.

Y estaba por encender una nueva vida.

---

Chapter 2 - The Weight of the Road

The sun beat down heavily on the dirt yard. The air smelled of hot dust and leaves baked by the light. There, in the heart of their small rural home, Buchimaru crashed again and again against his father's impenetrable belly. Genzō, an old hippopotamus with a broad back and wise eyes, withstood each blow with the firmness of a mountain. Buchi's body, still round, tender, and clumsy, bounced against that wall of muscle and compacted fat, falling backward amid laughter, snorts, and guttural screams.

"Again!" Genzō's voice thundered as he slapped his belly twice. "Now, Dosukoi!"

Buchimaru staggered, raising a cloud of dust, his cheeks reddish and his eyes shining with determination. He imitated him with difficulty, patting his softest belly and sticking out his chest as best he could.

"D-Dosukoi...!" he stammered, before launching himself again.

The clash was brutal, comical, glorious. They ended up covered in mud, their skin glistening with sweat, panting with their tongues hanging out as if they were real wrestlers. The whole world was reduced to those minutes in the courtyard, to that secret ritual between father and son.

Then came the reward.

They sat in front of the large steaming bowl of chankonabe that Genzo prepared alongside large bowls of rice. They ate as if they had to feed three bodies each, emptying the pot without a trace.

"You have to eat a lot, Buchi," his father would tell him, stroking his head with his broad, rough hand. "You have to be a big, strong man. Not just here"—and he touched his chest—"here too." And he gently tapped him on the forehead.

But it wasn't all that easy.

Sometimes, when they were training in the courtyard, Buchimaru would glance at the dirt road that ran in front of his house, afraid that a classmate might see him half-naked, pushing and sliding on the ground with that thick piece of cloth wrapped between his legs.

"Dad... what if they laugh?" he asked one afternoon, clumsily adjusting his mawashi. "What if they see me like this? You too..."

Genzo crouched down in front of him and spoke firmly, but lovingly.

"Listen carefully, Buchimaru. The mawashi isn't just any garment. It's a symbol. In Japan, a male who enters the dohyō wears only his body and his mawashi. It's not shameful. It's honorable."

Buchi lowered his gaze. Genzo took the cloth and began to tie it calmly, firmly, with practiced hands.

"This is what embraces you when you fight. Not a uniform, not a mask. Just this. Because a true rikishi fights with what he is. The mawashi represents your manhood, your honor, your pride. It's the only thing that covers you... because you have nothing to hide."

His father gently lifted his chin.

"This is how men fight in Japan. Not with shame, but with an open heart, with a willing body. They fight for their dreams, for their parents, for their friends. And that, son, is what makes sumo the most honorable combat there is."

From that day on, Buchimaru no longer complained about the mawashi. He learned to tie it with his father's large hands guiding his own, repeating the knots, the exact tension, the balance between strength and care. And when he put it on, he did so with reverence. Like someone putting on sacred armor.

Almost no one in his village practiced sumo. They saw it as a rarity, a distant tradition that barely survived in festivals. But Genzo knew that sumo was more than a sport: it was a path. And his son had the makings.

Whenever he heard about a local tournament, whether children's or public, Genzo would get up before dawn, pack his essentials, and take Buchimaru to compete in the neighboring villages. They would ride in his old cart, cross the dirt roads, and upon arrival, the little hippopotamus would cause a sensation.

"Little" was just a figure of speech. At his age, Buchimaru was already enormous. A normal size for a baby hippopotamus, yes, but still imposing among the other children.

With his mawashi securely tied, his feet firmly on the ground, Buchimaru commanded everyone's attention. Some underestimated him at first because of his youth or his round face, but it only took one fight to understand there was something about him.

The thin rikishis flew off with the first push. They had no way of resisting his brute strength. And the heavier ones, like wild boars, tigers, or rhinoceroses, were astonished to feel that this young hippopotamus could move and push as if he had been doing it for years. He was slow, yes, but he was a living, immovable weight. And when he moved forward, he did so like a river.

With each tournament, Buchimaru grew. Not just in size, but in presence. His teammates no longer bothered him. He was no longer the chubby kid they'd mocked; now they looked at him with caution, with fear or respect. Buchi's body hardened, his thrust was brutal. He crashed like a train without brakes. He enjoyed pushing his opponents back, sending them flying out of the circle, watching them roll in the dirt.


Whenever he heard about a local tournament, whether for children or for the public, Genzo would get up before dawn, pack his essentials, and take Buchimaru to compete in the neighboring villages. They would ride his old cart, cross the dirt roads, and upon arrival, the little hippopotamus would cause a stir.

"Little" was just a figure of speech. At his age, Buchimaru was already enormous. A normal size for a baby hippopotamus, yes, but still imposing among the other children.

With his mawashi securely strapped on, his feet firmly planted on the ground, Buchimaru commanded everyone's attention. Some underestimated him at first because of his youth or his round face, but it only took one fight to understand there was something about him.

The skinny rikishis would fly away with the first push. They had no way of resisting his brute strength. And the heaviest, like wild boars, tigers, or rhinos, were astonished to see that this young hippopotamus could move and push as if he'd been doing it for years. He was slow, yes, but he was a living, immovable weight. And when he moved forward, he did so like a river.

With each tournament, Buchimaru grew. Not just in size, but in presence. His teammates no longer bothered him. He was no longer the chubby kid they'd mocked; now they regarded him with caution, with fear or respect. Buchi's body hardened, his thrust brutal. He crashed like a train without brakes. He enjoyed pushing his opponents back, sending them flying out of the ring, watching them roll in the dirt.

Every time he won, he raised his arms like his father had taught him, with pride. He clenched his fists, puffed out his chest. The dohyō was beginning to feel like a place where he could reign.

He also began to notice other things. At adult competitions where his father climbed onto the dohyō with his old, tightly strapped mawashi, Buchi watched the bodies of the other rikishi. The way the mawashi squeezed their crotches, the way it dug into their buttocks when they moved. Sometimes, the friction, the weight, the grunts... A strange heat would rise to his face. He shook these thoughts off, uncomfortably, not knowing what to do with them. But sumo had its own ways of speaking to the body, and he was just beginning to understand them.

One day, training in his backyard, something unexpected happened. Genzo and Buchimaru were covered in dirt, drenched in sweat, grunting between pushes. They were practicing butsukari, one of the toughest exercises. Genzo received it like a mountain, firm, enormous. Buchi gasped, pushing with her whole body, and when she reached the edge of the dohyo, Genzo knocked Buchi off her feet again and again. They were wearing only their mawashi. Their muscles trembled in the sun. The earth clung to their bodies like a living scab.

It was then that a soft clearing of the throat brought them out of their trance. A stranger was watching them from the entrance: a huge, majestic old lion dressed in a dark yukata with a silver mane. Buchimaru flinched, and just at that moment, Genzo pushed him hard again. The young man fell face first... right in front of the visitor.

Buchi flinched just as his father pushed him hard again, and he fell rolling in the dust... until he came to a stop right in front of the visitor.

"Ugh!" he snorted, brushing the dirt off his red face, not immediately understanding who this imposing lion dressed in a dark yukata was.

In front of him, the visitor was watching him with a calm smile. It was a burly lion, with a discreetly tied-up white mane, dressed in an elegant dark linen yukata, his bearing even more majestic up close, contrasting sharply with the dusty courtyard. His voice sounded deep and clear.

"I'm Daigozan, former Ōzeki. I run the Shiranui heya in the capital."

Genzo's eyes widened. His surprise turned into a proud laugh. He walked over to the lion and hugged it tightly, drenching it with sweat and dirt without even thinking about it. Only afterward did he realize the mess.

"What an honor to have you here, oyakata! Sorry about the condition!"

Daigozan laughed with a serene smile.

"I'm used to it," he said. "When you train young males, mud and sweat become part of the air. They even become... familiar."

"And to what do we owe your visit?"

The lion turned his gaze to Buchi, who had already risen to his feet, still panting, covered in dirt, his mawashi soaked with sweat.

"I saw your son at the last local tournament," he said, giving a faint smile. "He's got what it takes." I came to invite you to train at my heya. If you accept, you can begin your journey as a professional.

Genzo burst into a joyful laugh and, without a second thought, hugged Daigozan again... and lifted him off the ground as if they were in the middle of a yorikiri. The old lion laughed heartily, trapped in the sweaty chest of the burly male.

"Ha ha ha! I can't believe it! My son in the capital!"

"I suppose that's a 'yes' from you," Daigozan said, chuckling, "but I need to know if your son agrees too."

Buchimaru didn't respond immediately. He was still breathing heavily. His heart was pounding like a war drum.

Then he nodded. Once. Firmly.

That was his way.

And now it was Genzo who lifted him up, laughing like a child.

"Come on! We have to fight in front of Daigozan-sama!" Show them what you're made of! And when we're done, I'll serve them my famous chanko!

The courtyard once again filled with dust and energy. And for a moment, amid laughter, dirt, and sweat, sumo felt like what it once was: the center of the world.


******

Chapter 3 - The Silence of the Great Steps

The train moved forward with that constant hum that seemed to lull and remind at the same time. The windows trembled slightly with the movement, and the landscape drifted by like a long dream: distant hills, fields flooded by recent rain, trees bending in the breeze as if greeting the travelers.

Buchimaru sat next to the imposing figure of Daigozan. The old lion with a gray mane, his gaze steady and body as wide as the trunk of an old tree, accompanied him in silence. It wasn't an awkward silence, but one filled with respect, with unspoken understanding. The kind of silence only warriors know.

The young hippopotamus kept his gaze lowered, studying his own hands. Strong, thick, with knuckles bulging from years of fighting. He had trained since he was a child, pushed tires, carried stones, and thrown other small ones into the dust. His body was powerful, but inside... something was still squeezing him. A knot that wasn't physical.

He couldn't get the goodbye he had with his father out of his mind.

They said hippos were bad-tempered, that they were aggressive and brusque beasts by nature. But those who said that had never seen Genzo cry.

Genzo, the colossus with tanned skin, a broad back, and a chest covered in hair as thick as a forest. The father who had built a practice ring for his son with his own hands, who served him rice and dried fish every night without asking him to win, only to give his best. The same one who, that same dawn, broke down when he saw his son leave.

He remembered it with piercing precision.

---

"Go for them, son," Genzo told him, his voice thick, trembling. "You have everything you need to succeed... May the fire in your heart guide you."

He extended one of his large hands and placed it on Buchimaru's bare chest, right over his heart. His fingers trailed slowly upward, as if they wanted to carry that flame with them, as if they wanted to make a promise with them.

"And don't let anything stop you..." he added, looking at him intently. "Not even yourself. Did you hear me?"

And without waiting for a reply, he gently tapped him on the forehead with his knuckles. It wasn't a blow. It was a mark. An invisible seal between father and son.

Buchimaru had wanted to speak, but all he could manage was to hug him tightly, bury himself in his oaken chest, and say between sobs the only thing he knew how to say:
"I love you... I will, Dad."

---

In the train car, the young man hadn't cried. He forbade himself to. But that image stayed with him as if Genzo were sitting across the aisle, his eyes still wet.

He didn't know what to say. Not to Daigozan, not to himself.

Then the oyakata's deep voice broke the silence:

"It's normal..."

Buchimaru blinked, not understanding.

"Hee...?"

Daigozan turned his face slightly toward him, still holding that serene, authoritative, yet human expression.

"I'm telling you, it's normal," he repeated, softer this time. "Many of the boys I invite to my stable are excited, filled with pride at the opportunity to enter the world of professional sumo... but they're still children, like you. Burly, yes. Strong. But deep down, they're still leaving their parents, their homes... their world. Feeling this way, now, is part of your training. Part of becoming a true rikishi."

Buchimaru felt the lump in his throat tighten a little. Not out of weakness, but because those words hit him like water on a wound. He took a deep breath, held back his tears, and simply nodded, pressing his lips together.

Daigozan nodded too, and looked out the window again, as if respecting the inner battle the young man was silently waging.

The train continued on its course, like life itself. Heading for the capital. Heading for the heya.

For the first time, Buchimaru began to wonder what kind of rikishis he would meet there. Would they be like him? Or bigger, braver, faster? Would they be noble or cruel? Would there be friendship... or just competition?

He didn't know.

But one thing was clear to him: that fire his father had named him after... still burned.

And it was about to ignite a new life.