Author's Note

Hello, everyone,



Before you dive into this chapter, there's something I need to clarify.



I'm the original author of this story—the one who wrote the first 12 chapters with little knowledge of the Mahabharata beyond what I'd seen in TV serials. After that, my friend took over because I lost my job and fell into depression.



Now, he's in a much worse place than I am. His cousin, who was also his fiancée, tragically passed away in an accident. (Marriage between cousins is common in his family, so please refrain from any unkind comments.) This loss has deeply affected him, and he's currently struggling with his grief.



To help him, I've stepped back in to continue the story. What you'll read here is the result of that effort. It hasn't been beta-read yet, so the quality might not be up to the usual standard. I don't want to wait for beta-reader to look over this so sorry HopeMikaelson2009. You will have to beta read this and next chapter together.



This chapter is only half of what was planned, but given the circumstances, I wanted to share what was written so far. I'll post the remaining half in the coming weeks when he's in a better position to contribute.



To address some recurring comments: I know there have been questions about the Mahabharata from readers like GodishalaSiddartha and SimpForAngstBoi. Unfortunately, I'm not knowledgeable enough to answer them.



I also noticed he have pissed off with his responses, and I sincerely apologize on his behalf.



With all that said, I hope you still enjoy this chapter. Please share your thoughts and reviews—they mean a lot.



Thank you for your understanding and support.







This is the end

Hold your breath and count to ten

Feel the Earth move and then

Hear my heart burst again

For this is the end

I've drowned and dreamt this moment

So overdue, I owe them

Swept away, I'm stolen



(Kripa's POV)



The silence in Kripa's chambers was not merely the absence of sound—it was a living force, coiling and pressing against him, relentless and unyielding.



Each breath he drew seemed a battle against the air itself, shallow and rasping, as though the very atmosphere sought to suffocate him. His hands, faintly trembling, rested on the carved arms of his chair, their stillness a brittle shield against the storm within.



The truth Vasusena had revealed was a prison—a cage of unyielding reality, its bars forged of inevitability and shame.



The memory gripped him with talons of fire. Vasusena had not spoken as a subject or even as a challenger. No, Surya's son had risen beyond such roles to become something far more harrowing—a reckoner, an arbiter of their sins. His voice, calm and measured, had stripped them bare, his words sharper than any blade, leaving Kripa's authority, his carefully built identity, in tatters.



How could he have been so blind? He, Kripa, the Kulguru of Hastinapura, the supposed repository of wisdom, the architect of the Kuru dynasty's guidance. Yet, in mere moments, Vasusena had torn away the veil from his eyes. His words were indictments, their weight exposing a rot long concealed beneath the illusion of dharma.



"This is a family that should never stay together."



The echo of those words was deafening, their serenity more chilling than the loudest condemnation. They resounded within him, tearing apart illusions he had nurtured for decades. It was not just Bhishma's burden, nor Vidura's. No, it was his. The realization drummed against his ribs like a relentless tide: had they utterly failed to protect, to nurture, the very family they claimed to uphold?



And Vasusena—what was he? Neither prince nor king, neither hero nor villain. He was a force, an instrument of divine reckoning, dismantling their carefully constructed pretenses with the precision of a blade. The understanding left Kripa cold, a chill that seeped into the marrow of his bones.



Suyodhana's face swam before his mind, not as the hardened prince of today but as the boy who had once gazed up at him with unguarded hope. Pride and vulnerability had mingled in that young gaze, a silent plea for guidance and approval. The memory cut deeper than any blade.



He failed the boy too much to even imagine? The taste of guilt was acrid, filling his mouth as he grappled with the unthinkable: the dynasty he had dedicated his life to preserving might be the very force destined to shatter the young prince.



But amidst this tempest of remorse, one revelation consumed him, gnawing at the edges of his reason. A slip of Vasusena's tongue, a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of his composure.



"Chatur-Tritiya Kaunteya."



The words replayed in his mind, an enigma wrapped in deliberate ambiguity. Tritiya Kaunteya—Arjuna, Kunti's third son. That was the truth, uncontested and known to the world. Yet Vasusena had faltered, nearly calling Arjuna as the fourth Kaunteya.



Kripa's body tensed as the memory sharpened. He recalled the faint, otherworldly glow of Vasusena's eyes—Maheshwara's boon made manifest. By his own admission, the son of Surya could not lie when that boon was active. And yet, when he nearly called Arjuna "Chaturth Kaunteya," his eyes had burned crimson, his boon was in full effect.



But when he tried to cover up his mistake and call Arjuna the Tritiya Kaunteya... his eyes... they had shifted from the crimson of Mahadeva's boon to their natural tawny hue.



The realization struck with the force of a thunderclap.



The truth was there, in that subtle shift, hidden in plain sight. Vasusena had deliberately disabled Maheshwara's boon for the briefest of moments, using that sliver of freedom to lie.



The lie that Arjuna was the third Kaunteya.



The others might not have noticed, their thoughts drowned in the storm Vasusena had unleashed. But Kripa had seen it. He had been close to Vasusena at that moment which gave him the chance to witness the deliberate act, the razor-thin moment of deception.



Is there other son of Kunti, unknown even to the most watchful eyes of the Kuru elders? It seemed impossible. There had been no whisper of a miscarriage during Kunti's time in Gandhamadana with Pandu.



So where, then, did this mysterious Kaunteya come into the world? He must be older than Arjuna as Karna nearly called Arjuna fourth Kaunteya.



By the letters from Pandu... Kunti invoked the Devas only three times. Yama Dharmaraja for Yudhistira, Vayudeva for Bhima and the king of Swarga for Arjuna. And while they were in Hastinapur she was never pregnant.



The only way it could be possible is before her marriage. Yet even that seemed improbable. Kunti, raised in the protective embrace of Kuntibhoja, had no suitor, no lover before her swayamvara. The spies stationed in Kunti's kingdom had found nothing to suggest otherwise.



And Kuntibhoja, who cherished her, would never have arranged a swayamvara if she had shown affection for another. He would have given her hand to the person Pritha loved.



Kripa's hand then struck his forehead in exasperation. The answer has been staring before his face all the time. It is the same way Kunti had her other children. The boon.



In her youth, Pritha must have tested the boon, a foolish thing to do, but she is a child at that time so it won't be out of possibility. So in her childish curiosity she must have impulsively invoked the boon.



She must have summoned a Deva, unknowingly setting the course for the birth of a Devaputra whose existence was veiled in secrecy.



So, the eldest Kaunteya was a Devaputra, just like the others.



The realization gnawed at Kripa's mind—a revelation sharp as a blade, yet one he desperately wished to unlearn. He had hoped to glean answers from Vaikartana, but the son of Vikartana was as unyielding as stone—unyielding, and inscrutable.



Vasusena had lied to them all, effortlessly, without hesitation or remorse. If he wished this truth to be revealed, he could have done so during their last confrontation. But he did not.



No, he had deactivated his boon—deliberately—just to keep that secret. Kripa realized that Radheya would not part with Kunti's secret, not for any plea, not for any probe. That knowledge sat guarded, buried within him, and trying to pry it from him is useless.



Why? The question tormented Kripa. What reason could there be to protect such a truth? What secret could shatter the world so thoroughly that Vaikartana himself chose silence as his weapon?



For if the secrets in the heart of Vaikartana were anything like the ones he revealed before, Kripa feared they would rip apart the very foundations of dharma, of everything he had ever believed.



And yet... Kripa burned to know why.



Why was the identity of the eldest Kaunteya so dangerous? Why had Vaikartana buried it alongside Kunti's own silence?



And Vasusena would not yield the truth. It would not be found in his words or actions. The truth lay elsewhere—scattered, buried deep in the ravages of time—waiting to be unearthed.



Kripa's mind raced, the calculations sharp as a scholar's quill, the urgency pressing like a man balancing on the edge of calamity. How had Pritha hidden her pregnancy? The question loomed, heavy and inescapable.



To keep such a secret, she would have required isolation—a stretch of five months,at the very least. Yet Kuntibhoja, who adored her with a father's fierce devotion, would never have allowed such a prolonged absence unless there is a very good reason.



The answer whispered its name. Tapasya.



Yes, that had to be it. The only time Pritha had left Kuntibhoja's watchful care was during her service to the sages. Could it be that, under the guise of ascetic devotion, she had birthed her first child? The puzzle began to assemble itself, each piece fitting with cruel precision, revealing an image he would rather not see.



But the truth was still incomplete. The next question came to his mind. Who was the Deva who answered her call?



That answer lay shrouded in mystery, buried within Kunti's heart. As this cannot be answered for now, Kripa moved to the next question—the age of the firstborn of Kunti.



Kunti married Pandu fourteen years ago. And by her own admission Sage Durvasa blessed her with this boon twenty years ago. Somewhere within that six-year chasm, the child had been born. Kripa delved into the archives left behind by their spies regarding the Kingdom of Kuntibhoja trying to find everything he was searching for.



(For those unaware, Kripacharya was not merely the Kulguru of Hastinapura. He also had another role. He was the Head of Intelligence for Hastinapur)



Days stretched into almost a week as he sifted through scrolls, until he found it—a gap, nearly nineteen years ago, when Pritha left Kuntibhoja to undertake tapasya.



No other absence marred her record. The timing was unmistakable. She had been away from Kuntibhoja for exactly seven months.



So the Jyestha Kaunteya had to be around nineteen years old. Nearly the same age as Vasusena.



But what became of the child after birth?



Protocol dictated that Pritha would not have been truly alone. Her maid had accompanied her; soldiers had formed a distant perimeter, vigilant but obedient to her privacy. And yet, despite their watchful eyes, the child had vanished. How?



Kripa's gaze fell upon the map of the forest where Pritha had secluded herself. A river, Ashvanadi, wound through its heart—like a silver serpent threading the dense greenery. Two possibilities presented themselves, and both left a bitter taste in his mouth.



The first scenario is that Pritha abandoned the child in the forest.



This is not a possible scenario. The forest was not dense enough to conceal a newborn, and the soldiers, stationed nearby, would have stumbled upon the child before long. Moreover, there were no other women present. If the child had been discovered, so would the truth that one of the two women present there would be the mother.



The second possibility was darker, crueler. She must have left the child to the mercy of the river.



Kripa staggered as the thought struck him, spots dancing before his vision. No! He wanted to deny it, reject it utterly—but the pieces fit too well. When you have eliminated all that is impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.



The image burned in his mind's eye: a young Pritha, trembling, her hands clutching her newborn. Could she have cradled the child one last time, tears falling as she prayed? Did she whisper desperate words to the Deva, begging him to forgive her and protect the child she could not keep?



The scene haunted him, each detail as vivid as a nightmare. And there would have been consequences—Kuntibhoja, though innocent of his adopted daughter's sin, would have faced repercussions of God's fury.



But Kunti's faith must have been absolute. She had entrusted the child to the river, her prayers a shield against the judgment of the God who entrusted his child to a foolish girl who knew no better.



Kripa stumbled back, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Gandhari.



Ah, Gandhari. How often had he condemned her in his mind? She, only to bear the weight of two years' cursed pregnancy, had tried to abort her pregnancy. He had seen her as a cold mother, a woman detached from her offspring. But now... was Kunti who heartlessly abandoned her own child any better?



In this grand stage of existence, where the roles are dictated by necessity, there are no true heroes or villains.



The words of Vaikartana along with his mocking laughter rang in his ears, cutting through the haze of his thoughts. How foolish they had been to think themselves righteous, to paint their deeds as pure.



In the era where the avatar of Vishnu—preserver of dharma—himself was a politician at heart.... How naïve they had been to believe their own hands were clean.



His heart ached as the truth settled like lead within him. His brother, his nephews, his grandchildren—and himself—they were all complicit, their sins cloaked in the self-righteous robes of dharma. They had branded Dhritarashtra's family as the sole architects of adharma, never questioning their own reflection.



By the gods, it was a miracle this fractured family had not crumbled sooner. And as for Vaikartana? How had he managed even a shred of respect for them? To his eyes, they must have been the ultimate hypocrites.



Vasusena had never lied about who he was. He did not paint his actions in shades of white to obscure the darkness in his heart.



Here lay the difference: they sinned in the name of dharma, justifying their wrongs as righteous acts. But Vasusena sinned knowingly, with no pretense, for the sake of protecting what was right.



Kripa's laughter burst forth suddenly, ragged and unhinged, tears streaking his cheeks. The room seemed to tilt, the weight of revelation crushing him as he muttered, his voice thick with anguish:



"Hypocrites... Before Vasusena, we were all hypocrites. Even with his so-called adhrami nature, by comparison his character was white as wool compared to all of us. To be worse than the cold-blooded little idiot shows how low we all fell."



Kripa's fists clenched as his thoughts circled back to Suyodhana. The boy, scarred by scorn and forged in pain, bore the weight of a kingdom's sins.



Would this revelation—a hidden Devaputra—be a shield to protect Suyodhana? Or a weapon that would destroy him?



'It doesn't matter.' Kripa smiled to himself. 'Vaikartana would ensure no harm will fall on Suyodhana. The son of Suryanarayana would raze the heavens themselves if anyone dared to even think of harming his child. This unknown Devaputra might be a threat to Suyodhana. That's the only reason he could see why Vasusena is hiding the identity of Jyestha Kaunteya. '



But Kripacharya decided, Saam Daam Dhand bhed... the Jyestha Kaunteya should be an ally to Suyodhana.



Kripa's resolve solidified as he paced the corridor outside Kunti's chambers. The weight of his failures bore heavily upon him, and the path he had chosen was fraught with peril—but it was clear.



This was not about vengeance; it was about Suyodhana, about safeguarding the child whose life he destroyed in his carelessness. If uncovering Kunti's secrets could provide even a shred of leverage to ease the burden he created on Suyodhana's shoulders, then Kripa owed it to him to try.



Vasusena—already a formidable weapon in the Dhārtarāṣṭra arsenal—was wrath and chaos incarnate, destructive and relentless.



But a sword alone could not secure a fortress. No, what they needed was balance. A shield. A counterweight. And this hidden Devaputra, whoever he was, could fulfill that role.



He could not, however, be king. The throne of Hastinapura was reserved for the Kuru dynasty alone. This child would exist for one purpose: to ensure that no harm befell Suyodhana or his brothers ever again. And he will do whatever he can to ensure it.



Kripa's jaw clenched as his thoughts crystallized. The bond between this unknown son of Pritha and Suyodhana must be forged, no matter the cost.



But time was slipping through his fingers. Bhimasena—Kripa's lips curled in distaste at the name—would return from Nagaloka in less than two days, if Vasusena's words held true.



Kunti's mind was already clouded with worry for her son, even with the assurance that he was safe. That worry, that fissure in her usually unshakable composure, was the crack through which he would strike.



Her secrets were a fortress, well-guarded for decades. But now, with her defenses weakened, they might finally be breached. Arjuna, would not have relayed the details of their confrontation with Vasusena. Kunti would have no inkling of how deeply Kripa now despised her or her children. She would not suspect him now.



She would not surrender her secret willingly, but Kripa had learned enough from Vasusena to know how to find the cracks in even the most guarded walls. He would confront her—not with malice, but with precision.



If Vasusena's slip of the tongue had revealed the truth, then Kunti's fear would confirm it.



His plan was clear: he would approach her not as an accuser, but as an empathetic confidant, one to whom she could unburden her soul. He would conjure the guise of someone who had stumbled upon her truth by accident, offering understanding rather than condemnation.



Kripa inhaled deeply, steeling himself. His heart, though heavy with the knowledge of what he was about to do, hardened with purpose. His duty demanded this. His sins against Suyodhana demanded this. The future demanded this.



Straightening his robes and smoothing his features into a mask of quiet determination, Kripa strode forward, each step echoing in the dim hallway. The door to Kunti's chamber loomed ahead, its frame etched with the weight of unspoken truths.



He did not knock; instead, he pushed the door open, the faint creak reverberating in the tense stillness.



It was time.



The chamber was steeped in shadows, the flickering light of a solitary oil lamp painting restless shapes on the walls. The heavy curtains over the windows muted the moonlight, leaving the air dense with a stillness that felt alive, as if it bore witness to the truths that would soon be laid bare. Kripa stepped inside, his presence a silent storm, and the faint creak of the wooden door seemed deafening in the quiet.



Kunti sat near the window, her posture as rigid as the carved stone sculptures that adorned the room. The pale gleam of moonlight framed her silhouette, and her gaze was fixed on the horizon, distant and unfocused. She did not acknowledge him, as though willing herself to remain apart from his presence.



"Kunti," Kripa began, his voice steady, weighted with the sharpness of a blade poised to strike. "We must talk."



A weary sigh escaped her, long and tremulous, as though the weight of his words had added yet another stone to the invisible load she bore. Her shoulders sagged, her gaze distant. "What is it, Acharya? Can this not wait? My thoughts are with Bhima..."



"This is not about Bhima." His interruption was precise, cutting through her lament like a well-honed weapon. "This is about your past. A truth you have buried for nearly two decades. A truth that can no longer remain in the shadows."



Her body stiffened as though bracing against an unseen storm. Slowly, she turned to face him, her eyes narrowing, cold and wary. "What are you trying to say, Acharya?" Her voice carried a quiet warning, the faint tremor beneath betraying her apprehension.



Kripa stood unyielding, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The dim light from the torches framed him in stark shadows, accentuating the harsh resolve etched onto his face. He took a measured step forward, the weight of his presence bearing down upon her. "Vasusena has revealed everything, Kunti."



Her face drained of color, her lips parting in a sharp intake of breath. "What... what are you saying?"



"The truth," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "The forest where you sought solitude in your youth, far from Kuntibhoja's court. The boon of Sage Durvasa, invoked not out of necessity, but out of youthful curiosity. The consequences of that moment—a child you could not keep."



Kunti shot to her feet, her movements rigid, her body trembling like a taut bowstring. "Who dares to utter such lies, Kripacharya? Who has filled your ears with this poison?"



"Lies?" Kripa's voice dropped, soft and cold, like the first chill of a winter wind. "Shall I paint the scene for you, Kunti? Shall I describe what you have tried so desperately to forget?"



The room seemed to hold its breath as Kripa took another step forward, his voice lowering to a murmur, the kind that forces attention by its very restraint.



"You were a girl then," he began, his words weaving a tapestry of memory that neither of them could escape. "Curious, impulsive, and unprepared for the power you wielded. When Sage Durvasa granted you his boon, you saw it as a toy to test, not understanding the enormity of what you had been given. One morning, alone in the courtyard of Kuntibhoja's palace, you invoked it."



Kunti's hands clenched into fists, her breathing shallow as though the very act of listening drained her.



"And then he came," Kripa continued, his tone sharpening. "With his form blazing brighter than the noonday sun he answered your call. His golden light turned the shadows to nothingness, his gaze gentle but unyielding. You begged him to return to the heavens, to leave you as you were, but he could not refuse the boon's command. He stated that Sage Durvasa's word cannot be made obsolete.



He stated that he cannot go back without fulfilling his dharma and he performed Niyoga with you against your will. You carried his child, Kunti—a child born of divinity and your fear."



Her voice trembled as she whispered, "Stop..."



But Kripa pressed on, his words relentless. "When the signs of his presence began to show, you hid yourself under the guise of devotion. You retreated to the forest near the river of Ashvanadi, a place where sunlight barely pierced the canopy, where the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and wild jasmine.



There, amidst the whispers of ancient trees, you hid your growing shame. Your handmaid knew the truth, didn't she? But even she could not lessen the weight of your guilt."



Kunti's face crumpled, tears streaming freely now, her breaths shallow and ragged.



"And when the child was born," Kripa continued, his voice softening into something almost mournful, "you held him for the first and last time. His cries broke the stillness of the forest, a sound so small yet so profound. He was perfect—his skin like molten gold, his eyes filled with a divine light.



Just like you begged for forgiveness for your sin... You also begged his father to protect him as you placed him in that basket, sealing it carefully before setting it adrift on the river."



Her body trembled, tears streaming into her palms as she buried her face. "How do you know this?" she choked out, her voice ragged and broken.



Kripa's eyes bore into her, the lamplight flickering against the edges of his grim, unyielding expression. "Vasusena showed me," he said, each word heavy as a hammer striking stone. "Every tear, every prayer, every choice—you could not hide them. He showed it all."



"Stop!" she cried, stumbling back as though struck, her composure shattering like glass. "He had no right!"



"No right?" Kripa thundered, his voice rising with the weight of his fury. "He has every right! The boy you abandoned has carried the burden of your choices—your choices—and now, the lies you so carefully built your life upon are crumbling under his existence."



Her knees gave way, and she sank into a chair, her face buried in her hands. "Why?" she whispered, her voice raw with anguish. "Why would my own son try to destroy me?"



My own son?



Kripa's breath stopped as his eyes dilated and his heart skipped several beats. Her words struck like an arrow, swift and searing, and realization crashed into him like a wave. The person who supposedly told him about Kunti's past is Vaikartana. And Kunti called him her own son.



Vasusena, the child the entire world knows as Radheya... is the Jyestha Kaunteya?



He really wished to sit down and cry at this moment. However doing so will make Kunti realise that he was not on her side. Years of discipline pulled his mask of composure tight over his face, hiding the tempest beneath.



"He does not seek to destroy you, Kunti," he said at last, his voice cold, measured—though the effort cost him. "He seeks the truth. And the truth will not remain buried forever."



Her tear-streaked face lifted, defiance blazing through her pain. "If he wishes to expose me, let him face me himself. But you will not act as his weapon, Acharya. You are better than this."



"Better than this?" Kripa's voice was venomous now, laced with quiet disdain. "Better than the lies that have rotted this family to its core? Spare me your lectures, Kunti. The time for sanctimony has passed."



Her grief turned to steel. She straightened, her voice cold, final. "You will hear no more from me, Acharya. Do what you must, but I will not give you what you seek."



Kripa's fists curled at his sides. His breath came fast, ragged, as though the room itself choked him. However Kunti stayed stone-faced.



"So you'll still be silent," he murmured, each word edged with finality.



He turned sharply, his shadow withdrawing with him, leaving Kunti frozen in the wake of his words—words that hung like a curse, inescapable and unshakable.



And when the door closed behind him, the only sound that remained was her soft, broken sobs, echoing through the dark.



It was only after he reached the confines of his room that Kripa allowed himself to falter. His legs buckled, unsteady beneath him, and he stumbled forward, a sound escaping his lips—somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It echoed off the cold, unfeeling stone walls, sharp and broken.



Vasusena... is the Jyestha Kaunteya. The child they loathed with all their heart is Kunti's firstborn son.



His breath hitched, the weight of the truth pressing against his chest like an immovable mountain.



"Why does Vasusena persist on the path of adharma, despite knowing the future, Gurudev?" He remembered that day, remembered his voice breaking with frustration as he had questioned the great Sage.



Parashurama's gaze had been as unshakable as the earth itself, his expression carved from something ancient and unreadable. "To protect both dharma and adharma, my Vasu walks alone on this path, Sharadvanputra."



To protect both dharma and adharma...



The words reverberated through his mind now, striking like a drumbeat, over and over again. And as his laughter rose—wild, unrestrained, a sound too close to madness—it carried the edge of despair and revelation. He had not understood the enormity of those words on tha fateful day.



And then, like a phantom, Krishna's voice drifted through his thoughts—soft yet piercing, spoken on the day the Dark One had come to Hastinapura. "Tell me, Devi Gandhari," Krishna had said, his words a blade disguised as curiosity, "what do you know of Vasusena? Beyond the words he has spoken about himself, what deeper understanding do any of you have of him?"



Kripa shivered at the memory, the truth in Krishna's question lingering like a shadow.



What did they know of that boy?



A Vrisha—a bull, kind in spirit, loyal and obedient—forced by the cruelty of fate to become a Vyagraha, a tiger, cruel, ruthless and traitorous. Not by choice, no. By necessity. Life had forged him in its harshest crucible, shaping him with fire and sorrow until his very existence became a weapon.



And they—they who thought they had known him—had seen only the fragments. The pieces he allowed them to see, shards of a greater, unfathomable whole. They looked at him and saw the warrior, the friend, the rival—but not the truth. Never the truth.



None of them understood the agony that had shaped him. None of them grasped the motives that had driven him. And every time they believed they had pierced through the enigma of his being, another facet of him emerged—different, deeper, shattering their brittle understanding.



How could one man wear so many faces?



How could an entire lifetime of truths—so raw, bleeding, and infinite—be buried behind masks so intricate, so heavy, each one a fortress unto itself?



The mask of a dutiful soldier, loyal to a fault, unyielding in discipline, merciless in the name of service. It cloaked the face of a donor, a soul so boundlessly generous that it offered even its own life even when he knew this apatra daan would lead to his death.



The mask of an unrepentant adharmi, the destroyer of bonds, a flame that reduced a family to ashes and ruin. It concealed the face of a guilt-ridden friend, tormented by the weight of his betrayals and desperate to protect the family who loathed and scorned him



The mask of a cruel adharmi, shunned and condemned as one who disrespected Parashurama himself—a blasphemer, unworthy of divine grace. But beneath the accusations lay the face of a devotee, so steadfast in his surrender that Mahadeva, the Destroyer himself, trusted him with the forbidden knowledge of time's deepest secrets.



The mask of an ungrateful soldier, prideful enough to reject the kindness of a future Rajamata, spurning even her compassion. It concealed the face of an abandoned son, a child cast away, his first breath marked by rejection, his existence deemed unworthy of a mother's love—a boy whose first cradle was the cold, uncaring current of a river.



The mask of a sworn enemy, the loathed nemesis of the Pandavas, a dark shadow cast across their light. Beneath it hid the face of a brother, torn between love and grief, shielding those who would never call him kin, bearing their hatred in silence so they would not drown in their own destruction.



There were more—so many more—masks, a ceaseless tide of roles and faces, carved from the shards of his fractured spirit. Each one a reflection of the storms within him, each one demanded by a cruel fate that refused him rest.



Kripa felt his throat tighten as a shiver raced through him.



What would emerge if those masks were torn away?



If the armor of deception, duty, and sacrifice were shattered—what would remain? What lay beneath that labyrinth of wounds and truths? The thought terrified him.



He remembered the day Suyodhana was born. The dark omens, the howling winds, and their grim counsel—Vidura, Bhishma, and himself. They had begged Dhritarashtra to abandon the child, to leave him to the mercy of beasts. Fear had eclipsed compassion that day, and humanity had died in silence.



Fear. It was the same dread that now twisted itself like a serpent in Kripa's chest, coiling around his heart as he glimpsed what the Pandavas, too, would become.



And yet... Vasusena.



He had watched everyone he loved slaughtered—friends, brothers, sons—while the world laughed and cheered. Who had borne witness to sins that scarred both the righteous and the wicked. Sins that would turn even a god's gaze away.



Eighteen akshauhinis of warriors—obliterated, reduced to ash and silence. If Vasusena's words were true, only eleven souls had survived.



He then remembered Vaikaratana's words a week before.



"I had to watch my family die before my eyes. First unjustly, at the hands of Mahaamahim here, and later, when you five brothers slaughtered my brothers, my sons, my grandsons and everyone else I ever cared for in this life. Only my youngest boy was spared your wrath and that, too, was on account of him not being of Battle Age yet when the Dance of Destruction at Kurukshetra broke out."



Except for his youngest child... Vasusena saw everyone he loved and cared for killed before him.



By the gods, even after all he had witnessed, Vasusena did not seek vengeance. No... He sought peace.



Peace for the family that had spurned him, for the kingdom that had cast him into shadow. He is fighting for the salvation of those who had given him nothing but scorn.



Kripa staggered, a trembling hand clutching his chest as wild, broken laughter spilled from his lips. It was laughter torn from the depths of a soul overwhelmed—sharp and desperate, the kind that erupts when a man stares into something far greater than himself and cannot decide whether to weep or scream.



He had revered Bhishma all his life, believing his Jyestha to be the embodiment of duty—the steadfast pillar of Hastinapura. Bhishma, who had sworn away his own crown, had become the shield that upheld the kingdom, even as that same kingdom stripped him of his birthright.



And Vidura—Vidura, the very voice of wisdom, a man who walked the path of righteousness with unshakable resolve. He saw him as a man whose counsel steered the kingdom toward justice, whose intellect and integrity surpassed both Pandu and Dhritarashtra.



He had thought them both—the unbreakable Bhishma and the ever-wise Vidura—to be the finest men he had ever known.



But now, standing in the shadow of Vasusena's love, their greatness faded like a mist on a midsummer day. What once appeared towering now felt small, fragile, incomplete.



This boy—no, this man—who had endured rejection, betrayal, and the loss of everything he could have called his own, did not demand blood in recompense. He sought redemption. Not for himself, but for them.



The weight of it brought Kripa to his knees. The truth swept through him like a tempest, stripping away pretense, leaving him raw and unguarded. For the first time in decades, his vision blurred with tears—tears of shame, tears of reverence.



How could one man bear so much?



How could one heart hold such love? Love that was vast enough to embrace those who had discarded him, to shield even those who did not deserve it.



"Aditya..." Kripa whispered, his voice unsteady as his hands folded instinctively in reverence, palms pressed tightly together. His gaze lifted toward the heavens. The oil lamp beside him sputtered, its flame flickering with the weight of his words. Shadows stretched long across the walls, a golden light bathing his weary, furrowed face.



"What a son have you brought into this world," he murmured, his breath catching in his throat.



A soft, fragile smile broke through his solemnity, a rare and tender crack in his rigid demeanor. His eyes drifted closed, and for the briefest moment, Kripa could see him—the boy who had grown to be a man carved by the hand of fate itself. A man whose soul bore the scars of a thousand worlds, yet took all the broken pieces and forged himself again.



"Thank you..." he said, the words barely more than a breath, but they carried an unfathomable weight. "Thank you for giving us Vasusena, Surya Narayana." His voice trembled, betraying the depth of the awe and sorrow that churned within him. "Even with all the destruction he caused... even with all his cruelty... I still feel grateful to you. For giving us your son."



It was not mere admiration that moved him now; it was reverence—an emotion Kripa had thought himself incapable of feeling again.



For decades, he had stood witness to princes and kings, men born of noble lineages and adorned with every blessing the world could offer. And yet none, not even those favored by destiny itself, possessed the radiant, incomprehensible light that Vasusena carried.



It was no wonder, then, that two avatars of Vishnu—men so different in their nature and purpose, and yet alike in their divinity—had beheld this boy and seen not just a man, but one of the finest souls to ever walk the earth. His was soul forged not in palaces, but in fire and ash, broken and reforged until nothing could shatter it again.



Kripa exhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging. A question, bitter and heavy, clawed its way from his lips:



"Why... why didn't Kunti use that boon after her marriage? Why wasn't Vaikartana born as her legitimate son, after her union with Pandu?"



The words echoed against the stone walls, heavy with anguish. Kripa let his head fall forward, his smile turning brittle, edged with something close to bitterness. "He would have been a great king for this dynasty. The greatest, perhaps."



A king beyond compare—a sovereign whose strength would have subdued kingdoms, whose wisdom could have rebuilt the fractured lines of the Kuru house. A ruler not of power alone, but of love, whose generosity would have inspired loyalty so deep, not even the flames of war could have consumed it.



But the thought lingered only a moment before it dissolved into nothingness. Kripa's smile faded, his expression hollowing with resignation. No. This path—this life—was the only way.



The man Vasusena had become—was not born of privilege or luxury. No gilded halls or soft comforts had shaped him. He was a creation of suffering, of rejection, of an unrelenting world that had stripped him to his bones and then demanded he endure.



Would he have become this Vasusena if he had been raised within the poisoned walls of Hastinapura? Under the shadow of deceit, where whispered schemes slithered through the air like vipers?



Could Kunti—bound by duty, constrained by silence—have taught him anything but obedience to a flawed order? Could the elders of the Kuru house—Bhishma with his unyielding vows, Vidura with his blind rigidness and he himself with his harsh pragmatism—have understood him, nurtured him, allowed him to be?



Kripa doubted it. No.



Had he been born into legitimacy, into the treacherous comforts of royal life, Vasusena would have been smothered by the very expectations that condemned him now. His brilliance would have been dulled, his soul twisted to fit the shape of a throne carved from lies.



For all his greatness, for all the love and sacrifice that flowed through every fiber of his being, Vasusena would never sit on the throne he deserved.



It was an injustice too profound, too cruel to fully comprehend.



Kripa's hands fell to his sides, trembling. The lamp's golden light wavered, as if mourning alongside him.



"A loss..." he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking under the weight of it all. "A loss too great for this world to bear."



"What a son have you brought into this world, Surya Narayana."



Shaking his thoughts away... Kripa summoned a servant. It's time for him to talk to Suyodhana.



Since his conversation with Vasusena, Kripa—like Vidura and his jyestha—had made several attempts to visit Suyodhana. Yet, each time, they were thwarted. Dhritarashtra's orders, enforced by the soldiers' fear of Vasusena, made entry impossible unless the princes themselves permitted it.



The soldiers whispered among themselves, describing the young prince's current state: visibly seething, his temper sharp and unpredictable. Suyodhana had been furious ever since Vasusena informed him that the queen had forbidden their meeting, a decision the older boy insisted on respecting. The restraint only deepened Suyodhana's rage, his frustration radiating outward like wildfire.



As for Vasusena—Kripa had noticed the shadows in his eyes, the quiet sadness that lingered behind his composed demeanor. The bond between these two boys was something terrifying to witness. They were hyper-dependent on each other, their identities intertwined to the point where separating them felt as unnatural as tearing apart the roots of an ancient tree.



Well... It's the love they have for each other that Kripa will use to his advantage. If he mentioned having news about Vasusena, there was little doubt that Suyodhana would grant him entry. The boy's devotion to his unknown brother was sometimes terrifying to watch.



It was wrong to do so but Kripa intended to use that to his advantage. He cannot afford to think about dharma and adharma now.



(Suyodhana's POV)



Six days ago...



"Karna..."



The name escaped his lips six days ago, resounding across the training grounds of the Samudra Division. It was the name of his dearest friend from a life he could never forget, a name that felt too familiar, too precious, to remain unsaid.



A soldier approached him, confusion etched on his face. Suyodhana recognized him immediately—Dheru, a loyal figure, one of the few his friend trusted in this life. "There's no one here by that name, Prince Suyodhana," Dheru said cautiously.



"He might have meant Prince Vikarna or Prince Dushkarna," another voice interjected smoothly. Suyodhana turned, and there he was—his friend, stepping forward with a calm expression that didn't quite mask the warning in his eyes to play along for now.



Fine he will.



Their gazes locked briefly before Karna turned sharply to address the gathered soldiers.



"All of you, leave." His voice carried a quiet authority that brooked no argument. The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, filing out until only Dheru remained.



Dheru hesitated, glancing uneasily between the two of them. "Child," he began softly, his voice laced with concern. "Queen Gandhari has forbidden you from speaking with the Princes."



"I know, Kaka," Karna replied with a weary sigh, the weight of his mother's command evident in his tone. "This will be the last time I speak with Prince Suyodhana—at least until the queen allows it."



Dheru's frown deepened, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "If someone were to see this, it would look like treason. Even if it was the Prince who sought you out, we—the lowborn—will bear the blame. Do not forget that, my child. Be cautious."



"I will, Kaka," Karna said firmly, his tone steady yet gentle.



Both of them stood in silence, watching as the old soldier retreated into the distance. The training grounds were now empty, the weight of unspoken words pressing heavily between them.



Then, without warning, Suyodhana lunged forward, wrapping his arms around his friend in a fierce embrace. His grip was desperate, as if holding on to Karna could anchor him against the storm of emotions he had long suppressed. Tears welled unbidden in his eyes, falling freely, betraying the turmoil he could no longer contain.



Karna's hand moved slowly, soothingly, massaging the back of Suyodhana's head. His touch was steady, an unspoken reassurance. "Bhanumati Priye," he murmured with a small, tender smile, the words carrying a warmth that sought to ease the ache in Suyodhana's heart. It was his friend. His friend too was from the future just like him.



"Karna ," Suyodhana replied, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions.



A smile broke across Karna's face at the familiar exchange, but it didn't reach his eyes. Beneath the tenderness lay an undertone of bitterness, a shadow of something neither could fully name but both deeply felt.



Karna knelt down, his movements deliberate, and gently cupped Suyodhana's face in his hands. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to his forehead—an act so achingly familiar, mirroring the way he once used to comfort Lakshmana Kumara in a life now lost to time.



"How are you, Suyodhana?" Karna asked softly, his voice trembling with unspoken grief. Tears brimmed in his eyes, yet the smile he wore, fragile and fleeting, felt like the most beautiful thing Suyodhana had ever seen.



"When did you learn about the future? And since when have you known that I, too, came from the future, just like you?"



Karna's expression darkened, the smile fading as he spoke. "The first thing I saw coming from the future was molten lead being poured down the throat of my brother—on the orders of your grandfather, Suyodhana..." His voice was grim, each word a dagger cutting through the silence. "For days, I thought I was in hell, reliving the punishment that broke me. But then... inconsistencies began to appear."



"What inconsistencies?" Suyodhana asked, his voice barely above a whisper.



Karna looked away briefly, his gaze distant, as though peering into the shadowed corridors of his memory. "In my previous life, I confessed something to my mother. I told her that I was responsible for Swarnajeet's death." His voice softened, the weight of the confession hanging heavily between them. "In my heartbreak, I revealed to her that Shon—my brother—had come to me with his plan. He said he was going to break into Purohit's house to retrieve his ball.



I knew I should have stopped him; we Sutas were forbidden from entering the homes of Brahmins. But my love for him blinded me, and I let him go.



Because of my inaction, he was accused falsely by the Purohit and killed." Karna's voice trembled, but he pressed on. "I thought that even here, in this hell, I would be compelled to tell her that again. That's why I believed I was in hell. But no such compulsion came. That's when I realized—I wasn't in hell. I was in the past."



Suyodhana stared at him, his chest tight. "Why didn't you wish to tell her again?"



A shadow passed over Karna's face, and he exhaled slowly, his gaze lowering. "Because it was the only time," he said quietly, "that my mother wished I had never been found. That I had remained abandoned by the parent who cast me away."



"Oh..." Suyodhana wiped his tears, trying to lighten the mood. He forced a small smile and shifted the conversation in another direction. "You told me once that Adhiratha Baba and Radha Amma aren't your real parents. In our previous life, we never discovered who your true parents were. But now, my mother claims your eyes can see the past, present, and future. Did you ever find out who they are?"



Karna's face fell, shame washing over him like a storm cloud. The expression struck Suyodhana like a blow, dredging up a familiar ache—the same hollow look Karna had worn when he learned his friend had donated his armor to Indradev.



"I already knew who my parents were in my previous life, Suyodhana," Karna replied quietly, his voice heavy with resignation.



A cold dread settled in Suyodhana's chest, twisting like a knife. "Who?" he asked, though a part of him feared the answer.



"My father," Karna began, his gaze steady despite the shame in his voice, "is the ruler of the Navagraha, Suryadev."



The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Suyodhana felt an odd clarity. It made sense—Karna's strength, his impossible resilience, his brilliance in battle. He had always known Karna's talents rivaled the Pandavas' and even his Pitamah Bhishma.



And hadn't he noticed how the sunlight seemed to embrace him, as if drawn to his kavach and kundalas in their past life? Or how he faithfully worshipped the sun at every dawn, as if paying homage to his very essence?



"And my mother's name is Pritha of Kuntibhoja," Karna added softly.



The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The name struck Suyodhana like an earthquake, shattering the foundations of everything he thought he knew. He swayed, as if the weight of the revelation was too much to bear.



Pritha? Aunt Kunti?



"If this is a joke..." Suyodhana began, his voice low and trembling, each word laced with disbelief, "...then it's a really bad one, Karna."



"I'm not joking, Suyodhana." Karna's reply came firmly, his tone devoid of the teasing warmth that once colored their conversations. He stood there, unflinching, the weight of the truth pressing down between them like a stormcloud.



Suyodhana felt his heart shatter, the sharp shards of betrayal slicing through him. A bitter thought clawed its way to the surface—he had known. He had always known, deep in the recesses of his mind, that his Pitamah and Guru Drona favored the Pandavas. They might have sworn loyalty to him, but their love for his cousins lingered in every duel they pulled their punches, every decision where they let the Pandavas thrive.



But Karna...



Karna was supposed to be different. Karna was supposed to be his unwavering shield, his sword, the friend who would stand against the Pandavas with everything he had.



And now, this revelation tore that certainty apart. How could Karna fight whole-heartedly against his own brothers? How could he ever strike to kill those who shared his blood?



Then, like a knife twisting deeper, clarity struck him. He recalled all the moments when Karna had spared the Pandavas—the times he had them at his mercy, the opportunities he had to end their lives but never took. How he never fought them at his fullest potential. The puzzle pieces fell into place, painting a picture he could no longer ignore.



By the gods... Did anyone in his army ever truly wish for him to win?



Suyodhana shook away his tumultuous thoughts, grounding himself in the memory of the vision his mother had shown him.



"I stood by him," Vasusena had said, his voice laden with a sorrow that seemed to bleed from his very soul. "And yet, I failed him. I never performed my duties as a true friend."



The words echoed relentlessly in Suyodhana's mind, each syllable a dagger twisting deeper into his heart, shattering whatever illusions remained.



"Suyodhana gave me his friendship," Vasusena had murmured, his head bowed under the crushing weight of shame. "And I betrayed him. I betrayed him in so many ways that I can barely stand to face myself."



Tears streamed down Suyodhana's face as he choked on a bitter laugh. "So, even you are a traitor," he whispered, the tremor in his voice betraying the storm within. His laugh grew louder, more erratic, until it burst forth like a man unraveling. "Why on earth did I ever think otherwise? Why did I ever think that a dirt-born child like me would ever find true loyalty against the might of the Devaputras?"



Karna did not stop him that day as he stormed away from the training grounds, but once his anger cooled, his thoughts began to churn. And he remembered seeing an odd pattern during the war between him and Pandavas.



Unlike with their Pitamah or Guru Drona, the Pandavas held an unyielding hatred for Karna on the battlefield. Despite Karna restraining himself, fighting them with remarkable mildness, they always sought his life with relentless fervor.



The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. Only Karna knew that the Pandavas were his brothers. The Pandavas had no such knowledge of their shared blood.



His eyes sharpened as the pieces fell into place. Someone—most likely Krishna—must have revealed the truth to Karna, exploiting it to weaken him emotionally. It was a calculated move, striking at the heart of his most dangerous warrior.



But why hadn't Karna told him? No, he did understand why his friend did that.



He knew both Karna and the Pandavas too well. If the Pandavas had known Karna was their brother, they would have abandoned their claim to the kingdom for him without hesitation. And he himself—he would have given up his rights for Karna.



But Karna... Karna, without a moment's doubt, would have returned the throne to him.



Suyodhana clenched his fists as the thought burned through him. He knew his faults too well. If such a thing had happened, it would have wounded his pride—his ego—into something fierce. He had never desired anything that others did not also covet. He had rejected Rukmi's allegiance because the Pandavas had spurned him first.



If Karna gave him the throne freely, it would feel like an insult to his kshatriya dharma, an affront to the honor he held so dear. His friend had always believed he should claim the throne not through charity but through valor, through the glory of battle. Karna wanted him to ascend honorably, with his head held high in victory, not from the hands of a person who did not want it.



With his anger finally cooled, Suyodhana resolved to seek out Karna again. But his friend had been avoiding him, always busying himself with tasks that conveniently kept him out of reach. And on the rare occasions when Karna wasn't occupied, he would simply state, with a detached calmness, that he was prohibited from speaking to them by his mother's command.



Even in the wake of betrayal, Suyodhana missed his friend. The ache gnawed at him with relentless persistence, a quiet torment that refused to be silenced. Knowing that Karna had deliberately chosen to distance himself only fanned the embers of his frustration. The wound of abandonment left him raw—cranky, irritable, and seething beneath a brittle façade of control.



"Prince Suyodhana..." Guha's hesitant voice broke the silence, soft and cautious, as though treading on shards of glass.



Suyodhana's glare snapped to him, sharp and unforgiving. "What now?" he bit out.



"Kulguru Kripacharya is here to see you," Guha ventured, his words measured, his posture deferential.



The scowl on Suyodhana's face deepened, shadows darkening his already stormy expression. "Did I not make myself clear? No one from my father's side of the family is permitted to disturb me," he snarled. "Send him away."



Guha faltered, shifting uneasily under his prince's gaze. "He... he wished me to convey a message to you, my Prince."



Suyodhana's patience, already worn thin, threatened to snap. He waved a dismissive hand, exasperation radiating from him like heat from a fire. Yet, amidst the frustration, a flicker of curiosity stirred—what could Kripacharya possibly want? Though unwilling, he reasoned it was better to hear the old man's words and rid himself of the nuisance.



Pinching the bridge of his nose, Suyodhana growled, "Speak. What is it?"



Guha hesitated, as though weighing the weight of his next words, before finally uttering them. "Kulguru Kripacharya said... if you wish to hear news of Vasusena, you should grant him an audience."



The name struck like a bolt of lightning, shattering the fog of lethargy that had clung to Suyodhana for days. Vasusena. News of his friend? His heart surged with a mix of hope and skepticism. What could Kripacharya possibly know that he of all people has no knowledge of? Yet, the chance—any chance—of hearing about Karna was enough to spark life into his weary limbs.



He sat upright, his disheveled state momentarily forgotten. Shoving aside the oppressive weight of his isolation, he barked, "Prepare me to receive him. Now."



Guha moved quickly, helping him out of his rumpled sleeping robes and into more formal attire. Suyodhana, for once, offered no resistance, his mind entirely consumed by the possibility of what awaited him. A few moments later, he stood, his outward appearance restored, though the turmoil beneath remained.



"Acharya..." Suyodhana greeted him softly, his tone tinged with irritation.



Kripacharya had always been an enigma to Suyodhana, even in the echoes of his past life. There was no scorn in Acharya's words, no venom masked as wisdom, as was often the case with Mahaamahim Bhishma. Nor was there the quiet condescension that dripped from Mahamantri Vidura's carefully chosen phrases. Kripacharya's demeanor was calm, his words measured, his loyalty to the throne unwavering.



He had never struck directly at Suyodhana with the barbs of betrayal—but still, Suyodhana could not bring himself to like the man.



For all his lauded wisdom and unshakable adherence to duty, Kripacharya had always been a silent witness. He stood by, passive and unflinching, as power was twisted into cruelty. He never raised his voice when Mahaamahim's harshness crossed the thin veil of discipline, nor did he challenge Mahamantri's quiet machinations, which had painted Suyodhana as the destroyer of Hastinapur's lineage.



Acharya's silence was not born of ignorance but love—love for those whose actions demanded questioning. Yet he refused to question, let alone act.



And that silence had been deafening.



Even when Suyodhana had stumbled, when anger and pride led him down treacherous paths, Kripacharya merely observed. No correction, no rebuke, not even the bitter honesty Suyodhana had come to expect from his Kakashree, who, for all his flaws, had at least tried to guide him—too late though it may have been.



And Karna—oh, Karna—he had never hesitated to call out deceit, even when it was inconvenient, even when it came from Suyodhana himself.



But Kripacharya? He neither condemned nor condoned. He remained unmoved, a steady shadow in the backdrop of Hastinapur's endless drama. Dependable, yes—but what use was dependability without courage?



To Suyodhana, Kripacharya was a pillar of duty, steadfast and unyielding, but never warm enough to inspire trust or bold enough to command respect. A man who would watch the house burn but never question who struck the first match.



"Suyodhana..." Kripacharya began, his voice as steady as ever, though there was a weight to it that Suyodhana hadn't heard before.



"You said you have news about Vasusena." Suyodhana cut in sharply, impatience crackling in his tone like dry leaves underfoot. He had no time for pleasantries.



Kripacharya's lips curved into a faint, almost melancholic smile, and Suyodhana tensed. It was a smile that warned of complexities yet to unfold. In his previous life, such a look would have been followed by scoldings and admonishments about his irreverence. Yet, this time, the Acharya remained silent.



"Do you wish to know why your mother banned you from seeing Vasusena?" Kripacharya finally asked.



Suyodhana's eyes narrowed. "No scoldings or beratings today? No 'Respect your elders, you wicked wretch!' or something equally sanctimonious?" His voice dripped with mockery



Kripacharya's expression remained unchanging, though a flicker of weariness passed through his gaze. "Your disrespect was expected, Suyodhana," he replied, his voice calm but laced with something deeper—perhaps regret, perhaps resignation. "In fact, I would be surprised if you still found it within yourself to respect any of us after all that has transpired."



Suyodhana let out a dry laugh, sharp and cutting. "Is that so? A reasonable elder of Hastinapur. What an anomaly! Did you hit your head, Acharya? Or have you finally acquired a measure of sense?"



The flicker in Kripacharya's eyes deepened—annoyance, shame, or something caught between the two. Yet he stood his ground.



"Well," Suyodhana continued, arms crossed, "if that's the grand revelation you've brought, I must inform you—I already know why my mother banned me from seeing Vasusena."



Acharya's gaze sharpened, his composure unwavering but attentive. "Do you also know why Vasusena did what he did?"



"Killing Mamashree Shakuni? Or betraying me in the future?" Suyodhana raised an eyebrow, his tone deceptively light.



"Both," Kripacharya replied



Suyodhana's sardonic smile faded, replaced by something darker, heavier. "He believes he will betray me because of who his mother is," he said bitterly. "As for killing Mamashree Shakuni... I don't have the full story."



Kripacharya's eyes sharpened, the mask of calm he wore cracking slightly under the force of his suspicion. "So you know who Jyestha Pandava, Suyodhana?"



"My Karna is not the Jyestha Pandava, Acharya," Suyodhana replied coldly, his voice a blade of steel. "He is Jyestha Kaunteya."



Acharya's composure faltered, his face cycling through a storm of emotions—shock, disbelief, denial, resignation—before settling into an expression of irritation. Suyodhana observed it all with mild amusement, though his mind churned beneath the surface.



When Kripacharya pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated, Suyodhana raised an eyebrow. Whatever the Acharya had come to reveal was evidently something he already knew. Disappointment flickered in Suyodhana's chest. He hadn't expected much, but this—this was almost laughable.



"Well, if you have nothing more to say, ple—"



"At what age did you gain knowledge of the future, Suyodhana?" Kripacharya interrupted, his tone cutting and uncharacteristically sharp.



Suyodhana blinked, caught off guard. "What?"



"I asked," Kripacharya repeated, irritation lacing his words, "at what age did you gain the knowledge of the future?"



How on earth did acharya deduce that he was from the future?



"You called your friend Karna, Suyodhana. I didn't tell you the name your friend was known by in his other life. Karna was not the name anyone except the people who have the knowledge of the future knows."



For a moment, Suyodhana could only stare, the implications unraveling in his mind. His throat tightened, and his heart hammered against his ribs. By that logic how could Acharya possibly know? The name Karna was not yet known in this life as he said.



Yet Kripacharya knew that his friend was also known as Karna. It was a name from the future, tied irrevocably to a destiny Vasusena sought to escape.



Without waiting for a response, the Acharya rose abruptly and moved toward the Shiva Lingam in the room. His presence seemed to fill the space with an unusual intensity, his simmering frustration breaking through his usual calm.



"Did you grant the knowledge of the future to all members of the next generation of the Kuru dynasty, Parameshwara?" Kripacharya growled, his voice low but brimming with aggravation.



Suyodhana froze, staring at the man who, for the first time, seemed genuinely unmoored. Was this the same stoic Kulguru who had spent decades embodying composure?



And yet, beneath his shock, Suyodhana felt a ripple of cold anger.



If Kripacharya was suggesting others in the Kuru dynasty shared his knowledge of the future, then who? Vasusena was not a Kuru by birth, even before his adoption into the Suta caste. He is a Vrishni, a Yadava by birth.



And if one of his brothers has knowledge of the future... Kripacharya won't be the one to know. None of his brothers entertained the thought of letting elders back into their lives.



That left only two possibilities: the Pandavas and Yuyustu. Suyodhana immediately striked off Yuyutsu from this list. If he was from the future he'd loathe Suyodhana even if he did nothing wrong towards him in this life. But the love he managed to gain from his step-brother in this life remained the same.



So that left only Pandavas.



But which one?



The "righteous" Yudhishthira, whose wisdom evaporated at the dice board? The ever-submissive Arjuna, perpetually shackled to others' commands? The vain Nakula or the so-called knowledgeable Sahadeva?



It couldn't be Bhimasena. Suyodhana dismissed the thought immediately. That rakshasa-hearted brute still lay unconscious in the Ganga's depths, dreaming due to the Naga Amrita's effects. If he had the knowledge of the future, he would already have tried to kill them all.



"Who is it?" Suyodhana growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Tell me, Kripacharya."



"Arjuna," Acharya replied softly, the single word striking like thunder.



Suyodhana's hands clenched into fists. "So the greatest threat of them all has returned," he muttered bitterly. "Perfect."



The fragile peace he had clung to over the past year shattered like glass. Vasusena's betrayal. His mother's forgiveness of their tormentors. And now this.



When he raised his head, his face was a mask of simmering fury. "Why are you still here?" he snapped. "Go to your precious Arjuna and tell him I'm from the future too. Do so and you do not need to convince my father to throw me to the wolves while you're at it. That sycophant will come and kill me off."



Hurt flashed across Kripacharya's face, raw and unguarded, but Suyodhana felt no guilt. He had lived too long, seen too much, to care about the wounded pride of elders who had failed him.



Then, without warning, Kripacharya did something Suyodhana could never have imagined in either life.



Acharya kneeled—and embraced him.



For a moment, Suyodhana's mind went utterly blank. He did not move, did not speak, his body frozen in disbelief. When he finally stirred, his hands rose instinctively to push the Acharya away. But they stopped.



The dampness of tears soaking into his shoulder rooted him to the spot.



"I'm sorry, Suyodhana," Kripacharya whispered, his voice thick with emotion.



Suyodhana stared at the wall, his mind reeling. He could not fathom this. Not here. Not now.



When Kripacharya finally pulled back, his expression was a mixture of shame and sorrow.



"Did Karna show you the conversation he had with me in the forest?" Suyodhana asked bluntly, his voice sharp. It was the only explanation for such an unexpected change.



Kripa lowered his gaze, his silence speaking louder than words. His shoulders sagged with the weight of unspoken shame, and after a moment, he nodded.



Suyodhana exhaled, the sound sharp and impatient, more exasperated than angry. Of course, that idiot revealed the conversation. His mind churned as he processed the consequences. Instead of relatives glaring at him with hatred, he now had to endure their tearful regret. He wasn't sure which one he preferred.



(Well, that wasn't entirely true. He did know what he preferred—no relatives, no interference, just the quiet freedom to live as he pleased. But the world had never granted him that luxury. It hated him, and he had long learned to endure its disdain, to play the hand he was dealt, no matter how bitter the cards.



And one day, he would strangle Karna for all the headaches his friend caused him. Not enough to kill, of course, but enough to leave a mark.)



Suyodhana's gaze shifted to Kripacharya, his eyes void of warmth, dead and unrelenting. The weight of that lifeless stare made Kripa flinch, though he quickly masked his discomfort. For now, Suyodhana thought, it seems he's on my side. For now. Trust was a fleeting thing, and Kripa's loyalty could waver one day. Still, information was what mattered, and for that, he would play the game.



"Your presence here doesn't make sense," he said, his voice dull, devoid of the sharpness it usually carried. "It doesn't explain Mahamantri Vidura's actions, nor does it shed light on Mahamaahim Bhishma's behavior.



From what I heard, none of you have so much as glanced at the Pandavas this past week, let alone spend time with them. And yet, now you seem desperate to cozy up to us. Usually it's the opposite."



His tone sharpened slightly as he leaned forward. "Even if guilt gnaws at you, it's not enough of a reason to abandon the Pandavas entirely. So tell me, Kripacharya—what actually happened?"



When Kripacharya laid bare the events of the past week, his voice steady but laced with unease, Suyodhana froze for a moment, his expression unreadable.



Then, like a dam breaking, he threw back his head and laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the chamber like a crack of thunder. It wasn't the laughter of joy or amusement but of disbelief and exasperation while Kripacharya looked at him in concern.



"So, Karna outwitted all of you and turned you against one another?" Suyodhana's laughter echoed, sharp and unrestrained, like a blade drawn in jest. "I wish I could have witnessed the spectacle myself! Tell me, what possessed you to provoke him of all people—despite Krishna's warnings? Truly, your idiocy defies comprehension."



"And those five fools," Suyodhana snarled, his voice laced with venom. "They slaughtered us all for the throne, cloaking their ambitions in the guise of righteousness—righteousness, for which they themselves deserved to die first. And now you're telling me that after finally seizing the throne they coveted so dearly, not one of them has a child to inherit it? Not a single heir to carry forward their so-called legacy? And Krishna allowed this mockery?"



"Vasusena swore an oath that he is not lying," Kripacharya interjected softly, his tone careful but firm.



"He doesn't need to swear an oath," Suyodhana smiled, his mockery palpable. "After that debacle with Sage Parashurama, Karna stopped bothering with lies altogether. But he—he's the kind who can twist the truth without ever uttering a falsehood. That idiot had a talent for such things."



"I don't understand," Kripacharya admitted, his brows furrowed in genuine confusion.



Suyodhana's lips twisted into a bitter smile, the memory burning him anew. "The day before his death, he made me a promise. He promised me that by the next day, one of Kunti's children would die. At the time, I didn't know he too was Kuntiputra. He knew he would die and made me believe he'd kill one of the Pandavas instead. And yet, he died. And his words were proved to be true."



The look on Kripacharya's face, caught somewhere between realization and disbelief, might have amused Suyodhana under different circumstances.



"He showed us," Kripacharya began in a low voice, "how all the children of the Pandavas were slaughtered. And he swore—swore an oath—that what he revealed was no falsehood. So why do you insist he's lying?"



"Because Krishna loved Arjuna too much," Suyodhana replied, his voice dark and weighted. "He hated seeing him in pain. If I'm not mistaken, somewhere there must remain a child from Arjuna's bloodline, destined to claim the throne of Gajasharya after Yudhishthira."



"Karna claimed that even before Ashwatthama's attack on the Pandava camp, some of the Pandavas' children had already perished." Kripacharya's voice trembled, a faint shiver betraying the unease that coursed through him. "And Vasusena's words about Krishna..." He paused, as if the memory itself chilled him. "...they were terrifying. So what you are suggesting doesn't make sense."



Suyodhana fell silent, lost in thought. Images flooded his mind—the macabre dance Krishna performed upon Ghatotkacha's death, the calculated way he directed Arjuna towards the Trigartas while Abhimanyu was isolated and slaughtered in the Chakravyuha. Slowly, Suyodhana nodded to himself, an odd expression crossing his face. Krishna's actions were those of a cold-blooded strategist, each move precise and unyielding.



Ghatotkacha's death was engineered to strip Karna of Vasavi Shakti. Abhimanyu's death, a calculated sacrifice to ignite a fire of vengeance within Arjuna. The sheer ruthlessness of it struck Suyodhana anew, and for the first time, he questioned the depths of Krishna's love for his dear friend. Could love coexist with such unrelenting cruelty?



Had Krishna destroyed the Kuru dynasty to elevate the Yadavas as the supreme power in Aryavarta?



The words spilled from Suyodhana's lips unintentionally.



"Karna said that Krishna performed a tapasya and wished for a son—a son who would one day become the destroyer of the Yadavas."



He froze, startled by those words, and turned to Kripacharya, his eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, he looked at the older man as though he had lost his mind.



"Don't look at me that way, Suyodhana," Kripacharya snapped, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Those are the words of your friend, not mine."



"So what exactly is Krishna's game?" Suyodhana snarled, his voice laced with frustration and fury. "He turned the Pandavas into weapons to kill us all. He devastated the entire population of Aryavarta, reducing it to ashes. He made the Pandavas commit adharma under the guise of dharma. And now you're telling me that he allowed even the children of the Pandavas to perish?"



Kripacharya could only look at him helplessly, the weight of those questions pressing down on him. It seemed even he had no answers to offer.



"The only reason why he is doing all of these might be to elevate the Yadavas, That's the only sensible reason." Suyodhana continued, his tone darker, more biting. "But now you tell me he performed a tapasya to gain a child destined to destroy the Yadavas. What on earth is Krishna's game?"