Hiroshi sat on the edge of his seat, waiting for his mentor to begin. The old man, seemingly lost in thought, finally spoke up after a long pause.
"My name is Nakamura Chikamatsu," he said, his voice steady but layered with pride.
Hiroshi's eyes widened at the name. Chikamatsu? The name was legendary in Sunagakure. "Wait… are you related to Monzaemon Chikamatsu?" Hiroshi blurted out, his tone filled with genuine curiosity.
Nakamura's face darkened, and his eyes narrowed at the young boy. "Brother? Do I look that old to you?" he snapped, a vein twitching in irritation.
Realizing his mistake, Hiroshi quickly shook his head, waving his hands defensively. "No, no! I didn't mean—"
"I'm his son, not his brother," Nakamura interrupted firmly, his tone softening ever so slightly.
Hiroshi blinked in surprise. "His son?" The weight of the revelation hit him. He was being mentored by the direct descendant of the man who had revolutionized puppetry.
Before he could ask any more questions, Nakamura raised a hand, effectively silencing him. "We can discuss my family tree later. Right now, we have work to do."
Hiroshi wanted to protest but bit his tongue. There was something about Nakamura's commanding presence that made him fall in line. He nodded, shelving his questions for another time.
---
Nakamura led Hiroshi to a modest workstation within the expansive workshop. The surface was cluttered with chisels, knives, and blocks of wood that Hiroshi recognized as desert ironwood. The old man gestured for him to sit, then picked up a block of wood and a sharp carving knife.
"Puppetry begins here," Nakamura said, holding up the block. "No chakra threads, no elaborate mechanisms, just a raw piece of material waiting to take form. A good puppeteer must first understand the material they're working with. Carving is an art and a foundation. If you cannot master this, you will fail at everything else."
Hiroshi nodded, his focus unwavering.
"Watch closely," Nakamura instructed. He held the carving knife with precision, demonstrating a few clean cuts to shape the block. "Start with the basics. Control your strokes, maintain uniformity, and don't rush. The wood will resist, but it's your job to work with it, not against it."
Hiroshi observed every movement, every flick of Nakamura's wrist. The way the old man moved was almost hypnotic, each cut deliberate and fluid.
"Now, it's your turn," Nakamura said, handing Hiroshi a fresh block of desert ironwood and a carving knife.
Hiroshi took a deep breath and positioned the knife against the block. He hesitated, then began carving. His strokes were hesitant at first, but as he focused, his confidence grew. The resistance of the ironwood was challenging, but Hiroshi found it oddly satisfying to chip away at the surface, revealing the shape within.
Nakamura watched silently, occasionally grunting in approval or shaking his head.
---
After what felt like an hour of carving, Nakamura leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Not bad," he said gruffly, inspecting Hiroshi's work. "You've got a steady hand, but carving a block is just practice. Your real task begins now."
Hiroshi straightened up, eager to hear what was next.
"I want you to carve a hand," Nakamura said. "With fingers."
Hiroshi blinked. "A hand? With fingers?"
"Yes," Nakamura confirmed. "You've seen a hand before, haven't you?"
"Of course!" Hiroshi replied.
"Good," Nakamura said. "Then carve one. I'll check your work tomorrow."
Hiroshi frowned slightly. The task seemed simple, almost too simple. But as he picked up another block of wood, doubt began to creep in. Why didn't he teach me how to make joints? he wondered. Does he want me to carve a solid hand without movable fingers? Or does he expect me to figure it out myself?
Glancing at Nakamura, Hiroshi saw the faintest trace of a smirk on the old man's face. He realized this was a test—not just of his carving skills but of his creativity and ability to think independently.
"Understood," Hiroshi said, his tone steady. He tightened his grip on the carving knife and began visualizing the task ahead.
As Hiroshi worked late into the evening, he couldn't help but feel the weight of the challenge. But despite the pressure, he was excited. This was his first real step into the world of puppetry, and he was determined to impress his enigmatic mentor.
Hiroshi wiped the sweat from his brow, leaning back to admire his work. After hours of painstaking effort, the wooden hand lay before him. Although the carving had its imperfections—uneven edges, slight scratches—it was complete. More importantly, it had functional joints.
He examined the fingers carefully, flexing them one by one. The joints moved, albeit stiffly, as expected for a first attempt. He had spent much of his time ensuring that the proportions were precise and the mechanics plausible, even if the execution lacked finesse.
It's not perfect, but it works, Hiroshi thought, allowing himself a small, proud smile.
The basics of joints had been relatively simple to grasp, thanks to his engineering background. The fingers consisted of interlocking segments connected by pivot points, each carved with precision to allow limited rotation. He had opted for a simple hinge mechanism for each joint, using slotted wood pieces instead of metal pins or other complex components.
Hiroshi picked up the hand and tested its range of motion again. The stiffness of the movement reminded him of the limitations in his carving skills. If only I had better tools... or better hands, he mused, flexing his own fingers in frustration.
Satisfied for the moment, Hiroshi carefully carried the wooden hand to his sensei.
---
Nakamura was seated at his worktable, tinkering with a small mechanism when Hiroshi approached. Without looking up, the old man spoke, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Done already? Let's see if you've made a block of wood look like a hand."
Hiroshi wordlessly placed the wooden hand on the table. Nakamura finally looked up, and his eyes widened slightly as he picked up the piece. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting every joint, every finger.
"Hmm," he murmured, flexing the fingers. They moved stiffly, with visible resistance, but they moved. His eyebrows rose as he studied the joints more closely.
"You know how to surprise me, don't you?" Nakamura finally said, his voice tinged with genuine amazement.
Hiroshi blinked, unsure if that was a compliment. "Is it good?" he asked hesitantly.
The old man chuckled, placing the hand on the table. "Good? No. Your carving is sloppy, your edges are uneven, and these joints—" He flexed the fingers again, emphasizing their stiffness. "—are about as smooth as sandpaper."
Hiroshi's heart sank, but before he could respond, Nakamura added, "But for a first attempt? For a five-year-old? This is extraordinary."
The boy's head shot up, eyes wide with surprise.
"Do you know how many years it takes most people to even think about joints, let alone carve ones that work?" Nakamura continued, tapping the wooden hand for emphasis. "They'd spend months making a block with no moving parts and call it a day. But you? You went straight to functionality. Your proportions are nearly perfect, and while the joints are crude, their design is advanced—far beyond what I expected from you."
Hiroshi felt a wave of pride but remained modest. "I just… thought about how real fingers work. I wanted it to be functional, not just decorative."
"And that," Nakamura said, pointing a finger at him, "is what separates you from most beginners. You didn't just follow instructions blindly. You thought critically about the task."
The old man leaned back in his chair, still holding the hand. He flexed the fingers again, watching their stiff but deliberate movements. "Your design shows promise, but you have a long way to go. Puppetry isn't just about making something functional. It's about refinement, elegance, and precision. The joints should be smooth, silent, and strong enough to withstand battle."
Nakamura placed the hand back on the table and began sketching on a piece of parchment. "Let me show you something," he said.
Hiroshi leaned in, watching as the old man drew a simple diagram of a finger joint. "This is what you made—a basic hinge joint," Nakamura explained, pointing to the sketch. "It works, but it's inefficient. It's prone to wear and tear, and it doesn't allow for smooth motion."
He then drew a second diagram, more intricate and refined. "This is what you should aim for—a ball-and-socket joint. It allows for a wider range of motion and is far more durable. It's more difficult to carve, but the results are worth the effort."
Hiroshi nodded, absorbing the information like a sponge.
"Remember," Nakamura continued, "the key to good joints is balance. They need to be tight enough to hold their position but loose enough to move freely. Precision is everything."
The boy studied the diagrams, already thinking of ways to improve his design.
Nakamura leaned back, crossing his arms. "You've done well, Hiroshi, but don't let it go to your head. Puppetry is a long, grueling path, and this is just the beginning."
Hiroshi straightened up, his determination evident. "What's next, Sensei?"
The old man smirked. "Eager, aren't you? Very well. Your next task is to refine this hand. Use what I've taught you about joints to make it better. I want smoother movement, better proportions, and fewer imperfections. This time, aim for something closer to perfection."
Hiroshi nodded, already formulating a plan in his mind. "I'll do my best."
"Good," Nakamura said. "Because if you think this was hard, you're in for a rude awakening when we move on to the real challenges."
As Hiroshi picked up his tools and returned to his workstation, he couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension. The journey ahead was daunting, but he was ready to face it head-on.
The next nine months were a whirlwind of routine, discipline, and relentless self-improvement for Hiroshi. Each day was carefully structured, designed to maximize his development in every area of his life. It was grueling, yet fulfilling—a rhythm that gave him a sense of purpose.
Hiroshi's mornings started before dawn. Each day began with physical training, something that had quickly become a staple of his routine. He crafted rudimentary contraptions in the workshop—simple wooden machines with moving parts—to push his reflexes and coordination to their limits. One of his favorites was a rotating arm mechanism designed to mimic an opponent's attack. If he failed to dodge or block in time, the arm would smack him, a reminder to move faster.
"Again!" he would mutter to himself, wiping sweat from his brow as he reset the contraption.
Once his body was sufficiently exhausted, Hiroshi would shift to chakra control exercises. These were some of the most frustrating yet rewarding parts of his day. He would sit cross-legged in the workshop's courtyard, focusing intently on forming a single, stable chakra thread.
The process was maddening. Sometimes the thread would snap before it even formed; other times, it would flicker weakly, barely holding shape. Yet, slowly but surely, progress came. By the end of the sixth month, Hiroshi could form a thread strong enough to lift small objects, a feat that filled him with pride.
Chakra sensing followed, though it yielded less success. The exercise was straightforward: sit still, focus, and try to sense the faintest fluctuations of energy around him. Most days, all Hiroshi felt was the wind brushing against his skin. Still, he persevered, knowing that even small gains were steps forward.
If his mornings were a test of endurance, his days at the academy were a trial of patience. Surrounded by five-year-olds with little interest in anything but playing pranks or showing off, Hiroshi found the classes tedious.
"Why do I even have to sit through this?" he'd grumble internally as the instructor went over basic concepts he had already mastered.
The monotony of the academy made his afternoons at the workshop all the more precious.
At the workshop, Hiroshi truly came alive. Each lesson with Nakamura was a deep dive into the art of puppetry. The old man was a demanding teacher, but his guidance was invaluable.
"You call this a joint?" Nakamura would scoff, holding up a misshapen piece Hiroshi had carved. "Try again. And this time, make it smooth enough to rotate without creaking."
Under his sensei's watchful eye, Hiroshi learned to refine his carving skills, experiment with different materials, and understand the intricacies of puppet design. By the fourth month, he had built his first functioning limb—an arm with fully articulated fingers.
"You're improving," Nakamura admitted grudgingly, examining the piece. "But don't get cocky. You're still miles away from making a real puppet."
Nine months passed in this relentless cycle. Day by day, Hiroshi honed his body, his chakra control, and his craftsmanship. The gains were incremental, but they added up, each small victory building on the last.
By the end of those nine months, he was a different person—a far cry from the wide-eyed five-year-old who had stumbled into Nakamura's shop. His body was leaner, his movements more precise. He could form chakra threads with relative ease and had even begun experimenting with controlling small objects. His carving skills, while not yet masterful, were far more refined.