"They know nothing of strength," B muttered, his voice low but filled with an intensity that commanded respect. "Strength isn't just about showing face."

Ryomaru nodded, his young face set in determination. "I know," he replied, the two words carrying a weight of understanding beyond his years.

They continued on, the group flanked by Samui and Mabui. Samui's eyes occasionally scanned the crowd, her countenance betraying no emotion, yet a subtle tilt of her head towards Ryomaru offered a silent stream of support. Mabui's gaze was ever forward, her stance unyielding against the tide of disapproval that sought to unsettle them.

“They say she hasn’t shed a single tear,” an older woman clucked, her voice a barely concealed caw of disapproval. “Living in the same village, yet she might as well be worlds away.”

Her companion nodded, a man with stern features, his eyes cold and judgmental. “Aye, and the boy, walking there like a prince, does he not know his place? Can he be the Raikage?”

As they neared the central square where the ceremony would take place, the whispers persisted, occasionally breaking through the disciplined silence of the procession. "Can't even control his own household," a voice sneered from the crowd, "How can he control a village?"

"He's just a child," another voice scoffed. "A child led by a mother who disrespects our traditions."

The central square of the village had been transformed for the cremation ritual. A pyre, meticulously constructed, stood at its heart. Its wood was carefully chosen, resonating with the symbolic strength and resilience of the Raikage lineage. This was where Ryomaru would prove not only his lineage but also his own formidable power.

The murmurs of the crowd dwindled as Ryomaru approached the pyre, his small figure casting a long shadow in the late morning sun. The wood was piled high, awaiting the flame that would honor the Raikage's passage from this world to the next.

Ryomaru turned to face the crowd, his ice-blue eyes scanning the sea of faces before him. Among them, he could see doubt, curiosity, even scorn. But there were also those who looked upon him with expectation, wondering if the young boy before them truly carried the might of his father, the Raikage.

"Today," Ryomaru's voice rang out, clear and more mature than his age would suggest, "we honor the Raikage-sama with the Elemental Fire Ceremony. We do not merely burn wood; we ignite the spirit of the Raikage, allowing it to rise to the heavens, guiding us with its eternal light."

He stepped closer to the pyre, every eye upon him. His hand rose, and with it, the murmurs ceased entirely. This was a moment of truth for Ryomaru, a chance to silence the whispers and prove his mettle.

"Raiton: Gian!" he called, the words resonating with the confidence and authority of someone far beyond his years. His hand crackled, lightning coalescing into a ball of electrical energy. It was pure, white-blue — so bright it forced some of the onlookers to avert their gaze.

With a forward thrust of his palm, the ball of lightning surged forward, striking the pyre with precision and power. The wood erupted into flames instantaneously, the fire roaring upwards, hungrily consuming the timber.

The crowd gasped. The flames reflected in Ryomaru's eyes, a symbol of his prowess, his capacity to command respect through strength rather than fear. He held the gaze of the crowd as the fire crackled and spat, the air filling with the scent of burning wood and a subtle hint of incense that had been laced within.

The ritual continued as the last flickers of the pyre's flames dwindled, leaving behind the glow of embers. Ryomaru, standing solemn yet unyielding in the face of his village’s judgement, took the silence as his cue. The ceremonial aspects were not just for show; they were to honor the deceased and to offer solace to those left behind.

Ryomaru’s voice, steady and commanding, broke the quiet. "With the fire, we release the Raikage-sama's spirit to the heavens. And now, we will carry his legacy forward." His ice-blue eyes swept over the crowd, his gaze never faltering, never allowing the whispers to seep into the moment's gravity.

As dusk began to settle, casting a blanket of serene twilight over the village, the villagers, their murmurs now hushed by the solemnity of what was to come, prepared for the next part of the ceremony. Ryomaru held a sky lantern, its delicate paper sides billowing slightly in the evening breeze. This was the Ceremonial Sky Lanterns ritual, a tradition unique to their village.

With a solemn nod to his companions, he whispered, "For Raikage-sama," and with a grace that seemed to carry the weight of his lineage, Ryomaru released the lantern. It took flight, a silent sentinel carrying the ashes of A to the stars. One by one, the villagers followed, a sea of lanterns ascending into the darkening sky, a symbol of the Raikage's eternal watch over them.

The sight was poignant, the gentle glow of lanterns against the twilight sky painting a picture of peace, the stark contrast to the earlier fire and fervor. The lanterns, each a bearer of memory and respect, floated upwards, and for a moment, the village was united in their silent farewell.

Ryomaru's companions, Samui and Mabui, stood by his side, their faces stoic but their eyes soft with understanding. Samui leaned closer to him, her voice low but clear. "You did well, Ryomaru. Your father would be proud."

"Yes," Mabui agreed, her usual stern demeanor softened in the lanterns' glow. "This is a fitting tribute."

The darkness of night took hold, and it was time for the Thunderclap Salute. Ryomaru stepped forward, his figure outlined by the starry sky. The Shinobi of Cloud Village gathered, forming a circle around the now cold ashes of the pyre.

With a deep breath, Ryomaru raised his hand to the sky. "For the strength of Cloud and the spirit of the Raikage, we salute!" he declared.

The Shinobi around him channeled their chakra, and the air became charged with anticipation. Then, in perfect synchronization, they released their jutsu. The sky erupted with a symphony of thunderclaps, the sound resonating through the village, a formidable salute to their fallen leader.