Author's note: Hi, I'm Al. Call me Rama. This is in bold because it's important. This is my fist time Fanficing, as I've never had the courage before now to actually publish the ideas running through my mind. Before you mention it, I know, I know. It's short. I'm an underwriter, but I'm hoping that will change as I publish more. The idea is the novel is set during the Warring States Era, but I wanted to focus on the smaller clans and other aspects to the Era of Blood. Anyways, I'm waffling now. It's a little flowery and might be underwhelming, but I seriously hope you enjoy the time spent reading my little work.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here, now would I? Kishimoto runs all things Naruto/Boruto. All I've done is taken the concept of the Narutoverse and tried to sprinkle my original flare onto it. Also, if you enjoy reading hundreds of fanfics from the guys manga, give him some pennies as appreciation. He deserves it.

PROLOGUE - LEGACY OF FIRE

Even the sky wept. Streaming tears pouring from ashen clouds, to match the men and women within the grand temple walls. The pattering against the windowpane was incessant; the outside world smeared with rainfall. An outside world enveloped by grief. A howling gale barged against trees that swayed left to right. Even the grassy fields, stretching over rolling hills for miles to see were dull. A dark mossy green instead of the vibrant emerald that usually coloured the Land of Fire.

But what of those hundreds that were inside the temple, victims to worse than abhorrent weather? What did they see to make them weep?

The scene inside was much worse, in truth.

Circling around an ornate throne of sturdy oak there were many who found it hard to staunch the flow of tears. Heads hung low. It was too hard to meet the gaze of the man they had considered a father. They were not likely brothers and sisters, but they considered theirs a relationship stronger than any blood ties. The love they shared was one of faith. Hailing from the rolling hills, lush valleys and jade plains of the Land of Fire. Raised under the oppressive heat of lands subject to constant sandstorms amidst thousands of miles of sand dunes, in the Land of Wind. Even as high and far to the north, where storms ruled in that elevated plane that gave the Land of Lightning its name. There was not a man or woman from all the known lands not present. A smattering of tongues, cultures and histories present before their father. The man they praised as a God.

For who could bring these disparate people together but the Sage of Six Paths. Reclining in the aforementioned throne, he did not take note of the silent weeping, sniffles of pain and pleading looks of the many around him. Instead, he smiled. Young Ashura could not help but cry out.

"Father, it is not time. Not yet. How can you leave a world that has so much yet to learn? The powers of Ninshū, the Will of Fire, you are a master of both. Please, father. Do not give in to death; do not let it claim you."

The soul present in the room who did not stir or feel a pang in his heart at the desperate pleading of a son had no emotion. There was not anyone inside who did not feel the emotion in the boy's quaking voice. A wind whipped outside and the gale roared once more. It was the Sage who silenced his son, still smiling.

"You are still the fool after all these years, Ashura?" the Sage said. "Whatever I have taught you, there is nothing more that I professed than living life to the greatest we can. Have I not done so? I have travelled the world spreading the power of Ninshū, giving the power of chakra to humankind, as my mother had forbidden me. A gift. But death meets every door; it is the fool who believes otherwise."

Ashura stepped back. Not expecting the harshness of his father's tone, it caught him off guard and he stood mute in shame. Another disciple took up the boy's cry.

"Surely, Sage, you are a God. You can bend the very winds to your will, why can you not stay with us but a little longer. Death has no power over you."

The Sage turned to look towards the fields. "If I was so powerful, do you think I want such weather on a day like this? There are tears enough to drown the Land of Water," he shook his head. "No. My time with death is soon coming, it is a fact that I cannot escape. Though you sing my praises, I am flesh and blood like any other. I have used my power to improve the world as best as I could, like my mother should have… my mother," the Sage turned to the.

"I still live with regret for me and my brother's actions. Though it was for the good of the world, we banished the mother whom I dearly loved. My son… he wanders the world with anger in his heart, running where I cannot find him. Where I cannot save him. What is power if I cannot unite my family-"

A sudden fit of coughing seized him. He clasped his throat; the disciples came around him as he spurted flecks of blood. He motioned them back with his hand, wiping it with the back of his hand. It was painful to see him like this. A man as mighty as the Sage.

All the world had been influenced by his knowledge, his chakra was insurmountable and the elements bowed to his will. The imperial wealth He was born with, He shared with his new disciples. He travelled miles on foot placing his palm on the heads of a new family he had created. Giving the first of humankind the power of chakra. Now, an unknown illness claimed him as he grew; his skin like milk weathered to a dull grey, and his piercing eyes, bright like wet sapphires were a dim grey. Silence loomed after his solemn speech; the Sage of Six Paths broke the spell.

"There is much I would like to do, but cannot. My body tires frequently, I cannot walk as I once did. And my time is due. Perhaps I have a year, two years more, but the Gods cannot rescind death. In many ways, it is a gift to reunite with the dead we held dear. It is the natural way. Besides, have I not taught you all that I shall come again in the guise of another? Have I not preached that we shall all live on through our children that practise the power of Ninshū? Fear not, we will see the sun, the stars, the moon once more. As long as our memory lingers through generations, how can we truly die? Ashura, come here."

Ashura did as he was told in white robes emblazoned with black tomoe. As a youth, hairless and happier, he played at father's feet with his brother Indra. Now as a man, sharp-featured with a tuft of hair on his chin, he knelt with deference. Looking up to his father, he raised his hands to be wrapped in the Sage's.

"I did not make you my heir because you are my eldest, strongest or most determined son. The Gods know you are not the smartest," he cackled, "I chose you because you embody something Indra never could, much to my chagrin. You have the Will of Fire. You have the power to spread Ninshū for good. Time passes and I will be gone soon. I know I cannot give chakra to everyone in the world, but there is nothing I wish to do more. Which is why I must give my life instead. Do not remember my final act as selfish, remember the gift I gave. Do you understand? Tell me you understand, so I may walk to the other side with a smile."

"I understand, father."

"Thank you. Thank you all, disciples. I know my power is in good hands."

The Sage closed his eyes, opened them again. He rose slowly as his old body could take him and began to walk. Slowly, the others followed. The windows were clanging and the gale was singing louder as they neared the outside. The only thing separating them were two grand oaken doors.

Once outside they were in the rain. It hammered down and the wind blew heavily, flapping their robes. The Sage raised his hands smiling. He basked in nature, where he always felt at home. He turned to his followers. There must have been hundreds, standing in the pouring rain looking with sadness.

He just smiled.

"Now I leave all my teachings and my powers to you. Go back to your homes do not let Ninshū die. Children from the Land of Wind to the Land of Whirlpools will grow knowing their powers. I will give the world my gift; it is up to my disciples to teach them how to use it. Ninshū is a force for good; it is our choices that determine how it will be used for the world. This is my final wish."

Eyes closed, the Sage of Six Paths was completely still. He sat on the ground, legs crossed arms folded together. His robes flew and soaked to His skin. No one made any noise any more. The sound of rain clashing with the ground was all that could be heard, the disciples were focused and watching the Sage. His flesh brightened, light grey, then the milk-white of his youth. His robes flapped violently, almost flying away. Then, just like that, the Sage was fading. His skin went translucent then a flash of bright light stole their sight. When the followers of the Sage opened their eyes, there was nothing. Not a sign of the Sage was left, just an empty space of grass where the Sage should have been. Yet the grass where he stood shone brighter. The people pointed to the skies, where the thick mass of clouds loomed, but now there were rays of sun gleaming. The sky became a clear and bright blue canvas. Foliage and streams surrounding the area lit like burnished steel.

Then, they fell.

Hundreds, thousands possibly more. Wisps of light, bright and purple; when they fell on the people, they all felt strong, reinvigorated with the power of the Sage. Their sorrows were swept away. Was this what He meant? His final gift, the power of Chakra given to man as a force for good.

The rain was gone but the ground was still soft. It was perfect for a grave. Inside were only robes, but that did not matter. It was the symbolistic meaning that would carry on. The legacy of the Sage. The disciples remained in the temple after the day turned to night. For days, they were working together under the lead of the new master of the Will of Fire, Ōtsutsuki Ashura. The monument was just beyond the temple of His last day, on a hill overlooking the large columned structure. Raised fifty feet high, carved from the stone the disciples raised using their earth-style was the visible legacy they would leave. In the Sage's likeness, it stood casting a looming shadow tens of feet wide. In his hand were scrolls with the many first jutsu made by the Sage, whilst his other hand showed his hand raised, index and middle finger raised in the likeness of a jutsu casting. They designed the robes like the ones he travelled with and preached with, black tomoe lining his chest. Now light shone where they stood, the blades a piercing jade. The visible memory of the Sage of Six Paths would be present to the generations that would follow, the generations that would inherit the power born from sacrifice.

And the world would be greater for it.

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