Fang Yuan's Eternal Struggle For Immortality In Naruto

Shikamaru Nara

Waking up to the sharp sound of a frying pan slamming against the counter wasn't exactly the peaceful morning I had envisioned. Releasing a long yawn, I stretched my arms lazily before rolling out of bed. My body protested against the sudden movement, but I ignored it, shuffling toward the dining table.

"Morning…" I mumbled, the words barely coherent.

"Morning," my father replied, his voice equally low-effort.

Shikaku Nara, my father, looked beyond exhausted. Deep lines were etched into his face, and his eyes were shadowed with fatigue. I knew the likely cause of it—shinobi matters—but something gnawed at the back of my mind, compelling me to ask anyway.

"So, Dad, what's got you so worn out this early in the morning?"

Though my mother, Yoshino, rarely meddled in shinobi business, she gave my father a side-eye glance before resuming her task of preparing breakfast.

My father sighed heavily, his expression unreadable yet speaking volumes. His silence wasn't comforting.

Five years ago, all the Great Nations had plunged into a war that left the minor villages in ruins. No one could pinpoint exactly how it began, though most speculated it was tied to the assassination of the Tsuchikage, the leader of the Hidden Stone Village. The chaos escalated when a civil war broke out in the Hidden Mist Village, which the Cloud Village saw as an opportunity to expand its territory with the Sand thinking the same. Then it was only a matter of time before such conflicts entered Fire Country which resulted in The Leaf retaliating.

Needless to say, it didn't end well.

My mother interrupted my thoughts by placing a plate of rice, miso soup, and grilled fish in front of me and my father. For a moment, I set aside my curiosity about the state of the world.

"So, Shika, how's the academy treating you? I better not hear you've been skipping classes again," my mother said in a tone so sweet it sent chills down my spine.

I groaned inwardly, sagging in my chair. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father smirking at my reaction.

Troublesome.

Sasuke Uchiha

I pivoted sharply, deflecting a fist aimed at my face with a well-timed block. I followed up with a swift jump, narrowly avoiding a sweeping kick, before twisting mid-air and landing in a crouch.

"You've improved, Sasuke," Itachi said, his voice calm and composed.

A smirk tugged at the corners of my lips, but I kept my focus on him. My brother's stance was deceptively relaxed, yet every fiber of his body was poised for action.

I pulled three kunai from my pouch and hurled them at him in rapid succession. Itachi, however, merely smiled. With a fluid motion, he twisted his body mid-air, catching all three kunai effortlessly.

Despite the failed attack, I seized the opportunity. Darting to the side, I formed the necessary hand signs.

"Fire Release: Fireball Jutsu!"

I inhaled deeply, channeling chakra into my lungs before releasing a medium-sized fireball. It wasn't powerful enough to cause real damage, but it would demand a response. Maintaining the jutsu, I felt the chakra tugging at my reserves.

Itachi didn't flinch. Instead, he dashed toward the fireball.

Is he insane?

Before I could process what was happening, he extended a palm and grazed the edge of the fireball. A burst of chakra erupted from his hand, redirecting my attack harmlessly to the side. In the same motion, he closed the distance between us, his fingers aimed precisely at my neck.

I exhaled a frustrated sigh.

"You win again…"

Itachi's smile didn't waver. "You've improved, Sasuke. But relying too heavily on ninjutsu could one day be your downfall."

I nodded begrudgingly. Itachi had warned me before about shinobi who focused solely on ninjutsu, neglecting other disciplines. Versatile enemies would exploit such weaknesses, often leading to a fatal end.

"I know," I muttered, frustration gnawing at me. No matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't land a single hit on him.

"Don't be discouraged, Sasuke. You're progressing well," a voice said from the sidelines.

I turned, my face heating up slightly, and found myself looking at Fang Yuan.

"Thanks, Fang Yuan."

Fang Yuan was a distant cousin. His alabaster skin was flawless, and his dark, charcoal eyes bore the signature intensity of the Uchiha. His long, jet-black hair cascaded down his back, accentuating the traditional kimono he always wore. His elegant appearance often led people to mistake him for a woman, a misconception he seemed entirely unfazed by.

Fang Yuan tilted his head slightly, offering a serene smile. "It's true, Sasuke. You've improved. With time, you'll surpass Itachi."

My heart swelled at his words. Surpass Itachi?

I glanced at my brother, who was also staring at Fang Yuan. Itachi's expression, normally serene, appeared strained. For a fleeting moment, his dark eyes shimmered with a hint of red, but the color faded just as quickly.

"Sasuke," Itachi said softly, "if you don't hurry, you'll be late for the academy. Father and Mother won't be pleased if that happens."

Crap. He was right.

I bowed hastily to Fang Yuan, who responded with a graceful hand gesture. Without wasting another second, I sprinted back toward home.

Itachi Uchiha

My eyes flickered, the crimson glow of the Sharingan flaring to life for the briefest of moments. Fang Yuan noticed, of course—nothing ever escaped him—but he made no move to acknowledge it. I dismissed the technique just as quickly as it appeared, inwardly chastising myself for the slip. Losing control, even for a second, in this kind of exchange was unacceptable.

Playing along with his games was always a losing battle.

Fang Yuan was a distant cousin, one year older than Sasuke, and a Genin assigned to the reserve unit. It was a special division for shinobi without teams—those who were considered unsuitable for teamwork, or survivors of missions where their entire squad had been annihilated.

In Fang Yuan's case, it was the latter.

The whispers surrounding his past were as numerous as the leaves in the forest. His team had been tasked with a simple escort mission to the Land of Rice Fields. A wealthy merchant had unearthed a peculiar gemstone rumored to absorb and contain blood, which, naturally, caught the attention of a group of zealots.

The mission was straightforward—until it wasn't. The team was ambushed. The Jonin leading the mission had been butchered, and the two other Genin were said to have suffered fates far worse before meeting their ends. Fang Yuan, however, had somehow returned alive, escorting the merchant safely back to Konoha.

The merchant, claiming the stone was cursed, insisted on gifting it to Fang Yuan as a token of gratitude—or perhaps as a way to rid himself of the burden.

The official reports were clinical, leaving little room for speculation. The rumors, however, painted a darker picture. Fang Yuan's survival had always been shrouded in mystery. People whispered that the boy had done something unnatural, something monstrous, to emerge unscathed.

I wasn't sure what to believe.

I watched him now, standing there draped in his usual kimono. The elegant garment obscured his physique, hiding every hint of his body's movements. Fang Yuan was an enigma, his every motion deliberate, every word laced with subtle intent. He allowed people to mistake him for a woman without protest, offering nothing more than a soft laugh and a knowing smile in return.

He was a master of masks, but I could see through them.

"What do you want, Fang Yuan?" I asked, my tone flat, masking the irritation brewing beneath the surface. "You're not one to waste your time on meaningless things."

Fang Yuan tilted his head slightly, his charcoal-black eyes meeting mine. They were suffocating in their intensity as if they could strip away every layer of a person and leave them bare.

"Itachi," he said, his voice smooth and unhurried, "why must you always assume I have some ulterior motive? Can't I simply enjoy watching my cousins dance under the sun?"

Dance. He called it a dance.

His words were calculated, designed to provoke, and though I hated to admit it, they succeeded. My hands clenched at my sides for the briefest of moments before I forced them to relax.

"If you have nothing meaningful to say," I replied coldly, "then I'll take my leave."

Turning on my heel, I walked away. Staying in Fang Yuan's presence for too long always felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of unseen danger. My emotions, which I prided myself on controlling, always seemed to stir when I was around him.

Anger. Frustration. Discomfort.

Why?

The answer was painfully obvious, and I hated it.

Fang Yuan was too close to Sasuke.

And the way he looked at my little brother—that calm, indifferent gaze he used for everyone and everything—it infuriated me.

Because Sasuke wasn't just anyone.

And that, above all else, was what angered me the most.