Veeraa and Yamaraj clashed, their power radiating like colliding stars, each blow a testament to the relentless force of their wills. The field was a shattered expanse, weapons scattered across the bloodstained earth, the air thick with the echoes of their clash. Yamaraj's blund mace crashed against Veeraa's demon-forged arms, each impact shattering the ground beneath them. Shadows and divine light intertwined, locked in a deadly dance that seemed to shake the very fabric of reality.
Suddenly, as their weapons came together in yet another powerful strike, everything around them froze. A brilliant, indescribable energy wove through the space between them, stopping them mid-motion. It was as though an invisible hand had reached out, arresting both their weapons effortlessly. Both Veeraa and Yamaraj looked up, bewildered, as a figure emerged from the golden light, stepping onto the battlefield with a serene presence that seemed untouched by the chaos around.
It was Krishna.
Clad in radiant yellow garments that seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow, Krishna's form was both calming and fierce, a paradox of softness and power. A peacock feather nestled in his dark curls swayed gently, and his eyes, deep and knowing, held a wisdom that spanned lifetimes. His presence felt like a breath of calm amidst a raging storm, and yet the power that emanated from him was immeasurable, a quiet but undeniable force that stilled both gods and demons alike.
Without a word, Krishna extended his arms, grasping Yamaraj's mace in one hand and Veeraa's demon-forged sword in the other. The ease with which he held these weapons, which had been wielded in a frenzy of divine fury moments before, was staggering. It was as if he held mere branches rather than objects of immense power. In a smooth, almost effortless motion, Krishna tossed the weapons aside, sending them skittering across the battlefield as if they were of no consequence.
The silence that followed was absolute. Veeraa and Yamaraj, who moments ago had been locked in an unyielding battle, now stood opposite one another, disarmed and in awe of the figure between them. The battlefield, moments ago alive with fury, now felt like a temple—quiet, sacred, and filled with a stillness that went beyond mere silence. Krishna's presence, radiant and profound, filled the space with a sense of calm authority, as if the universe itself bent to his will.
As he looked from Veeraa to Yamaraj, Krishna's gaze softened, a trace of a smile on his lips. It was a look that held understanding, compassion, and wisdom beyond comprehension. And yet, it also held a message, one that required no words—a reminder of the cosmic balance that governed all things, the ties of duty and destiny that bound even the mightiest of beings.
For a long, breathless moment, both Veeraa and Yamaraj were held in Krishna's presence, a peace that transcended the battlefield settling over them. Neither spoke. The entire world seemed to hold its breath, waiting in reverence before the One who stood as both creator and protector, a being of boundless compassion and unbreakable strength.
As Krishna's form graced the battlefield, nature itself seemed to awaken in reverence, celebrating his presence with a gentle yet powerful symphony. The winds, which had been wild and chaotic amidst the clash of Veeraa and Yamaraj, softened into a warm breeze, carrying with it a faint fragrance of sandalwood and jasmine that seemed to bloom just for him. The battlefield, scarred by war, softened in his glow, as though bowing to the divine force that had arrived to restore balance.
Golden rays of sunlight pierced through heavy clouds, bathing Krishna in a halo of light, making him appear as if he were woven from sunlight itself. The ground beneath his feet, stained and cracked from the fierce battle, began to heal as soft grasses and tiny wildflowers emerged from the scorched earth, bending toward him as though drawn to his presence. Even the blood-red dust that had filled the air now settled, granting clarity to those who beheld him, as if the earth were acknowledging him as its rightful sovereign.
Birds that had fled from the violence returned in gentle flocks, circling overhead and singing their songs in soft, melodious tones. A single peacock, its feathers gleaming in a spectrum of colors, appeared and spread its magnificent fan, displaying itself in homage to the one who bore its feather in his crown.
The rivers near the battlefield, which had run murky and turbulent, suddenly calmed and gleamed with clarity, reflecting Krishna's radiant form. Trees, their branches battered by the battle's wrath, seemed to straighten and stretch skyward, their leaves rustling in harmonious whispers, paying silent homage. Even the clouds above parted gracefully, allowing a sliver of sky to shine through, forming a canopy of peace over the scene below.
It was as though all of nature—the sky, the earth, the creatures, and the elements—recognized Krishna as their beloved protector. And in this divine moment, the battlefield was no longer a place of war but a sacred ground, transformed by the presence of the eternal guardian of dharma, who had come to set things right.
As Krishna moved towards Veeraa, his steps barely made a sound, yet each one seemed to echo with profound gravity. The very earth beneath his feet softened, embracing his presence, and a serene calm radiated from him, dispelling the remaining tension in the air. His eyes, deep as oceans and warm as the sun, fixed upon the boy, filled with both kindness and an ancient understanding. There was no judgment in his gaze, only an invitation for truth.
Veeraa, still in his transformed state with the fierce, dark energy encircling him, stood silently as Krishna approached, his aura of raw defiance now softened in Krishna's calming presence. The demon-like arms, each wielding the spoils of battle, wavered as if unsure of their place, their dark essence flickering under Krishna's serene gaze. Veeraa, who had been poised to fight to his last breath, suddenly felt the warmth of Krishna's presence seep into him, unraveling layers of pain, fear, and anger.
Krishna stopped a few steps before him, his gentle smile never fading, as though he understood Veeraa's struggles in ways even Veeraa couldn't fully grasp. He raised a hand in blessing, the gold of his bracelets and the delicate peacock feather in his crown glinting in the softened sunlight.
In a voice as soft as a breeze but carrying the weight of millennia, Krishna spoke, "What do you seek, my child? Why are you doing this?"
The words washed over Veeraa, each one reaching a depth within him he hadn't known existed. For a moment, Veeraa felt like a child again, vulnerable yet safe, standing before a force that radiated infinite love and understanding. His fierce form faltered, and he could feel the darkness in his energy trembling as though in conflict with itself. He opened his mouth to respond, but found himself choked with emotion, realizing that the force he'd spent his whole life fighting—life itself, fate, the cruelty of destiny.
Veeraa's voice was raw, trembling, as he spoke, every word laced with the fierce resolve and desperation that had driven him to defy even Yamaraj. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, yet his gaze remained unwavering as he looked up at Krishna, pleading with both fire and sorrow.
"Just one thing…" he whispered, his voice cracking, but he steadied himself, fists clenched around the weapons he still held. "I promised him, Krishna. Let me just… do it."
Each word seemed to carry the weight of untold pain, of countless moments he had endured alone, burdened by his vow to Karna. His promise wasn't just a simple oath; it was a piece of himself, carved from his own heart and bound with the love he bore for his friend. His dark energy, which had been violent and seething just moments ago, now flickered with a subdued yet intense purpose, as if his entire being was held together by this single, unyielding desire.
Krishna listened in silence, his expression soft yet profound, absorbing the full measure of Veeraa's anguish. The gentle wind rustled around them, as though the very world was holding its breath, moved by Veeraa's determination. Krishna's gaze deepened, seeing past Veeraa's fierce exterior into the depths of his heart, into the rawness of his longing to fulfill his promise, to give Karna something that fate had otherwise denied him.
Veeraa's grip on the weapons tightened as he continued, almost to himself, his voice a mere whisper, "I can't let go, Krishna. Not yet. Not until… I keep my word."
The sincerity of his words cut through the air, and for that moment, he was no longer just a boy; he was the embodiment of loyalty and devotion, a spirit bound not by law or fate but by the power of love. And as he stood there, breathing heavily, his dark aura surrounding him like a mantle, it was clear that, in his heart, there was no other path—only the one that fulfilled the promise he had made.
In the infinite darkness, Karna's soul drifted, engulfed by a silence so deep it felt like a weight pressing upon him. Shadows of his past flickered before him like distant memories surfacing, one by one, pulling him back into the moments that had defined his life. He felt isolated in this endless void, as if even the gods had turned away, leaving him alone with the echoes of his choices.
Regret settled heavy within him as he thought back to his mother, Kunti. She had revealed the truth of his birth at a time when he could no longer turn back. In that moment, she had called him her firstborn, her blood, but then asked him to forsake his loyalty to Duryodhana. Anger and sorrow twisted within him—how he had yearned for that bond, for acceptance. But she had come to him as a stranger, only to ask him to betray the one man who had stood by him. That rejection still haunted him, the emptiness of longing to belong to something, yet finding himself cast aside, an eternal outcast.
Then came the battles of Kurukshetra, each scene replaying itself in fragments. He remembered Bhishma's eyes, filled with unspoken sadness and respect, but also a reminder of his own isolation. Bhishma had chosen the Pandavas, while Karna had bound himself to Duryodhana, his friend, his only constant. The field of Kurukshetra had been filled with the roars of war, the clash of steel, and the cries of warriors, but Karna had fought as if alone, his heart bearing the scars of a life spent yearning for acceptance and honor.
The memory of Arjuna cut through the void like a piercing blade. His younger brother. The irony of fate had placed them on opposite sides, and yet a bond of blood connected them. Each time they clashed, Karna had fought not just with his skill but with the burden of proving himself worthy. His pride had pushed him to rival Arjuna, his heart demanding that he be seen as an equal, even if destiny had placed them as adversaries. Their final encounter, that last arrow… it haunted him now, the image of Arjuna drawing his bow and releasing the arrow that ended his life.
He clenched his fists, frustration boiling within him as he recalled the curse of Parashurama and the fateful moment when his chariot wheel sank into the earth. That curse, a consequence of a lie told in desperation, had left him defenseless at the worst moment. Despite all he had endured, all he had suffered, he had met his end unfairly, stripped of honor in his final breath. Even his death had not been his own—he had died by fate's design, cheated by destiny itself.
In the void, Karna's soul trembled, the weight of these memories crashing over him. Regret seeped into him like poison, filling him with a sorrow too vast for words. He thought of all he had done, the paths he had taken, and wondered if he could have done anything differently. What was he now—a warrior, a son, a friend, or merely a soul lost in the darkness?
But then, faintly, he felt the warmth of something beyond. A presence, distant but real. Somewhere, a bond lingered still—a promise from a kid, a friend who had seen beyond caste, beyond birth, who had loved him without condition.
As Karna's spirit teetered on the edge of surrender, ready to dissolve into the nothingness surrounding him, a soft, pure light began to pierce the dark void, drawing him back from despair. Faint, gentle voices echoed in the distance, voices filled with warmth and sorrow. They sounded like a lullaby from another lifetime, a soothing whisper calling him home. Against his own will, his eyes fluttered open, and he found himself no longer in the shadowy void but back in his body, still broken, still wounded, the weight of his injuries like fire on his flesh. Yet, there was something new—a warmth surrounding him, a softness that hadn't been there before.
He was lying in the lap of his mother, Radha. The sight hit him like a wave, and his heart clenched painfully. She was holding him as if he were a child again, her hands stroking his hair, her tears dripping onto his blood-streaked face. Beside her knelt Kunti, his birth mother, her face etched with lines of grief and remorse. Both women were crying silently, their faces.
As Karna's gaze drifted across his surroundings, his eyes fell upon the figures kneeling nearby. His brothers—the Pandavas—were there, each of them with expressions shattered by grief. Arjuna's face, usually so firm and resolute, was streaked with tears, his hands trembling as if holding back a world of sorrow. Bhima, strong and unyielding in battle, now looked broken, his massive frame hunched, and his fists clenched in helplessness. Even Yudhishthira, the eldest, the one who always carried the weight of dharma on his shoulders, had tears in his eyes, his steady composure undone. Nakula and Sahadeva stood close, their eyes red, haunted with the realization that the warrior they had admired, even fought against, was their own brother.
Karna's heart twisted at the sight. He knew, in that moment, that they had learned the truth—that the blood they shared ran deeper than rivalry, deeper than their conflicts on the battlefield. All the battles, the pride, the years of enmity, and the unspoken bond had finally come crashing down in a moment of painful revelation. He could see the regret, the sorrow in their eyes, and it mirrored his own regrets—the countless "what ifs" that had plagued his heart. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a reminder of the wounds still tearing through his body, but the pain of the past, of choices that could never be undone, cut even deeper.
Then, his gaze fell upon his guru, Parashurama, standing just beyond his brothers. The sage's eyes bore into him, filled with disappointment, but also a depth of compassion that Karna had never dared to hope for. Weak and nearly voiceless, Karna's tears fell as he raised a trembling hand, pressing his palms together in the namaste of a disciple seeking forgiveness. He could not speak the apology he so desperately wished to give, but in that silent, tearful gesture, he poured out all the remorse he felt—for his arrogance, his misplaced loyalties, and the choices that had drawn him away from his path.
Karna's vision blurred as he looked at each face—his mothers, his brothers, his guru. His chest heaved with the weight of his regrets. Every bond that he had longed for, every relationship he had sacrificed in his quest for honor, lay before him now in the most tragic of ironies. He had spent a lifetime as an outsider, yearning for acceptance, and here they all were, too late to bridge the chasm that time had carved between them. His heart broke for the life he could have lived, for the love he could have shared, and as the last of his strength faded, he allowed himself to grieve openly in front of them all, a warrior stripped of armor, reduced to the fragile man he had always been underneath.
Through the haze of his tears and pain, Karna turned his weary gaze toward Krishna, who stood nearby, his expression calm yet deeply compassionate. Karna's heart swelled with gratitude for this chance to be with those he loved, for the gift of this final moment to be seen and understood. With a silent prayer of thanks, he managed a faint, broken smile.
But Krishna shook his head slowly, his eyes filled with a gentle yet profound wisdom. Karna's smile faded as he tried to understand, confusion clouding his features. Then, with a graceful motion, Krishna raised his hand and gestured toward the top of a distant mountain that loomed against the sky, bathed in soft, golden light.
Karna squinted, his vision blurring as he strained to see the figure on the mountaintop. The silhouette was dark and fierce, arms—no, countless arms—outstretched in a display of raw, overwhelming power. The figure seemed to defy the sun itself, casting a vast shadow over the world below.
It was Veera, standing at the peak, his ten massive, demon-like arms reaching out as though to hold back the heavens themselves. Each arm was as dark as midnight, with energy crackling along their edges, a ferocious aura that blocked the sun's rays, casting an otherworldly twilight over the scene. In that moment, Veera looked less like a friend and more like a god of wrath, a guardian holding the forces of fate at bay.
Karna's heart ached at the sight. Veera's silhouette, standing against the sun as if shielding him from its final call, filled him with a sorrow he couldn't describe. Even in the face of the gods themselves, Veera was still fighting for him—still standing by his side. The same boy he'd called his friend was now holding back the very forces of destiny.
Karna's gaze flickered back to Krishna, searching for understanding. But Krishna's expression was unreadable, a blend of serene wisdom and profound sadness. He simply nodded, as if to say, This is Veera's choice—his love, his loyalty, his sacrifice.
Karna's lips parted, but he had no words, only a deep, overwhelming feeling of awe and sorrow, mingling into something beyond any emotion he had ever felt. His heart, wounded and weary, found a strange solace in that darkened sky. In that moment, Karna knew: Veera was his strength, his courage, his legacy—standing between him and the final darkness.
Karna's heart swelled with the weight of realization,At that time Karna knew that at kuruskhetra war there was not one but two living gods. One was against him at the battlefield and another one who was beside him that he couldn't see an ache so deep it was almost unbearable. As he looked toward the mountaintop where Veera's dark form shielded him from fate, Karna understood something profound—something that he might never be able to put into words. He had fought against gods, he had been abandoned by kin, he had borne the cruelty of fate itself, but there was a god beside him all along, silent and invisible in the heart of that little boy, that dear friend.
And now, as he raised his hands in a trembling namaste, Karna's gratitude poured out from the depths of his soul. His lips moved, though no words emerged. This gesture, this act of reverence, was all he had left to give Veera in return. He felt the sting of tears, warm and relentless, as they traced the lines of his weathered face. They were not just tears of sadness but of gratitude, a silent offering to the child who had stood by him, who had dared defy even gods for his sake.
Veera's silhouette on the mountain softened, a smile faintly visible through the aura of his darkened form. It was a smile of quiet acceptance, of fulfillment, a gentle farewell that conveyed more than any words ever could. And then, like a fleeting shadow, Veera disappeared, melting back into the mountain as if he had been no more than a passing dream.
Karna's breath hitched as the emptiness settled over him. The silence that followed was vast, stretching across the battlefield and pressing down upon his spirit. The child who had risked everything to protect him was gone, leaving only memories and that echoing question in his heart—a question he knew he would never find an answer to.
"Why?" he whispered to himself, a soft plea that seemed to linger in the air. Why would a boy, so young and pure, give up everything to shield someone marked by fate? But in his heart, Karna knew the answer, even if he couldn't fully grasp it. Love—an unbreakable bond, a friendship forged in a moment yet destined to last beyond time.
As he lowered his hands, a profound quietness settled over his soul. Beside him, Krishna watched with a knowing gaze, understanding the gravity of the moment. They both knew what had passed on this battlefield, knew that in the vastness of war and destiny, there had been two gods—one who tested him, and one who had shielded him from even the shadows.
Karna closed his eyes, letting the tears fall freely now, his heart swelling and breaking with the memory of Veera's unwavering smile. He knew he might never see him again, might never have the chance to voice his gratitude aloud. Yet the silence, the bond, the sacrifices—it was enough. It was more than enough.
And in that sacred silence, there was a promise that transcended lifetimes.
-TO BE CONTINUED