The sky was still tinged in red hues when Kuroichi opened his eyes. His sleep had been light but restful nonetheless. The prospect of war had become a quiet pressure on his shoulders, and each sunrise was a reminder for him that time was slipping past.
As he got up, he was excited for the day, as his first calligraphy lesson was scheduled in just a little while.
He dressed plainly, slipping into his black pants and brown samue before he put on his new shinobi sandals. He slung a small satchel over his shoulder with the writing supplies he'd bought before and left the inn with a nod to one of the other patrons staying in a room upstairs.
The streets of Nakanoura were already bustling in the morning, with vendors having finished setting up for the day. Kuroichi moved quickly through the alleys, weaving through narrow lanes until he arrived at the appointed place; a small, neat home with a wooden sign put out front that read:
"Shikimi Calligraphy and Script School"
He didn't hesitate before knocking softly. The door opened almost immediately and standing before him was the women in her forties he had met a few days prior. She was tall and slender, with greying hair tied into a tight bun. Her face was sharp with minimal makeup, and her lips were pressed into a thin line as she looked him up and down before stepping aside.
"You're a little early," she said. "That's good, punctuality and discipline are important character traits for someone wishing to learn calligraphy. Come in. Weren't you here with your brother before?"
Kuroichi bowed slightly. "Thank you… sensei. Yes but my brother didn't come with me here today."
"Alright, I understand. Lady Shikimi will do though."
Inside, the house smelled of old ink and dried paper. He stepped into a room with sliding paper doors and shelves lined with brushes, inkstones, and scrolls. In the center, a low wooden desk was set up with multiple types of parchment, and beside it sat two inkpots, one black and the other a faded brown. A roll of clean paper had already been unfurled.
"Sit," she said, already kneeling on the opposite side. "Let's begin."
Kuroichi sat across from her in silence as she poured the ink into a stone dish and began grinding it with practiced ease. "Most people think calligraphy is just drawing pretty lines. It's not. It is discipline, control and purpose. If you do not respect your brush-strokes, the brush will rebel and the ink will bleed across the paper. Your intent matters."
Kuroichi watched her movements closely, the way her wrist didn't flex, only her fingers, and the way her eyes never left the point of the brush. Even her breathing seemed measured, in and out in perfect rhythm with the grinding of the ink.
She placed the brush in his hand.
"Hold it like this, and not like a weapon. Let your fingers grip the brush more naturally and not as forceful. You need to be able to let your strokes and ink flow."
Kuroichi adjusted and mimicked her grip.
"Posture upright, with the spine straight. Elbow away from the table, yes just like that."
She placed a clean piece of parchment in front of him and tapped the table once. "Now show me how you write your name."
Kuroichi hesitated, then dipped the brush and slowly began to trace the kanji for "Kaito." His brush trembled slightly, but he wasn't actually nervous. He was just way too aware of her eyes burning into every motion that he made.
When he finished, she didn't speak for a moment. Then, she calmly set his paper aside and replaced with a new one.
"Sloppy and hesitant. You think too much about what you should do, and you're not paying attention to your body while moving."
She took a brush and made the same kanji in a single smooth motion, not rushed, but fluid. Every stroke seemed to glide and pause with purpose.
"This is control," she said. "This is patience. You want to master this art? Then you need to start with the basics first."
The lesson continued like that, short and clipped instructions followed by quiet practice. There wasn't any encouragement or flattery, only methodical correction. Still, Kuroichi didn't mind, since the rigid and almost militant style of teaching suited him just fine. It was all the same in the end, focus, control, and clear intent created the basis for learning what he needed to.
By the time the sun had shifted overhead, Lady Shikimi stood up as she watched "Kaito's" hand speckled with ink trying to write a kanji more smoothly.
"You clearly have potential," she said. "And unlike most of the other spoiled children that I teach, you listen without complaining and practice just what I showed you."
She paused, as if considering something. "Next time, we move on to linking breath control. It is important to master that early. Bring better paper. And stop holding so much tension in your shoulders, it shows."
"Yes, Lady Shikimi," Kuroichi said simply, bowing before leaving.
---
The streets were even busier by the time Kuroichi made his way back toward the inn. People shouted their prices while children dashed barefoot through alleyways, and the scent of grilled fish mingled with the sea breeze.
Despite the noise, Kuroichi felt calm. He was carrying his rolled parchment under one arm, brush case in hand, and a strange sense of clarity hung over him. It was unlike returning from physical training or chakra exercises.
There was no soreness, no exertion, just calm silence, similar to how he felt after a good hour or two of meditation. It was like the brush had quieted parts of his mind that were normally alert and ready for combat.
Back at the inn, he passed through the wooden gate and entered from the side, bypassing the entrance. He had no desire to make conversation, but upstairs, his room felt a little too small. He looked down at the parchment and supplies in his hands, then turned around and descended quietly into the common room.
He sat cross-legged near one of the sunlit corners and spread out the paper and brush again. He poured the ink slowly, grinding it with more care this time, mirroring the rhythm his teacher had shown him. It was peaceful.
"Kaito-nii?"
The sudden voice startled him a bit, not because it was loud but because he didn't notice her approach.
'Kaito…nii?' he asked himself.
It was Aimi, the innkeeper's daughter. She was round-cheeked and bright-eyed, her black hair tied into two uneven puffs. She stood barefoot, holding onto a wooden tray, and blinking curiously at the paper and brush in his hands.
He glanced up. "…Yes?"
"What are you doing?" she asked, stepping a little closer and peering over the tray.
"Calligraphy," Kuroichi said, keeping his tone quiet.
She gasped. "Oh. Is it like normal writing? What good is writing fancy like that anyway? Can it take down dragons, beat bad villains and rescue princesses? Or maybe you can use ninja magic with these writings?"
He blinked, "… Uhh, not quite. It's… just practice."
Aimi didn't seem to be discouraged. She set the tray aside and crouched down next to him, watching intently. "It's kinda boring, but still cool."
Kuroichi was about to say something else when a soft voice called from behind them.
"Aimi, don't bother him."
The innkeeper, Fumiko, stood at the edge of the room, arms folded with a soft but tired look in her eyes. She had a strong build and sun-kissed skin, the look of a woman who had worked pretty much everyday of her life without complaint. Her dark hair was tied in a low bun while she wore a white apron that was wrapped over a faded yukata.
"He's a guest," Fumiko continued. "Don't hover around him like that, even if he's close to your age."
Aimi pouted, but stood up obediently anyway. "Sorry, Kaito-nii…"
"It's fine," Kuroichi muttered, not looking at them anymore. He was glad for the interruption of Fumiko, otherwise he wouldn't know how to deal with that child.
Fumiko tilted her head slightly. "Let us know if you need anything," she said, then guided her daughter away with a gentle hand.
When they were gone, Kuroichi exhaled in relief. He returned to his practice, brushing slow, careful strokes onto clean paper. He repeated the basic characters from earlier, focusing on his grip, his wrist, and the way his breath flowed with each stroke.
Calligraphy had rhythm, an ebb and flow, almost like the ocean, or… chakra.
The thought was strange but somehow comforting at the same time. He could already imagine the various things he'd be able to do once he properly learned fūinjutsu. It made him incredibly excited, but he knew that was still years away. For now he had to continue this repetitious routine, training his fingers to move with purpose, his eyes to predict the flow of energy (ink) across the paper surface.
'Control the brush, control the script. Control the script, control the seal. Control the seal…'
He trailed off in thought. The ink bled into the edge of the rice paper. He frowned, dipped the brush again and started over.