Welcome back to the Smoke and Mirrors AU.

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Hattori sat by his parents' graves for several days, spending it in mourning, before he headed back to the two cabins in the woods he had called home for all of his eight years of life. It was in that day of journey that Hattori had tried to open his Bochigan for a second time. It lasted for several minutes before that familiar feeling of emptiness, and that wave of exhaustion hit – leagues longer than when he had first awoken it.

It was during that long walk, and those precious few minutes, that he had learned more about the Bochigan than his father had ever revealed. His movement, when it was activated was… Hattori didn’t have a word for it. It was an instinct, to lift his feet slightly higher. To move his arms, just centimeters in difference, to twist his body just that single degree more than it was.

His movements were perfected, nudged in just the right way, the energy his body used minimized, and the effects of his movements maximized. The boy didn’t have any way to describe it other than that all of his movements became perfect when his Bochigan was activated. When it was off, all he could notice was how imperfect he moved. How poorly he jumped.

The other thing he noticed was just as jarring as the last. Hattori had noticed that he moved slower with the Bochigan activated. Or, maybe, the world slowed down. He couldn’t really tell. There wasn’t anything else he noticed these eyes of his do. For all of his father’s bragging, they fell short of his expectations. But they would help.

Hattori clenched the handle of the Tanto-blade he had been given by the Samurai tightly. His home was in view by now.

Hattori moved swiftly into the smaller of the two cabins, where he remained for the rest of the day and half of the next. For the next several weeks, Hattori’s life consisted of hunting wild game – deer, foxes, and rabbits – for food. Any free time outside of that was spent training with the Tanto-blade he wielded, using the Bochigan to develop some semblance of a sword style. By the time almost two months had passed, the calendar began anew.

January First. His birthday. By now, Hattori’s Tanto was chipped and worn from practice, blood stained the low-quality metal and caked on the cloth handle. Currently, the boy was walking a well-worn path to the site of his parent’s graves. It was the first thing he did every morning.

The young Yanmaru would spend hours at the grave, before usually heading back towards his home and beginning his training. However, this time, Yanmaru passed by his home and kept walking eastward, towards the border the Land of Fire shared with the Land of Water. It was an hour or two later before the now nine-year old Hattori began running, noticing the darkening sky.

It was another two hours before the village, Bukai, emerged past the tree-line in a small clearing. A smile made its way onto his face, the first since his parents had died.

It was here that he had spent his first few years of life with his parents, before moving out to the two cabins in the woods he lived in.

His parents never told him why they moved away from Bukai. He didn’t care much. All he needed was his tanto-blade repaired, and some Shuriken and Kunai.

The village was as he remembered it. Several villagers politely greeted him, cooing at how he’d grown up. No one questioned the lack of his parents. Hattori’s heart ached at that.

The buildings were all made of wood, save for a few shops here and there. One in particular was made of clay; The Iron Lounge.

It was a blacksmith’s forge and shop, one his parents had visited a few times over the years to repair their kitchen knives or farming tools.

“Katakuri-san.” Hattori bowed politely, after entering the building. The blacksmith turned and smiled at the boy.

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“Ah, Hattori. How are your folks?” Hattori tried not to tear up at that, and chose to deflect the question.

“I came to ask if you could help me with a few things, since it’s my birthday.” The elder man, Katakuri Nishimura. He was large from fat and muscle, and neared what was probably 5’10 – a large man. The average height for most people, Hattori idly noted, was around 5’7.

The man’s eyebrow raised at the lack of answer to his question, but humoured Hattori. “Of course, kid. Your parents and I have been friends for many years. Whatever you need, I will do for you. It’s your birthday after all.”

Hattori gave a small smile, before withdrawing the tanto-blade that was hidden under both his shirt, and tucked into his pants. The sword was long for him, at his age and height. “I need this repaired. And, uhmm..” The young Yanmaru looked at the blacksmith's wares. “Some Kunai. And Shuriken, too.”

Katakuri had an inexplicable look on his face. “Hattori. Where did you get that tanto from?” Hattori tilted his head, confused.

“A Samurai gave it to me.”

“He just gave it to you? Nothing else happened?”

“Mhm.”

“Do you know what it means when a Samurai gives his blade to another?”

“Uhmm… No idea.”

Katakuri could only sigh. This child… he was hiding something. From him. “A Samurai giving away their weapon is a symbol of defection. A Samurai with no weapon is to be feared, and a Samurai with a special weapon is to be run from, no matter what.”

“Oh.. But, he didn’t defect. I know he didn’t.” At this, Katakuri’s eyes hardened a bit, and he sat on the stool behind the shop’s counter.

“Hattori. You’re not telling me something. Tell me what happened, kid, please.” The old man sounded exhausted, and his eyes were a bit dulled over.

Hattori felt like he could tell the man knew somehow.

“Uhm… My parents… A guy with a big sword came and killed them. And then he was going to kill me but, he couldn’t. Because the Samurai showed up and killed him. And then he took the Ronin’s sword, and, and he gave me his. To protect myself and become strong. I think.”

“Biko and Rika are dead, then.” Katakuri choked down a sob, and his voice was strained as he continued. “Right, I, uh. Alright. I’m so sorry, kid. I’ll fix that sword up. I’ll get you your Shuriken and Kunai. Just… before, before I do that…” The man stood up, looking away from Hattori, and he asked question.

“That blade. That large blade; it had two holes on it, right?”

“..Yeah. It did.”

“Fuck. Sorry, don’t repeat that word to anyone, kid. That blade’s name was Kubikiribocho. It was forged by my grandfather, and stolen by a Ronin just a few years ago.” His voice grew quieter the longer he spoke. He was clearly trying not to cry.

Hattori gently set his tanto on the shop counter, pretending not to see the tears in his eyes as he briefly turned around to grab it and leave.

He stood alone in the shop for a few minutes, before heading back out into the streets of the village. There, Hattori worked, slept, and ate for several days before Katakuri had finished his request. The cloth on the tanto’s handle was rewrapped with pristine white bandages. The edge of the blade no longer was chipped and destroyed, and the faint red of soaked blood was mostly gone.

By the time Hattori left Bukai, he was a hundred Ryo richer, with two dozen Kunai and Shuriken each – and a blade much deadlier than it had been just a few days prior.

It was several hours of running later that Hattori had reached his home, where he immediately dropped his things off inside the smaller cabin before leaving to visit his parents’ graves.

He didn’t move for the rest of the day, sat in quiet solitude at the place they were buried. The handwriting dug into the dirt by the Samurai who had saved him was still there, but slightly faded. Hattori reached a trembling finger to try and trace the Kanji before crying and retracting his hand.

He wasn’t strong enough to do it yet. The pain of loss still hurt too bad, still. With the rise of the moon, Hattori went back to retrieve his new equipment, and activated the Bochigan. Without hesitation, he began to train in earnest.

He exercised his body, the Bochigan adjusting his movements and exercises into perfect posture, the Dojutu’s instinct whispering what to do and how to do it.

Then his sword; dull red light flashed from each swing of the blade, moving in a dance-like rhythm. The Yanmeru Clan’s Sword Style, Hattori had named it, wasn’t anything unique. It was standard moves, shifted slightly or changed by the instinct of the Bochigan’s Perfect Movement trait.

Although the moves were simple, they were dangerous. Deadly. Perfect.

Hattori rested briefly, before retrieving the Kunai and Shuriken he had gotten the day prior. They were shiny, and new, but the boy knew they would not last like that for long. He let a Kunai rest in his palm as he got used to the weight, letting the Bochigan guide his hands on how to grip it.

With a grunt, his body tossed the Kunai into the distance – thudding into a tree. Even with the assistance of the Bochigan, it had barely struck what he’d intended. His body was trained to use them, even if his instincts tried to tell him how to throw it.

With a sigh, Hattori Yanmaru went to collect the Kunai deeply embedded into the side of a tree trunk.