Prologue
The sun was setting again.
It disappeared behind the horizon as shadows grew and stretched until a thick blanket of darkness covered the ground. The cheerful daylight animals retired to their homes for the night, the chirping of birds turned to the chirping of crickets.
One by one the stars peeked at the world from under their blankets, watching as civilians returned home to warm embraces, warm suppers, and even warmer beds.
But the calm demeanor of the night is belied. A faint rustle here, a swoosh of air there, the soft clink of metal brushing metal.
Shinobi are wide awake.
Stealthily moving, silently killing. They hold great and terrible power, power capable of bringing the world to its knees. They hold respect; they are watched with apprehension and excitement. When night falls, their duties truly begin. Neither seen nor heard, they blend into the night. They are not human. They do not feel nor are they felt for.
They are tools.
Shinobi: living, breathing, warm-blooded
Shinobi: emotionless, detached, cold-blooded; servants of the state
All wrapped up in the tiny, fragile bodies of men.