The Chikamatsu Ten Puppets materialized in perfect unison—ten humanoid figures draped in pristine white robes, their joints creaking as they took formation. Elder Chiyo's chakra threads snapped taut instantly, her fingers dancing across the control mechanism as she seized command of the legendary creations.
The first thing she did was strip them of their metal weapons.
It was a calculated move born of bitter memory. Metal-enhanced puppets were dangerous—not just to enemies, but to their masters. She'd seen puppeteers torn apart by their own creations, blood pooling around shattered wood and tangled strings. Those screams still echoed in her nightmares.
These puppets, descendants of Master Monzaemon Chikamatsu himself, were too valuable to risk. She'd sacrifice their offensive power before she'd risk that tragedy repeating.
Seiran watched the white-robed figures circle him with methodical precision, their wooden joints popping as they moved. The puppets resisted her control—he could feel the subtle pushback of competing wills—but Elder Chiyo's chakra was immense. A living legend didn't earn that title through luck.
She suppressed his influence wave after wave, adjusting her threads with the efficiency of decades of mastery.
His lips curved into a smile.
My abilities go far beyond that.
The corrupted puppets he'd already turned—the ones that had consumed their previous puppeteers—surged forward to meet the white-robed ten. It was a brief, brutal exchange. Quality trumped quantity. Within moments, the corrupted puppets were torn limb from limb, their bodies scattered across the arena like kindling.
From the Konoha sidelines, a shinobi leaned toward Rin. "Shouldn't we—"
"No." Rin's Sharingan blazed to life, two crimson tomoe spinning as she tracked every motion below. Her fist was clenched so tightly her nails drew blood. "I believe in him. His power isn't that simple."
The white secret puppets pressed their advantage, shredding through Seiran's corrupted forces with mechanical precision. Their white robes tattered and darkened with fluid and debris. But they didn't notice—none of the spectators did—the black liquid that had begun its work.
A nano-magnetic fluid, microscopic and relentless, slipped through the gaps between wood panels, burrowing into the mechanical joints where Elder Chiyo's chakra threads conducted her will. It spread like contagion, attaching itself to the very systems that allowed her control.
Elder Chiyo's expression twisted in satisfaction. "Is this the extent of your power? For Sunagakure's future, we will end you today!"
Then her face went slack.
The resistance spiked—suddenly, catastrophically. The puppets in her control seized up as if their joints had been flooded with mercury. Her chakra, usually flowing through them like water through channels, met an unmovable wall.
"Impossible—" she breathed.
Seiran's smile widened as he watched understanding dawn on her weathered face.
On the battlefield, the shift was instantaneous and absolute. The ten white puppets pivoted in perfect synchronization, abandoning their assault on the scattered corrupted forces and turning their attention to the only remaining threat.
Elder Chiyo herself.
She stood motionless as they encircled her, their wooden fingers flexing in unison—controlled not by her will, but by nanoscale magnetic bodies responding to Seiran's precision. Against technology calibrated at that scale, her classical puppeteering was useless.
The Konoha shinobi fell silent. Sunagakure's supporters froze mid-cheer.
What just happened?
Rin's clenched fist opened, revealing a palm slick with sweat. Relief flooded through her, but curiosity burned hotter. What happens next?
The puppets began to move.
Not in formation. Not in attack. Instead, they twisted their wooden bodies into grotesque contortions, upper halves writhing while they extended their right legs outward in perfect unison, shaking them repeatedly at the trapped Elder Chiyo between them.
It was the Pure Land of Bliss—the joke jutsu made flesh.
Elder Chiyo's face cycled through shock, confusion, and finally pure mortification. In her decades traversing the shinobi world, she had never—never—witnessed such a thing.
She collapsed to her knees.
Humiliation burned like a brand. Shame flooded through her like poison.
"Elder Chiyo, don't just stand there!" Seiran's voice rang out, dripping with mockery. "Dance with them! Consider it a gift!"
The puppets stopped. They seized her body from all sides, forcing her into bizarre, contorted poses. Only her head remained free, twisting desperately as the wooden hands held her limbs in place.
In the circle of her own creations, surrounded by a hundred eyes from both villages, Elder Chiyo raised her gaze to the sky.
Tears streamed down her weathered face.
"This old body," she whispered, her voice hollow. "Utterly humiliated."