Kenji Yamashita's workshop was his sanctuary. It was a small world he had created for himself, a world that smelled of freshly cut cedar, sharp varnish, and dust that floated like golden pollen in the lamplight. The sound of his knife shaving against wood was the only music he needed, a soothing rhythm that had accompanied him for most of his life.
As usual, he was carving a mask. This time, a Tengu mask with its characteristic long nose and a majestically fierce expression. His hands moved with an intimate familiarity, every motion a result of tens of thousands of hours of practice. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply, which angle to take, how to follow the grain of the wood so it wouldn't splinter.
But tonight, he was not alone.
The other presence in the workshop was silent, but just as focused. At a small workbench in the corner that they had set up for him, his son, Yuji, was also working.
Sometimes, now, Yuji would be beside him. It was a new development in recent years, an unspoken habit that Kenji cherished more than he could say. Yuji didn't talk much when he worked. He would just sit there, lost in his own world, much like his father. He was also always practicing making masks, mimicking his father's movements, trying to understand the language of the wood.
This time, however, he wasn't mimicking. He was making his own mask. A personal project he had been working on diligently for several weeks. "It's for when I become a Genin," was all Yuji had said about it, his tone as flat as ever, but there was a glint of determination in his eyes that couldn't be hidden.
Kenji stopped carving for a moment, stretching his back, and watched his son. A ten-year-old Yuji sat with a straight back, his small shoulders tensed with concentration. The lamplight highlighted his serious profile, his brown hair falling slightly over his eyes as he bent over his work. The small carving knife, a smaller version of Kenji's own, looked perfectly at home in his hand.
Kenji glanced at his son's work. It was a strange mask. Unlike any traditional mask Kenji had ever made or seen. The face was a crying face, but in a ridiculous, exaggerated way. Its mouth was open in a silent O, and from its large, round eyes, two massive, comically carved tears streamed down its cheeks. It was tragedy made into comedy. Sadness so extreme it became funny. It was... very Yuji.
The mask was almost finished, at least on the outside. The details were fine, the carving clean. Kenji could see his son's natural talent, a steady touch that couldn't be taught. But then, Kenji noticed something else. Yuji turned the mask over. And on its concave inside, he wasn't smoothing it. He was carving something else. Something incredibly intricate. A series of lines, symbols, and characters that Kenji didn't recognize. It wasn't decorative carving. It looked like... a formula. A diagram.
It was Fūinjutsu.
Kenji didn't know what it did. A storage seal? A reinforcement seal? Something more dangerous? He didn't ask. There were parts of Yuji's world now that he couldn't enter, an invisible border between his world of wood and paint, and his son's world of chakra and danger. And he had learned to respect that border.
Watching the boy again, so serious, so prematurely adult, a powerful wave of nostalgia washed over Kenji. The boy had grown so much. It felt like just yesterday...
Kenji remembered the night Yuji was born as if it were last night. He remembered pacing the sterile, silent hospital corridor, each step echoing his own anxiety. Behind that closed door, his wife, Kaori, was fighting alone. He could hear her muffled screams, the sounds of struggle and pain that made him feel utterly helpless. He wanted to break down the door, hold her hand, do something. But he could only wait.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, the screaming stopped. And it was replaced by another sound. A thin, wavering, but fiercely alive sound. The cry of a baby.
In that moment, when a nurse finally opened the door and let him in, he found Kaori lying on the bed, exhausted but radiant, with the most beautiful smile Kenji had ever seen. And in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket, was a small, squirming bundle. His son.
Kenji's heart swelled with a warmth so intense it was almost painful. The nurse handed the baby to him. Kenji held him with extreme care, his large, rough hands feeling clumsy and unworthy of holding something so precious. The baby felt so light and fragile in his arms. He had stopped crying and was just staring at Kenji with large, curious black eyes. And he smelled like a baby—a mix of milk, drool, and something else, something pure. A sacred innocence. Kenji swore in that moment that he would do anything to protect that innocence.
Then, as time went on, they realized their son was different. Yuji rarely cried. Where other babies would roar for food or comfort, Yuji would just let out a small, quiet whimper. As he grew into a toddler, he was a serious, observant child. People thought he was strange. "Such a quiet boy," the neighbors would whisper. "He's not like the other children."
But Kenji and Kaori never saw him that way. They loved him for who he was. They loved the way he looked at the world with his wise, old eyes. They loved his comfortable silence. He was their son, and he was perfect.
He remembered clearly the day Yuji started talking. He had been practicing saying "Mama" for weeks, mimicking Kaori. But his first real word... it was for Kenji. Little Yuji was sitting on the workshop floor, watching his father work. Kenji was sanding a Hyottoko mask. Yuji crawled closer, pointing at Kenji with his chubby finger.
"Da... Da... ddy," he said, with immense effort, each syllable a victory.
Kenji froze. He put down his mask and stared at his son. "What did you say, Yuji?"
"Daddy," Yuji repeated, clearer this time, a proud smile on his face.
In that moment, Kenji felt like the strongest man in the world. He felt prouder than any Hokage had ever felt. He lifted his son into the air, spinning him around, and Yuji's rare, melodious laughter filled the workshop. It was a memory he treasured like a jewel.
"Looks like someone's reminiscing."
Kaori's gentle voice pulled Kenji back to the present. He turned and saw his wife standing in the doorway, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of rice cakes. She smiled at her husband, then at her son.
"I brought some fuel for the artists," she said, placing the tray on a clean table.
Yuji finally lifted his head from his work, his serious expression softening at the sight of his mother. "Thanks, Mom."
Kaori walked over and looked at the ridiculous crying mask. She chuckled softly. "Oh, Yuji, this is hilarious," she said, her tone full of warmth. "Why does he look so sad?"
"He just realized he'll have to pay taxes someday," Yuji answered flatly, picking up a cup of tea.
Kenji laughed. "Hear that, dear? Our son is already worrying about bureaucracy. He's really growing up."
"He has your expression from when you realize we're out of soy sauce," Kaori teased.
"I do not look like that!" Kenji protested.
"You look exactly like that," Yuji and Kaori said in unison.
The three of them laughed together, an easy, familiar laughter that filled the workshop with more warmth than any oil lamp could. Kenji looked at his family. His beautiful, kind wife. And his son. His quiet, strange, strong son, who carried a burden he shouldn't have to, but could still sit here and make lame jokes with his parents.
He looked at the intricate Fūinjutsu on the inside of the mask, then at his son's face, which was now smiling faintly as he bit into a rice cake. Two different worlds, coexisting in one person.
Kenji didn't know what the future held. He didn't know what dangers awaited his son on the path he had chosen. But he knew one thing. The little boy he had held all those years ago, the one who smelled of sacred innocence, was still there. Underneath all the training, underneath all the painful knowledge, underneath the mask of cynicism he sometimes wore, his son was still there.
And Kenji would always be here, in this workshop, with the door always open, waiting for him to come home.
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