Ninpocho Chronicles

Ninpocho Chronicles is a fantasy-ish setting storyline, set in an alternate universe World of Ninjas, where the Naruto and Boruto series take place. This means that none of the canon characters exists, or existed here.

Each ninja starts from the bottom and start their training as an Academy Student. From there they develop abilities akin to that of demigods as they grow in age and experience.

Along the way they gain new friends (or enemies), take on jobs and complete contracts and missions for their respective villages where their training and skill will be tested to their limits.

The sky is the limit as the blank page you see before you can be filled with countless of adventures with your character in the game.

This is Ninpocho Chronicles.

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Private The Grimoire of Orochi Sakura

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A Collection of Puppets and Other Quiet Horrors…

Preface
They call me strange, unsettling, even cruel. I take it as a compliment. After all, what greater insult than to be ordinary? The world is full of soft, breathing things that pretend at permanence. I, however, prefer what is crafted. What is sharpened. What can outlast the fool who thought themselves alive.

This grimoire is my record. Not of friends, nor of lovers, but of companions who do not betray, who do not leave, who do not age. Puppets. Each one a philosophy given flesh—or bone, or shadow.

You will find here six of my most beloved works. Six answers to six questions no one had the courage to ask. Do not expect comfort in these pages. Expect honesty.


Uchiha – Eye of the Moon

“The eye that sees all is not content with what it sees.”

I have always admired the arrogance of eyes... especially the doujutsu of the chiha. They presume to understand simply by looking, yet most eyes deceive. The Uchiha were proof of this: their gaze turned inward, their obsession with vision burning themselves hollow. But obsession makes fertile soil, and their remnants are not useless to me.

For this puppet, I harvested the skull of a forgotten shinobi and set within its sockets polished orbs carved from volcanic glass. Over each, I etched spiraling seals that mimic the pathways of the Sharingan, not to replicate it—for imitation is vulgar—but to echo its hunger. These false eyes glow faintly in the dark, a reflection of moons cast across an ink-black lake.

The puppet’s frame is skeletal, draped in lacquered wood painted in shades of lunar silver. From its back dangles a cloak of woven chakra threads that catch light in fractured patterns, so its movements resemble rippling shadows. Its head swivels with unnerving precision, the glass eyes locking onto targets as though peering through flesh into bone.

Its weapon is not brute force, but perception itself. Through carved seals of hypnotic geometry, its gaze projects illusory distortions. Enemies stagger, seeing double, mistaking allies for enemies, or walking directly into blades they never thought existed. I call this technique Moon’s Mirage. Yet the puppet is not without teeth. Concealed in its palms are senbon launchers, firing needles tipped with venom distilled from silverleaf mushrooms.

The Eye of the Moon is less a warrior and more a deceiver. Its battlefield is one of lies, its victories written in confusion. I do not require truth; I require submission. And so I let my puppet stare, unblinking, until the enemy realizes too late that they were never truly seeing at all.



Inuzuka – Lone Wolf

“A beast fights for its pack, but a true predator learns to fight alone.”

The Inuzuka built themselves around companionship—fangs sharpened by loyalty, claws guided by trust. Admirable, in a sentimental way. But sentiment dulls the edge. My puppet is no loyal hound; it is the embodiment of hunger unbound, a wolf without a master, a beast with no leash.

The Lone Wolf’s frame is lean, its structure built from hardened bone reinforced with chakra-laced resin. I sculpted its body with deliberate imperfection: scars carved into its flanks, ribs exposed like the bars of a cage, and a jaw too wide, bristling with serrated fangs forged from tempered steel. Its gait is lopsided, its movements erratic, as though feral. Beauty lies in monstrosity, after all.

Instead of chakra-fueled firepower, it hunts. Sensors woven into its skull heighten its perception, granting it a predator’s nose and a hunter’s ears. When released, it does not march like a puppet but stalks like prey upon prey, circling, growling, snapping at shadows. It lunges with terrifying speed, its claws ripping soil and flesh alike.

Its most vicious feature is the Feral Maw Mechanism. The jaw unhinges, splitting wider than anatomy should allow, revealing a drill of interlocked teeth that spins when fueled by chakra. Flesh, armor, even stone yield to its bite. But worse than the wounds it leaves is the psychological scar: no shinobi forgets the sight of their comrades devoured by a mechanical beast that howls without a soul.

I gave it no partner, no twin, no one to fight beside. It is an echo of my own solitude—fitting. For in silence, without attachment, predators are at their most dangerous. The Lone Wolf thrives where others falter. And like its namesake, it does not need a pack to slaughter one.



Akimichi – Calorie Control

“Consumption is not gluttony—it is transmutation.”

The Akimichi clan are ridiculed for their appetites, yet few understand the terrible truth hidden beneath their indulgence: their hunger is a weapon. Calorie becomes chakra, flesh becomes fire, and indulgence becomes annihilation. I found this principle fascinating. Where others saw fat, I saw fuel.

Thus was born my puppet: a walking furnace of consumption. Its body is round, almost comically so, plated in layers of ironwood lacquered black. But inside, it is hollow, its torso a crucible where anything placed within is broken down, converted into raw chakra that powers the puppet’s movements.

I feed it constantly. Wood shavings, scraps of bone, battlefield carrion—it does not care. Everything is burned down to its essence, and in return the puppet grows faster, stronger, more relentless. Its arms are swollen cylinders ending in crushing fists, each blow capable of pulverizing stone. With enough fuel, its entire body expands, swelling grotesquely as seals stretch to accommodate its growing bulk.

But its true art is the Expenditure Release. Excess chakra, once converted, can be expelled in bursts—fiery gouts from its mouth, shockwaves from its fists, or even detonations when its belly seals rupture. To an untrained eye, it may seem clumsy, bumbling, even laughable. But laughter dies quickly when its crushing weight collapses ribs, when its furnace breath scorches lungs.

I think of it as a banquet hall with no guests, a feast with no merriment. Its gluttony is endless, its hunger eternal. In this, I admit, it resembles me. Where others dine for joy, I consume for power. The puppet has no eyes to judge, no conscience to question. It simply eats—and in its eating, it kills.



Senju – Chīsana Niwa

“The most interesting plants grow in the shade.”

It is true. Sunlight is vulgar, the domain of gaudy flowers that parade their colors for insects. I prefer the quiet elegance of shade-born flora—poisons and phantoms that bloom where eyes rarely look.

This puppet was not built but cultivated. I nurtured its body from living wood, bending roots and vines until they took on humanoid shape. Its bark is streaked in hues of ash and shadow, its joints pulsing faintly with green light. In its chest cavity grows the true heart of this creation: a garden.

I planted nightshade there first, for its blossoms are as beautiful as they are deadly. Purple flowers that lure, berries that kill, roots that whisper. Around it, I wove myth into matter, grafting seeds of the Gravebloom, a spectral plant said to grow only where bodies rot in moonlight. Its petals emit a faint, shimmering mist, intoxicating to the senses and corrosive to the mind.

The puppet’s limbs sprout vines tipped with thorns, each strike delivering venom that numbs and paralyzes. Roots extend beneath the soil, anchoring it like a tree while spreading tendrils that drain chakra from those unlucky enough to tread upon them. When it wishes, the puppet blooms—its garden bursting forth, filling the battlefield with choking pollen and shimmering spores that cloud vision, thought, and will.

It is not loud. It does not roar. It grows. And in its growth, it strangles.

Others mock gardens as frail, fragile things. They forget that the most dangerous poisons are flowers, that the most ruthless conquerors are roots. The Chīsana Niwa is my garden of shadows, tended not for beauty, but for ruin. And in its blossoms, I see myself.



Yuki – Hiyakagami

“Frost does not kill in anger; it kills because it must.”

The Yuki bloodline feared and revered ice, but I find its allure not in its elegance but in its cruelty. Ice is inevitable. It does not rage like fire; it simply endures until all warmth is gone. That inevitability was the soul I sought to capture.

The Hiyakagami puppet is carved from pale crystal, translucent as glacier glass. Its limbs are slender but unyielding, its body lined with reservoirs that store supercooled chakra. When activated, frost blooms across its surface, and every motion leaves behind trails of hoarfrost like a ghost dragging winter behind it.

Its breath is a storm. Vents in its chest exhale clouds of freezing mist, swallowing fields in a white shroud. Within that mist, its silhouette flickers like a phantom, striking unseen. Touch alone is enough to kill—the puppet’s fingers are hollow needles, channeling liquid cold directly into veins, freezing blood before it can reach the heart.

The greatest spectacle is its Mirror Garden. Panels of ice erupt around the battlefield, reflective and sharp, each one infused with chakra to duplicate the puppet’s image. Its enemies see it everywhere at once, striking at phantoms while the true killer moves unseen. Each mirror is also a blade, shattering outward in storms of frozen shards.

It is beautiful in its cruelty, a sculpture of winter that demands reverence. And like winter itself, it asks nothing of those who perish within it. They die not because they were hated, but because they were alive.

That, I think, is the purest form of artistry.



Nara – Obtenebration

“Darkness is not the absence of light, but the presence of something greater.”

The Nara wielded shadows as if they were tools. I have no interest in tools. I seek worshippers. My puppet is not a shadow-caster; it is a shadow given flesh.

Its frame is little more than a lattice of blackened wood, hollow and skeletal. Yet it does not walk with the stiffness of other puppets. Instead, it flows. Its body is cloaked in living shadow, a miasma that ripples and shivers as though eager to feed.

Its attacks are unlike blades or claws. Instead, its shadow stretches across the ground, latching onto the feet of prey, holding them in place with crushing weight. Then come the tendrils—elongated arms of darkness that coil around throats, squeeze chests, and pierce flesh as easily as spears. Victims often scream, but the shadows muffle the sound, swallowing it until only silence remains.

The core of its power lies in Eclipsing Maw. Within its chest is a cavity, a hollow void that consumes light. Anything drawn into it is erased—not destroyed, but hidden. Weapons vanish, flames extinguish, even screams absorbed. In that moment, prey feels not death, but nothingness, and that nothingness is far worse.

The puppet is not terrifying because it kills; it is terrifying because it reminds mortals of the truth: light is fragile, fleeting. Darkness does not retreat; it waits. It is eternal, patient, inevitable.

And in that inevitability, I have found a companion most fitting. For like shadows, I linger where others dare not tread, and like shadows, I require no applause to thrive. I need only silence.



Word Count: 1864
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