The village streets were packed. A small crowd gathered around a puppeteer, watching as he dangled marionettes over giggling children. Artisans sold carved lanterns. The fishmongers had carted in their latest catch: beautiful red shrimp crawling over heaps of shimmering fish. An old woman bartered for the finest silk kimono.

It was the second day of the Obon Festival. The annual festival had been celebrated in Japan for more than five hundred years as a way to honor one’s ancestors. Families returned to their ancestors’ graves to clean them, and the ancestors’ spirits would visit to consult on household affairs. The three-day festival was a time of love and celebration.

Beside the main road, beggars and street performers held out small bamboo bowls, hoping for coins. Two old men played shogi, a Japanese board game, with a few friends looking on. As the village bustled with activity, a voice cried out over the noise.

“If you must blink, do it now!”

The crowd fell silent. A twelve-year-old boy had appeared in the middle of the square. A black patch covered his missing left eye. He held his shamisen in one hand, and his other was raised in the air, clutching his bachi. He brought it down over the strings, filling the square with sweet music.

“Pay careful attention to everything you see and hear,” the boy said as the crowd circled him. “No matter how unusual it may seem!”

Whispers spread through the streets. They’d seen the boy—Kubo—perform before, but each time he was more hypnotizing. He paced around, looking into his audience’s eyes. “And please be warned. If you fidget, if you look away, if you forget any part of what I tell you, even for an instant”— he pointed to a random woman in the crowd, speaking slowly and dramatically—“then our hero will surely perish!”

Kubo leaned back, strumming his shamisen with his eye closed. He was playing a happy tune when suddenly something red burst out of the woven bag on his back. It flew through the air in a blur, somersaulting the length of the crowd before landing right in front of him.

The origami warrior stood just six inches tall. He was a simple man, made of cherry-red paper. Kubo held up his hand to silence everyone. “Hanzo was a mighty samurai,” he started. “But he was alone; his family had been taken from him, his kingdom in ruins, and his army destroyed by the dreaded Moon King. You may recall, Hanzo was roaming the distant Far Lands in search of a magical suit of armor: the only weapon in the whole world that could protect him from the power of the Moon King. This armor was made up of three pieces. The first…”

Kubo scanned the crowd, waiting for an answer.

Akihiro pushed through. “Oh, oh, oh! I know! The Sword Unbreakable!”

Kubo lifted his hand and plucked the first string on the shamisen. A piece of cherry-red paper flew out of his bag and folded in midair, forming the famous sword. Hanzo grabbed it and swung it around his head while the crowd cheered.

Kubo ran to the other side of the circle, kneeling down beside a little girl named Mari. “The second?”

“The Breastplate Im…” Mari tried to sound out the word. “Im-pen-uh-truh-ble!”

Kubo struck the second string on the shamisen and another piece of paper came out of his bag, magically folding into a breastplate. It sat on little Hanzo’s chest, protecting his heart.

“And, finally, the third weapon,” Kubo said. “The final piece of the armor…”

His friend, Kameyo, a local beggar woman, sat at the edge of the circle. Her tattered blue kimono was patched in places, and her white hair was pulled into a bun. She raised her hand.

“I know this one! The Helmet Invulnerable!” she shouted.

Kubo plucked the third string, and another piece of cherry-red paper shot out of his bag, folding into Hanzo’s helmet. It fit perfectly on his tiny head. The crowd clapped and cheered. A little boy in the front row kept pointing at the tiny warrior and squealing in delight.

Kubo went on, pacing around the audience, playing notes on the shamisen. “But before Hanzo could claim the armor and unite the pieces to reveal their true power, he was attacked by the Moon King’s beasts.…”

He played a dark, moody chord, and the crowd fell silent again. He spun around, and a black piece of paper flew into the air, reforming into a giant spider. It crept toward the hero. Hanzo raised his sword, slashing at its legs.

The show continued. A ferocious shark swallowed Hanzo whole, so the hero had to fight his way out from the inside, turning the shark into confetti. A fire-breathing chicken belched flames at Hanzo. He ran toward it, coming just inches from the fire, when he folded back into a flat piece of paper. He slid below the chicken, reforming on the other side of him.

Furious, the chicken shot paper eggs at Hanzo. Hanzo sprang into action. He took a few steps and leaped into the air, somersaulting over the chicken with his sword outstretched. In one swift motion, he chopped off the chicken’s head. A man in the front of the crowd covered his daughter’s eyes, not wanting her to see.

Kubo kept the show going all day, telling stories of his hero, Hanzo. He struck another chord on his shamisen.

“Hanzo was filled with rage,” he said, “his soul tormented by the grief of a family stolen from him.”

Kubo played a slower, more ominous tune, and a blue piece of paper rose from his pack. It folded into a dark, terrifying silhouette.

“At last, our hero was face-to-face with his nemesis, the Moon King!”

The two figures flew into the air, ready for battle. Kubo raised his bachi, ready to play another tune, when the sound of the town bell interrupted him. The clangs rang high above the village, signaling the setting sun. Kubo lowered his hand, and the figures unfolded, the sheets of colorful paper slipping back into his bag.

“Be sure to come back tomorrow!” he called out as he gathered up a few coins people had left for him.

The crowd groaned. One annoyed woman shook her fist in the air.

“What?”Akihiro, said. “Oh, come on! People like an ending, please? Where are you going? No… you can’t leave!”

But Kubo did just that, hurrying through the packed square and down the road, not stopping until he was home.