As Hiroshi and his father made their way through the bustling streets of Sunagakure, Hiroshi's mind was abuzz with calculations and possibilities. Having scoured the academy library for every scrap of information on puppetry, he had carefully compiled a mental list of the materials he would need.
"First, the frame," he thought. "Desert ironwood—dense, durable, and lightweight enough to support mobility." The ironwood, native to the harsh deserts, was prized for its resistance to wear and tear. "For the joints, steel will work, though I'll have to consider alternatives if the weight distribution isn't ideal. And I'll need some composite material for flexible components, maybe treated animal sinew or a synthetic fiber if available."
Hiroshi frowned slightly. "Chakra threads are the real challenge. Crafting a puppet is one thing, but building it to respond to chakra manipulation? That's a whole new field." While his background as an engineer gave him a strong foundation in mechanics, he acknowledged this wasn't the same as designing machines. Here, he had to factor in the peculiarities of chakra—a force that defied traditional engineering principles.
"I'll start with the basics," he decided. "Get the frame ready, test the joints, and figure out how to integrate chakra threads later. One step at a time." He glanced at his father, walking purposefully beside him. "Hopefully, this shop has everything I need."
---
After some time, they arrived at their destination: Chikamatsu's Crafts, a shop nestled near the heart of the village. The name immediately caught Hiroshi's attention. "Chikamatsu... the legendary puppeteer who elevated puppetry into an art form." He had read about Monzaemon Chikamatsu in the library, the forefather of modern puppetry and a figure revered in Sunagakure's history.
He looked up at the shop's weathered sign with a mixture of awe and curiosity. It was a modest building, its wooden façade bearing the marks of time, but the pride in its heritage was evident. "A whole shop dedicated to puppets," he murmured. "I shouldn't be surprised—Sunagakure is the pioneer of puppetry, after all. It's ingrained in the culture here."
The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, and Hiroshi's wide-eyed wonder was quickly replaced with confusion. The interior was vibrant and colorful, with rows upon rows of… toys.
Brightly painted wooden puppets dangled from strings, their comical expressions frozen mid-dance. Miniature marionettes adorned the shelves, alongside simple, cheerful models meant for children. Hiroshi blinked, his brain struggling to reconcile his expectations with reality. "This… this is a toy shop," he muttered under his breath.
Hachirou, his perpetually stoic father, glanced around the shop, clearly unfazed. "Looks like a good place to start," he said, his deadpan tone betraying none of the amusement lurking beneath.
Hiroshi turned to him, his voice rising in exasperation. "Father, these are toys! I can't use this for ninja puppetry!"
Before Hachirou could respond, a cheerful young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, emerged from behind the counter. "Welcome to Chikamatsu's Crafts!" he said brightly, giving Hiroshi a wide smile. "Looking for a puppet, kid? We've got everything from dancing clowns to fire-breathing dragons!"
Hiroshi stared at him, dumbfounded. "I'm not here for toys," he said slowly, enunciating each word as if the shopkeeper might not understand otherwise. "I'm looking for materials to build a ninja puppet. You know, for combat?"
The shopkeeper's smile widened, clearly misinterpreting the request. "Ah, I see! You want a dragon with extra firepower!" He winked conspiratorially. "We've got just the thing!"
Hiroshi groaned audibly, while his father's lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. "Father," Hiroshi said through gritted teeth, "did you bring me to a toy shop?"
Before Hachirou could answer, a deep chuckle echoed from the back of the store. Hiroshi turned toward the sound and spotted an elderly man, perhaps in his seventies or eighties, seated behind a cluttered workbench. The man was small and wiry, his sharp eyes gleaming with amusement beneath bushy brows.
"Young man," the old man said, his voice dry but not unkind, "aren't you a little too young to be talking about ninja puppets?"
Hiroshi bristled. "I'm in the ninja academy, and I can buy materials if I want to," he said firmly.
The old man chuckled again, shaking his head. "Building a ninja puppet isn't something a five-year-old can just decide to do. You need to learn the basics first. Chakra threads, for instance. Do you even know how to create them?"
Hiroshi hesitated, and the old man seized the opportunity. "That's what I thought. You should save your father's money, kid. Learn some basics before you start buying materials you won't know how to use."
Hiroshi scowled and turned to the younger shopkeeper. "You should fire him," he declared. "He's clearly obstructing your business."
The shopkeeper burst out laughing. "Fire him? He's the owner."
Hiroshi froze, turning back toward the old man with a look of utter disbelief. The old man smirked, clearly enjoying the moment.
"Listen, kid," he said, leaning forward. "I'm not trying to make fun of you. I'm giving you advice. Puppetry isn't like throwing kunai or swinging a sword. It's an art, a craft, and it takes years to master. If you're serious, start small. Learn the basics. Maybe then I'll give you a discount."
Hiroshi frowned, the man's words stirring something in him. Despite the initial frustration, he could sense the sincerity behind the old man's advice. "I already know the basics," he said.
The old man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Is that so? Let's see, then."
He asked Hiroshi a question about mechanical engineering—a foundational concept in joint articulation. Hiroshi answered immediately, providing a detailed explanation along with examples. The old man's expression shifted, surprise flickering in his eyes.
"That's… not bad," the old man admitted. "But anyone can memorize a textbook. Let's try something else."
He fired off several more questions, each one probing deeper into the intricacies of engineering and mechanics. Hiroshi answered them all, his confidence growing with each response. By the end, the old man was staring at him with open curiosity.
"You're not just any kid," the old man said finally. "Your knowledge of the basics is… well, it's better than some so-called experts I've met. Where did you learn all this?"
Hiroshi shrugged. "I've always been interested in how things work."
The old man studied him for a long moment before finally speaking. "Hiroshi, was it? Would you like to become my disciple?"
Hiroshi blinked, taken aback by the sudden offer. "Disciple? Are you a veteran puppeteer ninja?"
The old man shook his head. "No, I'm not a ninja. I'm a true puppeteer."
"What's the difference?" Hiroshi asked, genuinely curious.
The old man's eyes gleamed as a small smile played on his lips. "Let me tell you the history of puppetry," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's a story of art, war, and innovation…"
The old man began to speak, his voice steady and filled with a pride that seemed to transcend his years. Hiroshi leaned forward, sensing that this was not merely a lecture but a story woven into the very fabric of Sunagakure's identity.
"Puppetry wasn't always what it is today," the old man began, his gaze distant, as though he were looking into the past itself. "Before the art found its place in the battlefield, it was a form of storytelling, a means to captivate audiences with tales of heroes and gods. Monzaemon Chikamatsu, the father of puppetry as we know it, was a master of this craft. His puppets weren't weapons; they were expressions of emotion, capable of conveying the beauty and tragedy of life in ways no words could."
Hiroshi nodded, recalling snippets of what he had read.
"But Monzaemon was a visionary," the old man continued. "He saw beyond entertainment. He believed that puppets could be more than performers—they could be tools of ingenuity. When war loomed on Sunagakure's horizon, he began collaborating with shinobi, adapting his creations for combat. By fusing the delicate artistry of puppetry with the deadly precision of ninja tactics, he invented the Puppet Technique. It was revolutionary—a means for a shinobi to extend their reach, fight at a distance, and wield weapons no human hand could manage."
The old man's voice grew softer, more introspective. "But Monzaemon's vision didn't stop there. He dreamed of puppets that could go beyond battle, that could transform the world in ways no one else had imagined. Puppets that could heal the injured on the battlefield. Puppets that could build homes and irrigation systems, bringing life to the desert sands. Puppets that could entertain, educate, and inspire."
Hiroshi blinked, startled by the breadth of the vision. "I thought puppetry was mostly about combat," he admitted.
The old man smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "That's what it became, thanks to war. The shinobi of Sunagakure perfected puppetry as a weapon, and the Puppet Brigade was formed to ensure our village remained at the forefront of the art. But in their pursuit of innovation for war, many forgot the other potential puppetry held. Monzaemon didn't create puppetry for destruction—he created it for creation. For connection. For possibility."
The shop fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the history settling over them.
The old man broke the silence, his tone growing more passionate. "That's why I call myself a true puppeteer. I don't limit myself to making puppets for killing. I've spent my life trying to honor Monzaemon's original vision—making puppets for every purpose imaginable. Puppets that can weave fabric, harvest crops, or carry supplies through the desert. Puppets that can play music, tell stories, or teach children. I believe puppetry can do more than win wars—it can change lives."
Hiroshi was struck by the depth of the man's ambition. "So why isn't that side of puppetry more well-known?"
The old man sighed. "Because people only value what they see as practical. Combat puppetry is practical—it wins battles, saves lives on the field. But an irrigation puppet? A storyteller puppet? People don't see the immediate benefit. They see toys, novelties. And so, the art stagnates, reduced to a shadow of what it could be."
Hiroshi clenched his fists, a fire igniting in his chest. "But it doesn't have to be that way."
The old man raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "No, it doesn't. But it takes vision and dedication to change the way people see things. Monzaemon proved that with his work, and so did the generations of puppeteers who followed him. If you truly want to master puppetry, Hiroshi, you need to decide what kind of puppeteer you want to be. Will you follow the well-trodden path of combat, or will you carve your own way forward?"
Hiroshi met the old man's gaze, the determination in his eyes unmistakable. "Why not both? I can honor Monzaemon's vision by mastering puppetry for all its purposes. Combat, creation, and everything in between."
The old man chuckled, a glint of approval in his eyes. "Ambitious. I like that. But ambition alone won't get you there. You'll need skill, knowledge, and patience."
Hiroshi nodded. "Then teach me. Not just how to build puppets, but how to think like a true puppeteer."
The old man leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You're young, but you've got potential. If you're willing to learn, I'll teach you what I know. But remember—this isn't just about learning how to use your hands. Puppetry is an art of the mind and spirit as much as the body. If you're ready for that, we'll start tomorrow."
Hiroshi smiled, a rare flicker of excitement breaking through his usually composed demeanor. "I'm ready."
The old man smirked, nodding once. "Good. Then let's see if you can live up to Monzaemon's legacy—and maybe, just maybe, surpass it."
Hiroshi hesitated for a moment, the weight of everything he had just learned swirling in his mind. The old man's words had ignited something within him, but they had also left a lingering question. He looked up, his curiosity breaking through. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with wonder.
The old man paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. For a moment, he seemed larger than life, as if the weight of countless stories and secrets rested behind that smile. "You'll find out soon enough," he said, his tone cryptic, his voice brimming with mystery.