The air in the Gorilla Position was thick with anticipation and the hum of adrenaline, but for Chikara, it felt as if time had drawn to a near standstill. She stood there, heart racing, peeking through the velvet curtain, her gaze locked onto the ring that glimmered under the bright lights like a cherished shrine. Before her stood the team she was to face that night—a group of fierce competitors, each with their own stories etched into their bodies, their determination palpable. A flutter of nerves danced in her stomach, a reminder that this was not Sumo.
“This isn’t like Sumo…” she whispered to herself, the weight of her traditions hanging heavy on her shoulders. Yet, beneath the surface of anxiety, hope bloomed like a cherry blossom:
*I hope they will be respectful!*
Chikara was a warrior forged in the fires of discipline and honor, shaped under the ancient rituals of her Sumo training. She was formidable, a towering 300-pound powerhouse, built not just to withstand the brutality that the wrestling world could unleash, but to command respect through her every movement. But the wrestling arena was a different battlefield, fraught with a pulse of chaos and unpredictability that she was still learning to navigate. She clung to the teachings of her past, an anchor in the storm of the present. She had seen LAW matches and knew that at times, close physical contact could lead to lewd situations. Still, Chikara was not like a monk, and anything was fair given the rules in her mind. If she happened to use her considerable size to overpower a rival, then it was down to the rival to counter.
Moments later, her Tachimochi—a sword bearer, the personification of her heritage—appeared at her side, silent yet resolute. They shared a bond forged through years of training, each breath a testament to their respect for tradition. Chikara’s heart ached a little; normally, her Tsuyuharai would have accompanied her, a symbol of her lineage and strength, but tonight, she knew the people craved the flamboyance of professional wrestling. Still, she hoped to infuse a touch of her culture into this raucous world.
As the first soft notes of a traditional Japanese melody floated from the speakers, a wave of tranquility washed over her. This was her moment. With her silk dressing gown cascading down her form like a flowing river, she moved with purpose, each step an echo of the elegance of her Sumo lineage. The audience buzzed with curiosity, captivated not just by her presence but by the aura of honor she carried like a sacred shield.
"And their opponent, she is known as the Powerful Mountain. Weighing in at 300 pounds. CHIKARA YUUUUUUUUUMMMMAAAAAAAA!"
With deliberate grace, her Tachimochi entered the ring first, squatting down to present the sword, a testament to her dedication. Chikara climbed the steps, the raw power of her heavy form beneath the silk. As she entered the ring, she peeled away the gown in one fluid motion, revealing her imposing frame.
The crowd gasped, not in fear, but in awe. The sight of her was monumental, a blend of strength and grace—an embodiment of the very fight she was about to unleash.
Drawing on the customs of her ancestors, she took a moment to scatter the salt, a purifying gesture that filled the canvas with intention and reverence. Each grain danced in the air, a prayer to the spirits of the fighting past, a promise to the warriors who had come before her. Then, with a powerful stomp, she brought her foot crashing down—a thunderous declaration that sent vibrations rolling through the ring. Her Tachimochi raised the sword high, the blade glinting like a beacon, drawing the attention of all around.
This was more than a show; this was a ceremonial rite that no one in LAW had ever seen before. The crowd, caught between the unexpected magnificence before them and the exhilarating anticipation of the impending match, fell silent, respect washing over them for the traditions that lay bare in the heart of this powerful woman.
With her customs honored, Chikara straightened, rising from her squat to unleash a mighty war cry that reverberated through the venue, arms raised high in a declaration of both respect and ferocity. The Tachimochi hurried to retrieve the dressing gown, disappearing from the ring with a proud nod, leaving her to face the challenge ahead alone.
As Chikara strode to the center of the ring, her voice boomed, fierce and unwavering,
“I am honored to wrestle each of you; let’s have a fight that our ancestors can enjoy!” The challenge hung in the air, electric, as the tension shifted from homage to a battle of wills. In that instant, Chikara was not just a wrestler; she was the living spirit of the fight itself—a bridge between past and present, tradition and evolution, ready to carve her legacy into the annals of this new world.
