The void was silent. Not the kind of silence that came from the absence of sound—but something deeper. A silence that gnawed at the soul, that stretched across eternity. A man floated there, his name long forgotten by the world, but he remembered. He had died—how, he wasn't quite sure anymore. Only that it was quick, and stupid. Unworthy.
And then came the voice.
"You've amused me."
It wasn't human. It wasn't male, female, or mechanical. It simply was—like a thought that pressed into existence and reverberated through his very being.
A flicker of light twisted before him, becoming a vaguely humanoid shape of glowing golden smoke. Eyes opened in the swirl, glittering with galaxies.
"I am a ROB—Random Omnipotent Being, if you need labels. You get three wishes. Don't screw it up."
The man blinked. "I'm not dreaming?"
"If you were, you wouldn't be this lucid. Now, I'm bored. Chop-chop."
Years of reading fanfics had prepared him for this moment. He wasn't going to wish for something dumb like 'all the girls' or 'infinite power.' He took a deep breath.
"First wish: I want to be reborn in the Naruto world, during the Warring States period."
The ROB nodded, amused.
"Second wish: I want to be immortal. Not just unaging, but immune to all forms of death unless I choose it."
A low hum echoed.
"Third… I want to have a unique bloodline that lets me evolve endlessly—my abilities, chakra, body, and soul constantly adapting to whatever I encounter, including dojutsu, nature energy, and more. A bloodline that only I can pass to my children."
The ROB's laughter was sharp, like breaking glass. "Oh, you're going to be fun."
The light consumed him.
He awoke, naked and screaming, covered in blood, lying in the mud beside a burning village. His hands were tiny. A child's hands. And yet the moment he opened his eyes, he remembered everything. The ROB hadn't taken his memories.
Above him, a woman's dying breath rasped out something he couldn't understand. His mother? Her eyes were already empty. Around him were corpses—clan insignias he didn't recognize.
This was the Warring States period.
War. Death. Children as soldiers. Brutality beyond reason.
And he was here to build something. His own clan.
Years passed like falling ash.
He grew stronger at an unnatural rate. His chakra swelled with each battle. His body healed from wounds that should have crippled him. He didn't just survive the era—he thrived in it.
By the age of 16, he had built the foundation of a small clan hidden in the mountain valleys west of the Land of Fire. No name yet. Just a banner soaked in the blood of their enemies—painted black and red.
They were outcasts. Children with nowhere to go. People discarded by other clans. He taught them strategy. Taught them how to use chakra, how to wield weapons, how to survive.
And they followed him—not because of his power, but because he never sent them where he wouldn't go himself.
He didn't have a name in this life. So he took one:
Kuro Tatsuro.The Black Dragon.
Tatsuro first met Hashirama Senju on the battlefield.
It was chaos—clashes between the Senju and the Uchiha, their centuries-old blood feud boiling over into a slaughter. Tatsuro's clan had been hired as mercenaries to protect a neutral noble family caught in the crossfire.
He saw the boy—not yet the God of Shinobi—leaping through enemies with his wood release ripping trees through the ground, impaling enemies like skewers.
Tatsuro intercepted him in the forest, alone.
They fought for seven hours.
No words. Just steel and chakra. When they both collapsed, breathing heavily, laughing despite their bloodied bodies, they finally spoke.
"You're not Uchiha," Hashirama said.
"And you're too good to be wasting your talent on warlords."
They shook hands that night.
Madara was harder.
They met later, in the ruins of a battlefield where both their forces had been wiped out. Tatsuro walked toward him, unarmed. Madara tried to kill him. Twice.
The third time, Tatsuro ducked the blade and said:
"Hashirama trusts me."
Madara narrowed his eyes, Sharingan blazing. "That fool trusts everyone."
"I don't."
It took a year of conversations, shared battles, and eventually a duel that shattered the side of a mountain before Madara called him friend.
And Izuna… Izuna was supposed to die.
Tatsuro was there the day it was meant to happen. He'd seen it in vague flashes, hints from the ROB's gift, warnings of fixed points. But his bloodline had evolved. He could feel danger like a second heartbeat.
He intercepted the blade meant for Izuna's heart, catching it between his palms. Blood flowed, but not his own.
He threw the assassin's body down the cliff.
Izuna coughed, eyes wide, confused. "Why?"
"Because Madara would burn the world to avenge you. And because you deserve better."
The younger Uchiha never forgot that moment.
Tatsuro named his clan: The Tatsugan.
Their kekkei genkai was his gift—an evolution chakra trait called Shinka Ryōiki, or "The Domain of Evolution."
Each member gained a unique trait of adaptation—some could copy jutsu with a glance, others evolved enhanced sensory perception, elemental fusion, or monstrous regenerative abilities. But the core bloodline only passed through his bloodline—his children.
In each generation, he chose a wife—not for politics, but for strength, for will. From them, he bore children who carried his legacy. Sons and daughters who lived for battle and honor.
And in every generation, one new soul appeared—bearing the abilities of another world, another life.
The first was Guts, the Black Swordsman. A child born with monstrous strength and rage. He had no memories of the Eclipse or Griffith—but his skill with a blade was unmatched. Tatsuro adopted him into the clan, trained him, tempered his fury into discipline.
The world burned.
And this was just the beginning.