You wanted to be a ninja when you were eight. Japan never stopped taking that seriously. Fly to Iga, the real birthplace, and they hand you the whole fantasy. Black costume. Throwing stars. A centuries old house rigged with revolving walls, trap doors, and hidden hatches. You throw a shuriken. It sticks. Eight year old you screams. Then the instructor tells you the truth, and it lands harder than the blade. The ninja in black on the rooftop? That is the movie. The real one dressed as a farmer. A merchant. A monk nobody looked at twice. His deadliest weapon was never the sword. It was being so forgettable you would swear nobody was ever there. You came to learn how to vanish in a puff of smoke. You leave realizing the masters vanished in plain sight.