Hello, everyone...

Vamsi here.

This chapter holds a piece of me—Yudhishthira's voice is mine, and Kripacharya's voice was brought to life by my friend. Arjuna's we both fought and wrote it.

The past year has been hell. I won't speak of all the ways it broke me, but the final blow—the one that shattered me—was losing my cousin.

Since then, the world has felt distant, voices muffled, colors faded. I wanted nothing, wished for nothing, only to be left alone with my grief. But those who love me refused to let me vanish into silence. They held on, even when I could not.

I live one day at a time. I see her everywhere—in fleeting glimpses, in echoes of laughter that no longer reach me. It sounds poetic, maybe even cliché, but it is my truth.

I do not know if I am back, not fully. But I will walk with this story, support it as best I can, even if my steps are slow.

I only hope that, in these words, you found something worth feeling.









"Justice is a lie told by the weak. The only truth is power. If you have it, you can shape the world. If you don't, you are shaped by it."



(Kripa's POV)



The sun above the Samudra division blazed with an unforgiving intensity, as though seeking to burn the earth into submission. Kripa walked briskly toward the soldiers' quarters, his sharp gaze catching the unusual stillness in the air.



The usual clamor—the rhythmic clash of weapons, the hearty banter of warriors—was gone, replaced by a suffocating silence. The atmosphere felt charged, like the ominous calm before a tempest.



Men scrambled about, their movements frantic and uncoordinated, eyes darting like cornered prey. These were not common soldiers, Kripa reminded himself. These were men under Vasusena's chain of command—veterans, molded in fire by the relentless training of the Vaikartana and they went through missions no sane man would ever take. The division whose success rate overtook even most of the Kshatriya divisions.



Rakshasas, people called them. The kind of warriors who struck fear into the hearts of bandits and beasts alike.



And yet, here they stood, shaken, as if facing a foe they couldn't fight against.



"What is going on here?" Kripa's voice cut through the suffocating stillness, sharp and commanding.



The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, their unease palpable. None stepped forward until an elder among them, Dheru, reluctantly emerged. His steps were hesitant, his shoulders hunched as though bearing the weight of the heavens.



"Acharya," Dheru began, his voice trembling. "There has been... an incident."



Kripa's frown deepened. "Speak plainly, Dheru. What incident has turned seasoned warriors into frightened children?"



Dheru hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "A servant... from the kitchens. He came to Vasusena this morning, fell at his feet, and begged him to fight on his son's behalf. He stated that his son committed a crime that will gain him a death sentence."

Kripa's brows furrowed further, confusion momentarily replacing his growing unease. "And?"

"Vasusena promised to save the boy." Dheru's voice lowered, each word weighted with dread. "He swore it on his honor."



Relief flickered in Kripa's heart, brief but real. "And for this, the entire division trembles? The boy stated that he will save a person's life not destroy it. Has your courage truly dwindled so much that even his good deeds scare you out of your wits?"



Dheru's lips pressed into a thin line. He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice barely above a whisper. "Acharya... it wasn't his words. It was his eyes."



Kripa's pulse quickened. "What about his eyes?"



"Before he made his promise his eyes turned red," Dheru said, his voice breaking. "Not from anger or exhaustion. Burning red. Some thought it was a trick of light, but I saw it. I swear on my life, Acharya, they glowed like flames of Surya Narayana's wrath."



Kripa felt the words strike him like a physical blow. He struggled to speak, his mouth suddenly dry. "And then?"



Dheru's face turned ashen. "Then he smiled. A terrible smile. It wasn't the smile of a child—it was something... primal. A predator's grin, Acharya, but his eyes..." He trailed off, shivering. "His eyes were not smiling. They were cold and filled with fury. They are filled with madness."



Kripa's heart hammered in his chest. The red eyes were Maheshwara's boon. The soldiers knew nothing of it and thought it might be an illusion, but it was not an illusion. He had seen it before, witnessed the devastation Vasusena wrought whenever that power awakened.



"What did he do after?" Kripa managed to ask, though his voice sounded distant, almost foreign to his own ears.



"Nothing," Dheru replied, his tone trembling. "He walked away, but his last order was for us to remain in the training ground until he returned. Acharya, we are terrified. He did not look human anymore. He looked like... like death itself. His red eyes might or might not be an illusion but in this case... Vasusena would kill the accuser if no one stops him."



Kripa steadied himself against the rising panic threatening to overtake him. "Why would the boy be sentenced to death?"



Dheru hesitated, his eyes darting to the ground as if he was scared. The silence stretched unbearably until Kripa's patience snapped.



"Speak!" he thundered, his voice reverberating like the crack of a whip.



"The boy..." Dheru finally said, his words barely audible, "was accused of the same crime as Adirathi Swarnajeet. The man heard the accusation that was made against his son immediately because one of his friends came here and informed him."



The name struck Kripa like a blade to the heart. His vision blurred, and for a moment, the world tilted. Swarnajeet. The boy whose execution had shattered Hastinapura's honor, staining it with the blood of innocence.



Kripa staggered, his grip tightening on a nearby pillar as if anchoring himself to reality. He didn't need Dheru to explain further. He could see it—the trembling form of Swarnajeet, barely eight years old, his cries for justice drowned by the cold decree of Bhishma. A sacrifice to a broken system.



"By the gods," Kripa whispered, his voice choked with horror.



"Acharya... please," Dheru pleaded. "Stop him before it's too late. Please stop him before he kills the Brahmin..."



Kripa didn't let him finish. The very thought of Vasusena's wrath, unleashed and unchecked, sent him sprinting toward the courthouse. His angavastram billowed like a stormcloud behind him as his sandals pounded the dirt, each step a desperate prayer. In this fury he would lose his senses and commit Brahmanahatya. It's a sin that no amount of tapasya will ever be able to clean off. Kripa did not want such sin to stain the soul of Aditya Nandhana.



Kripa's heart thundered in his chest as he sprinted through the grand halls of Hastinapura. His breaths were ragged, each step driven by a singular, desperate prayer: Please, let me reach him in time before he does something irreversible and stains his soul completely.



The grand court loomed ahead, its heavy doors shut like the gates of fate itself. Kripa pushed them open, his presence a ripple in the tense air. His sharp eyes scanned the chamber, his gaze immediately drawn to the child standing at its edge.



Vasusena.



He stood like a calamity bound in human form—still and silent, yet brimming with restrained fury. However there were no red eyes, no raised voice, no sign of the tempest Dheru had described. And Kripa wished the opposite... because it was when he was silent... Vasusena is the most dangerous.



The court had fallen deathly quiet, every gaze fixed on Vasusena. But the boy himself—calm, unyielding—seemed wholly detached, like a predator observing prey too insignificant to acknowledge. Because they knew whenever the boy stood up to fight for anyone he'd win without a question.



Kripa's instincts screamed a warning.



This was not the time to focus on the calm. It was calm before the storm.



His eyes shifted, catching sight of a child—small, trembling, dragged forward by a man whose cruelty seemed carved into his very being. The boy's captor yanked at his hair, dragging him forward like an offering.



Kripa froze. He knew that face.



Pandit Paramsukh.



A name steeped in venom, one Kripa had cursed to the heavens for the entirety of last year. The man who had condemned Swarnajeet, a mere child, to death. The man whose twisted ideology had swayed even Bhishma, forcing him to compromise justice in favor of the oppressive weight of caste. The man who made Vasusena the monster he is now.



Kripa's stomach turned, bile rising at the memory. God, it's much worse than what he had imagined.



The child stumbled forward, his wide, tear-filled eyes a silent plea. But Vasusena, he didn't make a small moment. He didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the boy. His gaze remained locked on Paramsukh.



The doors to the hall slammed open, breaking the charged silence like a lightning strike.



"Father."



The voice rang clear, steady, and unmistakable. Suyodhana strode in, his head high, his gaze unwavering. "I request your leave to preside over this session."



Dhritarashtra turned toward his son, confusion flickering across his blind eyes. "Preside?"



"Yes, Pitashree," Suyodhana replied, his tone calm yet resolute. He bowed low, the image of a dutiful son. "I have been studying Nyaya Shastra under Guru Drona. Before I return to my studies at gurukul, I wish to test my knowledge. And what better stage than this court?"



Kripa blinked, realization dawning. This is why Vasusena is so calm. Relief flooded through him, loosening the knot in his chest. Suyodhana was here to support his friend. Of course. Suyodhana was Vasusena's shield, stepping into the fire to save his friend from what he might become.



These days...Suyodhana burned with a singular resolve—he wished to speak to Vasusena. The royal decree of his mother be damned, he refused to stay away from his friend. So these days... like a shadow, he trailed Vasusena's every movement, tracking whatever his friend did these days.



Every subtle motion, every fleeting glance—Suyodhana tracked it all. And Vasusena knew it and used it to his benefit. He knew his friend would back him up without a question.



So today was not a day of death. Kripa thought with relief filling his heart. Vasusena's eyes betrayed no thirst for blood, only a fierce determination to save an innocent life. And if Vasusena's purpose was salvation, then Suyodhana would see to it that the world bent to his will. No command, no law, no force would stand in their way.



Vasusena wished to save the child. And Suyodhana—would make it a reality.



But then, like a serpent slithering into the court, a voice rose from the gathered courtiers.



"If this is to be a test," the man said, his tone oozing with false humility, "should not Yudhishthira, the Crown Prince, also preside? Surely his wisdom in matters of law is said to be unmatched. Let us see which of the royal scions has truly mastered the art of justice. After all it is Prince Yudhisthira who will be the next King and the court wishes to see his capability."



The murmur of approval that followed was like poison seeping into the air.



Kripa's fleeting relief crumbled, splintering into shards of cold, unrelenting dread. His breath hitched as realization set in, chilling his very core. They've turned this into a game, he thought, his mind racing. Fools playing with fire, blind to the inferno waiting to devour them.



These fools had dared to touch the two things Vasusena ever truly cared for: innocent children and the Dhārtarāṣṭras.



It wasn't just foolishness—it was recklessness, an invitation for destruction. They sought to twist the narrative, to show Suyodhana as lesser, as weak and foolish compared to the Pandavas. And in their blind thirst for dominance, they had fixated on the life of a helpless child, reducing his life to nothing more than a pawn in their sordid ambitions.



Any one of them would be dangerous against Vasusena, Kripa thought, his palms clammy with unease. But together? His heart clenched. Together, it would make him lose all his restraint.



He looked to Vasusena, hoping for any sign of emotion, but the child stood motionless and unreadable.



He clenched his fists, his mind racing. Yudhishthira's inclusion changed everything. The eldest Kuru prince was not only the son of Yama Dharmaraja but also a prodigy in the art of justice. His knowledge of Nyayashastra was unparalleled and could be challenged by very few people in this Kingdom. Namely Vidura, Vasusena, Bhishma and himself.



And yet, Kripa knew that Vasusena could not openly wield his brilliance. The caste laws would reduce his voice to a whisper before it ever reached the ears of the court.



Kripa's thoughts churned with conflicting emotions. He wanted to stand with Vasusena and prevent another adharma. But he also knew the fragile stability of the kingdom could not withstand another riot. If the Brahmins were provoked, the consequences would be catastrophic.



Vidura and Bhishma are not here and even if they are present... they won't side with Vasusena for the same reason.



If Yudhishthira was not included in this... the case would be closed with no issues. Suyodhana would rule in favor of Vasusena and the King would gladly accept it without any question



As the Dhārtarāṣṭras are excluded from the line of succession out of their own violation... the Brahmins would seeth and grumble under their breaths about how adharmic Suyodhana is but would have to leave. There wouldn't be any lasting consequences for the kingdom as Suyodhana is not the Crown Prince.



They'll be unsatisfied but they have to accept the judgement because Suyodhana was a Prince.



However Yudhishthira was the Crown Prince of Hastinapur. His words have more weight compared to Suyodhana and anyone in the court except for the King.



Twenty minutes later Yudhishthira along with Arjuna and Sahadeva entered with quiet dignity, his presence commanding respect. Their calm demeanor might have reassured others, but to Kripa, all he could see is disaster unfolding in front of his eyes.



Kripa begged to every god he prayed for Dhritarashtra to deny them. But alas it seems that none of them heard his prayers today.



Dhritarashtra hesitated, his indecision plain for all to see. But, swayed by the murmurs of approval, he gave a reluctant nod.



"Very well. Both princes shall preside."



The court erupted in whispers, the Brahmins exchanging satisfied glances.



But all Kripa could feel was fear- cold unrelenting fear.



If Yudhishthira ruled in Vasusena's favor, which is more likely as the child might have the knowledge of Shastras but was a green child in politics... The Brahmins would turn the kingdom against the Crown Prince, questioning his loyalty to dharma.



If Yudhishthira ruled against Vasusena, Vaikartana would erupt and no one could ever hope to extinguish Vasusena's fury. He would raze the entire court in the flames of his wrath. And knowing Yudhishthira this is the least likely scenario



To cover his supposed blunder with the Brahmins... Yudhishthira will offer whatever he has. And that monster Paramsukh will demand whatever he wished for and will be rewarded for his cruelty.



Kripa's gaze flickered to Paramsukh, who smirked, confident in his position. To him, whatever happens will be to his gain.



In his mind... if Yudhishthira ruled in his favor... he would show superiority and would oppress the lower castes even more. And if he ruled against him... he could have the next Crown Prince as a puppet in his hands.



Either way he would win for his cruelty.



Parameshwara...there is no way to win in this situation. If Vaikartana loses... his rage will be cataclysmic. If he wins... Yudhishthira will be a puppet in the hands of Paramsukh and other Brahmins will learn of Yudhisthira's nature and exploit it in the future.



However when he turned towards Vasusena, Kripa's heart froze.



Vasusena started to smile.



No, not smiling. Grinning.



A grin so cold, so malevolent, that it sent a shiver racing down Kripa's spine. It wasn't the grin of a man enjoying a victory or savoring a moment of triumph. No, this was something far darker. This was the grin of a predator circling its prey, of a calamity preparing to unleash its wrath.



What are you planning, Vasusena?



"Fools..." The word lingered in the air. Kripa's eyes sharpened as he read Vasusena's lips, the words directed at the trembling man beside him. Most likely the boy's father.



"They consigned this man to a fate worse than death," Vasusena murmured, his voice low not to be heard by anyone other than him and the boy's father.



The man's face twisted in a strange mixture of fear and desperate hope, his trembling hands gripping nothing but air. Kripa watched the exchange with an odd detachment, his lips curving into a faint, almost bitter smile.



This was the very man who, not long ago, had been one of many within the palace to sneer at Vasusena, spitting venom from a safe distance. How they had loathed him, belittled him, treating him as though he were beneath the filth on their shoes. And now, that same man knelt, wordlessly placing his son's life in Vasusena's hands, as though praying to a god he had scorned.



Fate, Kripa mused, is a cruel and twisted mistress. It takes no sides, offers no mercy, and revels in the irony of moments like these.



So, with the arrival of Yudhishthira, the ominous shadow of Brahmanahatya loomed over this place. The weight of that possibility churned in Kripacharya's mind like a storm cloud, dark and foreboding. His chest tightened as he gazed at the scene unfolding before him. They've released a mad bull, he thought grimly, without the faintest idea of how to tame it.



The recklessness of it all sickened him. The very people who had unleashed this chaos in their arrogance or ignorance would now bear the burden of its consequences. But such burdens had a way of spilling over, dragging everyone into their wake, like an unrelenting tide.



Kripa's fingers flexed involuntarily as he took his place in the court, his silent prayer rising above the disquiet in his heart. He could only hope, desperately, that the stain of Brahmanahatya would not mar this kingdom. Yet, deep down, the gnawing dread whispered otherwise.





(Yudhishthira's POV)



The shared quarters were steeped in an oppressive silence, the kind that gnawed at Yudhishthira's composure. The parchments of governance lay scattered around him, yet their presence felt trivial compared to the weight pressing on his chest. Nakula and Sahadeva whispered quietly, their voices a faint hum as they debated tax policies. Across the room, Arjuna sat by the window, his eyes distant, fixed on the quarters that housed Pitamah, yearning etched in his every breath.



The knock came suddenly, sharp and deliberate, shattering the stillness like a stone through a calm lake. The door creaked open to reveal a servant, his head bowed low, his hands trembling. His unease was palpable, infecting the room with tension.



"Yuvraj," the servant began, his voice faltering under the weight of his words. "The courtiers... they request your presence. Vasusena is advocating for a petitioner, and your judgment is required."



Yudhishthira froze, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Vasusena?" The name hung in the air, unfamiliar in this context. Vasusena was Suyodhana's shadow, a silent sentinel whose presence was imposing but peripheral. A warrior, a guard, a man of strength—but not a figure of law or governance. What business could he have in court?



"Why would they need me?" Yudhishthira asked as he rose to his feet, his voice laced with uncertainty.



Before the servant could answer, a sharp, bitter laugh cut through the air. Arjuna turned toward them, his eyes gleaming with something unrecognizable—a mixture of derision, admiration, and unease.



"You don't know about him, do you?" Arjuna said, his tone calm.



Yudhishthira turned to him, his confusion deepening. "Know what?"



Arjuna stood, his movements deliberate, his gaze locked onto Yudhishthira. "Vasusena," he began, his voice heavy with conviction, "is not just a warrior. He is an iconoclast and extremely intelligent person. He is a master of Nyaya Shastra, a man who bends the law to his will with the precision of a blade. And..." Arjuna paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "he is the only man in Aryavarta whom Pitamah Bhishma truly loathes."



Yudhishthira blinked, at Arjuna's words. His Pitamah was not the kind who hates anyone without reason "Pitamah loathes him? Why?"



"Because," Arjuna said, his voice sharp and cold, "Vasusena is the only man who ever made Pitamah bow his head in shame. In the court of law, he defeated him—not just defeated him, humiliated him."



The words struck Yudhishthira like a thunderbolt. His breath hitched as his mind raced to comprehend the enormity of the claim. "He defeated Pitamah? In the court of law?"



Arjuna nodded slowly, the gravity of the moment reflected in his eyes. "Yes."



Yudhishthira's voice trembled with disbelief. "I never knew this. What happened?"



Arjuna's expression darkened as he began the tale. He spoke of Vasusena's defiance of Sage Parashurama, the insult that had ignited Pitamah's fury. Blinded by rage and devotion to his teacher, Pitamah had sought to strike Vasusena down, only for the latter to challenge him in the court of law.



As Arjuna recounted the court session, Yudhishthira could almost see it—the cold precision of Vasusena's arguments, the calm fury with which he exposed Pitamah's flaws. He spoke of how Vasusena's words had cut deeper than any blade, reducing Bhishma, the invincible, to a figure of shame before the assembly.



When Arjuna finished, the silence was deafening. Yudhishthira closed his eyes, his heart pounding. Yet amidst the storm raging within, he forced himself to speak, his voice steady despite the tremor beneath.



"Arjuna," he said, "Pitamah lost because he is a man of love and loyalty. His anger for his teacher clouded his judgment. Vasusena did not defeat the Lord Protector of Hastinapur. He defeated a man overcome by emotion."



Turning back to the servant, Yudhishthira's voice hardened. "How often does Vasusena advocate for others?"



The servant hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor. "Once or twice a month, Yuvraj. But..." He swallowed nervously. "He is despised in the city. Most consider him arrogant, unworthy. Only the most desperate dare seek his help."



"Then why is this the first time I've been summoned for one of his cases?" Yudhishthira demanded, his eyes narrowing.



The servant's voice dropped, a whisper weighed down by dread. "Because... this time, Prince Suyodhana intervened.



Something happened between both of them and they had to part ways. So he's fighting for Vasusena to return to his side. He... he will do whatever it takes to ensure Vasusena's success—even if it means supporting something the courtiers deem adharmic."



"And the case?" Yudhishthira asked, his tone sharp as a blade.



"The man standing against Vasusena is a Brahmin," the servant replied. "No one knows the details of the case yet, but... because he is a Brahmin, the courtiers believe his cause must be dharmic. They think that unless you step in and overrule Prince Suyodhana, adharma will prevail today."



Yudhishthira stood motionless, the silence around him mirrored by the storm raging within. Bhishma's once-fond glances now felt like distant memories, replaced by cold avoidance. The gentle wisdom in Kripacharya's eyes had dulled, his presence a mere shadow of what it once was. Even Vidura—Kakashree, the man who had been more than an uncle, a guide, and a protector—seemed reluctant to meet their gaze, his silence cutting deeper than any words could.



It burned.



Had they failed somehow? He and his brothers had upheld dharma with unwavering devotion, adhered to every lesson taught, and walked the path laid before them. And yet, the pillars of their world—the elders they revered—had grown distant. The weight of their unspoken disappointment pressed heavily on Yudhishthira's soul.



But now... this was a chance. If what Arjuna claimed about Vasusena's cunning and intellect was true, then defeating him, even in a battle of wits and law, could restore the fractured bonds. Perhaps Bhishma Pitamah would finally look upon him with pride again. Perhaps Kakashree's stern silence would break into the warm smile of his childhood.



Yudhishthira straightened his back, the flicker of doubt in his chest crushed beneath a wave of determination. "I will go," he declared, his voice resolute. "If Vasusena is in the court, I will face him. By dharma, I will fight, and I will prevail."



Arjuna stepped forward, his eyes wide, fear etched into his every word. "No, Jyestha... Please, don't confront him. That man—he isn't like anyone else. Vasusena doesn't walk into a court unless he knows the scales will tip in his favor."



Yudhishthira's gaze snapped to Arjuna, shock and disappointment flickering across his face. "Have you turned into a coward, Arjuna?" His voice carried the weight of disbelief. "He is but a suta who knows the law well enough to twist its intent and humiliate us. But I am no fool. I will not pass judgment without fairness. I will hear all sides. I will uphold dharma."



He met Arjuna's worried gaze, his confidence unshaken. "The law does not bow to men, no matter how clever or powerful they may be. If Vasusena is wrong, I will expose him. And if he is right, I will honor the truth. Either way, this is a battle I must fight."



"I am not a coward, Jyestha." Arjuna's growl shattered the tense silence, his composure crumbling for the first time in years. His voice was laced with a rare fury, one that shook the air around them. "But Vasusena is no fool. Anyone who has dared to stand against him has been reduced to nothing but a fool. Sahadeva..." His voice turned sharp as he snapped at their youngest brother, making him flinch. "... back me up. Do you really think Vasusena can lose today?"



Sahadeva's eyes darted nervously between his brothers. Even before Sahadeva answered them... Yudhishthira felt cold. Sahadeva's abilities are not something any of them would invoke without a solid reason. Their youngest brother has the knowledge of the future. But there are limitations.



He could not reveal what he knew unless the right questions were asked, and if he revealed more than what he was asked... he would die. It is a limitation that puts his life at risk whenever they ask a question about the future. There is a very good reason why none of them wished to learn about the future from Sahadeva. If he revealed more than what is necessary... he will die without a question.



And now, with Arjuna invoking his abilities putting the life of their beloved brother at peril—not for war, not for politics, but for a suta—it only underscored the danger that Vasusena posed.



"Today... dharma will prevail," Sahadeva said, his voice wavering, but the hesitation in his words was clear. But Arjuna remained unconvinced, his unease carving itself into his face like stone.



"Vasusena or our Jyestha," Arjuna demanded, his voice low and dangerous, "who will win?"



Sahadeva closed his eyes, the weight of his words heavy in the air. "According to the stars... Our Jyestha will be seen as the upholder of dharma today. The firstborn of Mata Kunti will triumph in his battle, and his ideals will shine brighter than ever."



His answer reassured everyone in the room even if his wording was a bit odd, but Arjuna's agitation did not waver. Seeing his brother's resolve falter, Yudhishthira straightened his back and spoke with newfound conviction.



"'Denial of an invitation to dice, and a summon for war is an impropriety for a Kshatriya.' I try to uphold dharma, and make no mistake, Arjuna—upholding dharma is as much a war for a prince as any battle fought with swords and arrows."



Arjuna paled at his words as if struck by some horrifying memory he did not wish to relive.



What on earth happened to his brother, Yudhishthira wondered? Arjuna, who had stood unshaken, now trembled at the mention of Vasusena. The reasons eluded him, but there was no time to dwell on it.



Yudhishthira turned toward the door, his movements measured but resolute. His brothers followed instinctively, the weight of the moment pulling them in his wake. But just as the silence threatened to engulf them again, Arjuna's voice cut through, raw and urgent.



"Jyestha," he called, his tone trembling with desperation, "don't let him ensnare you with his words. Vasusena's tongue is sharper than any blade. He can make lies shimmer like truth."



Yudhishthira halted, his hand resting lightly against the doorframe. He turned, his gaze steady and calm, his voice a beacon of certainty amidst the tempest of doubt.



"Dharma does not falter before cleverness, Arjuna," he said, each word deliberate, each syllable a quiet defiance against the fear in his brother's heart. "It shines brighter through the fog of deceit."



And with that, he strode forward, his steps unyielding, his heart steeled against the storm awaiting him.



The Purohit stood in the center of the courtroom, his voice rising with indignation that seemed to echo off the walls. "This boy, a mere Shudra, has been caught with sacred scriptures in his possession. Scriptures that he dared to read, defiling their sanctity with his unclean hands. Such a transgression cannot go unpunished!"



Yudhishthira sat still on the dais, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The boy stood trembling, his frail form dwarfed by the grandeur of the court and the weight of the accusations leveled against him. Yudhishthira's gaze lingered on the child—he was little more than a boy, a frightened figure caught in the tides of a system he had no power to navigate.



And yet, the law was clear. The scriptures were not for the Shudras to touch, let alone read. This was not just about one boy's actions; it was about the sanctity of the order that held their society together. Yudhishthira felt a pang of unease.



His thoughts drifted to the story of Swarnajeet—a name spoken in hushed tones, a cautionary tale that weighed heavily on those who cared to remember it. Bhishma had once explained it to him in exacting detail: how dharma demanded the punishment of those who disrupted the established order, even if their transgressions stemmed from ignorance. To let such acts go unpunished was to allow chaos to seep into the foundations of their civilization.



But sitting here now, Yudhishthira could not suppress the discomfort rising within him. Was it truly dharma to condemn a child? Could justice be served by reinforcing a system that left no room for innocence, for compassion?



The Purohit's voice thundered again, breaking his thoughts. "Your Majesties, the punishment for such an act is clear: death, as decreed by the scriptures. The purity of our sacred texts cannot be compromised!"



Yudhishthira's heart grew heavier. The Purohit's conviction left no space for doubt or mercy, and yet Yudhishthira's mind wrestled with both. To defy the Brahmin was to challenge the order of dharma itself, he thought. And yet...



His gaze returned to the boy, who clutched his hands together as though in prayer. The child's fear was palpable, his fate resting in the hands of those who claimed to uphold justice. For a fleeting moment, Yudhishthira wondered if the child even understood the weight of the crime he was accused of—or if he had been drawn here as an unwilling pawn in the name of righteousness.



The varna system was the bedrock of their civilization, Yudhishthira reminded himself. Each caste had its role, its dharma. The Brahmins were the custodians of knowledge, the Shudras meant to serve. This order was sacrosanct, ordained by the very gods themselves.



Yet the boy's trembling form seemed to challenge that belief. If this is justice, then why does it feel so hollow?



As the court awaited his decision, Yudhishthira felt the same burden Bhishma must have carried: the crushing weight of dharma, the unyielding nature of laws meant to preserve the world but which, at times, seemed to tear it apart.



Vasusena's gaze bore into Yudhishthira, sharp and unyielding, dissecting his every thought with an intensity that left no room for pretense. Those eyes—so disturbingly similar to Arjuna's and Bhima's—carried none of their warmth. Instead, they gleamed with a cruel edge, as if daring him to give a judgement that was against the Nyaya Shastra.



Yudhishthira could still hear Arjuna's warning, the weight of his brother's words pressing heavily upon him. "His knowledge of Nyaya Shastra surpasses anything we've seen. One wrong move, and he will tear you apart—not with weapons, but with words. And it will be devastating."



He came into this place expecting Vasusena to be an adharmi, a person who he had to fight.



However this wasn't just a battle of wits or pride. This was about dharma. And Yudhishthira, bound by his unyielding devotion to righteousness, would not let the purity of that path be sullied. He could not, would not, allow a child—barely ten summers old—to face the cruel sentence of death. No crime, no misstep, could justify such an atrocity.



For a moment, the weight of the world bore down on him, but he steadied himself. Rules of society be damned. I will face the fires of penance, conduct a hundred yagnas if I must. But I will not bear the death of a child on my soul. His decision made, Yudhishthira turned toward the king, his voice firm yet soft, laced with the quiet conviction of the dharmashastras. He declared his stance: the boy must go free.



The shift in the room was almost palpable. Suyodhana, so often his adversary, turned to him with a look Yudhishthira had rarely, if ever, seen on his cousin's face—gratitude. For all the whispers about Suyodhana's fondness for the suta, this moment proved those murmurs true. The love Suyodhana bore for the older boy was undeniable.



And if this act of mercy, this defiance of societal expectation, could soften the ever-present wrath his cousin held for him, then perhaps Vasusena's intervention was, in its own way, a blessing. For once, Yudhishthira found himself grateful to the enigmatic suta, even when his very presence sent shivers down his spine for a reason he could understand.



Yudhishthira's voice rang out, steady as the earth beneath their feet, unwavering as the eternal stars above.



"The child shall go free," he declared, his words neither plea nor justification but an immutable decree. "A boy of less than three and ten summers cannot be held accountable for transgressions he does not comprehend. The dharmashastras do not decree punishment for one so young. To spill innocent blood beneath the guise of righteousness would be to pervert the very essence of dharma itself."



The silence that followed was suffocating, stretched taut like the string of a bow drawn to its limit.



Then, Suyodhana inclined his head, "I second the judgment," he said, his voice measured, deliberate. "The decree is just. No child should ever be punished for a mistake he did out of ignorance."



For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the storm had passed. But illusions were fragile things, and this one shattered the instant the Purohit stepped forward, his face contorted with outrage.



"You dare?!" he thundered, his white robes swirling as he moved, his voice cracking through the chamber like a bolt of lightning splitting the heavens. "You dare call yourself a son of Yama Dharmaraja, yet you defile the very order He upholds?"



Yudhishthira did not flinch, though within him, anger stirred—a fire restrained, but no less fierce. He had anticipated opposition, but the venom lacing Purohit's words was a blade aimed to wound, not a mere dissenting voice.



"You disgrace your lineage!" Purohit continued, his voice a whip lashing through the air, his indignation a roaring tide. "A fool blinded by hollow sentiment, unworthy of the mantle you bear! Have you learned nothing? Do you not recall what befalls those who tamper with the natural order?"



"Even Bhishma," he said, his tone shifting, turning lethal, "the great guardian of Hastinapura, once decreed punishment upon a child of eight years. Do you now claim to be wiser than Bhishma himself?"



The words fell like a sword, poised to strike, the weight of the challenge pressing upon the court like a storm on the horizon.



Yet Yudhishthira stood unmoved, his hands clasped before him, his expression unshaken.



"If I have erred," he said, his voice quiet but unbreakable, "then I shall atone. If dharma is sullied by the mercy I have shown, I will accept whatever penance is required."



The Purohit scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. "Penance?" The word dripped from his tongue like venom. "You think mere penance can cleanse the filth of your transgression? For what? A wretched worm?"



Each syllable felt like a dagger, sharp and cruel. The chamber felt smaller, the air thick with judgment.



"You have forsaken the wisdom of the ancients for the sake of filth," the Purohit declared, his voice rising to a crescendo of fury. "And for that, your atonement shall be severe."



Yudhishthira inhaled deeply, steadying himself. Whatever penance was demanded of him, it was nothing compared to the sin of Shishu Hatya. He was prepared to bow, to accept his punishment without protest.



But before he could lower his head and accept whatever punishment the Brahmin wished to levy on him, a cold voice sliced through the stillness like a blade through silk.



"Filth... you said."



Suyodhana's growl carried a fury that sent a shiver through the assembly. His eyes burned crimson with restrained rage. "Tell me, Purohit," he said, his voice a razor's edge, "are you a fool who never studied the Vedas? Or are you a blasphemer who places himself above the gods?"



The Purohit bristled, his face twisting in wrath. "Adharmic child. Kulnashak of Hastinapura," he spat. "Do you even comprehend to whom you are speaking?"



Suyodhana did not even blink. He stood to his full height, unwavering, his presence suffocating in its sheer intensity. "So you are a fool," he said, his tone almost pitying. "One who never read the Vedas, or one who chose to ignore their meaning. Allow me to remind you."



The air in the court thickened as Suyodhana took a slow step forward.



"For the prosperity of the worlds, He (Brahma) caused the Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Shudra to proceed from His mouth, arms, thighs, and feet, respectively.



In order to protect this universe, the most resplendent One assigned separate duties and occupations to those who sprang from His mouth, arms, thighs, and feet.



The Brahmin acquires merit by fully knowing the Vedas, the Kshatriya by protecting people, the Vaishya by commerce and agriculture, and the Shudra by serving the others."



He let the words settle, unshaken by the stunned silence that followed.



The Purohit's lips curled in a sneer. "Do not presume to teach Manusmriti to me, insolent child."



Suyodhana tilted his head. "So you do know Manusmrithi then. Then answer me this—why is a child of less than three and ten years should never be subjected to punishment?"



The question rang through the chamber like a thunderclap.



The Purohit's breath hitched. A flicker of panic crossed his face. Yudhishthira felt exactly the same way. Please Suyodhana, don't. He prayed that his cousin will keep silent.



The assembly held its collective breath. Because that—that was a secret buried beneath centuries of deception, hidden from those deemed unworthy. It was not something taught to the Shudras. It was a rule woven into the very foundation of their oppression.



His Uncle swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Suyodhana... for the sake of the kingdom's order... stop."



But his cousin did not stop. He did not even pause. He looked upon the court—upon the fearful, panicked faces of nobles and priests alike—and spoke the words that shattered their carefully maintained illusion.



"By birth, everyone is a Shudra. Only through samskara does one become a Brahmin, Kshatriya, or Vaishya. If he is not given education, or if he lacks the aptitude for any of the above roles, then he remains a Shudra.



Because a child below three and thirteen unless he does not have aptitude... he has the ability to be a Brahmin, Kshatriya or a Vaishya. No one knows what fate Brahmadev has written for a child. That's why we are not allowed to punish any child less than three and ten years old."



A collective gasp rippled through the hall.



The Shudras standing there—silent, watchful, afraid—now stirred, their fear twisting into something else. Rage.



"Suyodhana!"



For the first time, Dhritarashtra's voice roared with unrestrained fury. It was not the reprimand of a father—it was the command of a king. "Leave."



His son turned, and for a moment, their eyes met—one blind yet, the other ablaze with defiance.



"I have only a few more words to say," Suyodhana said, his voice deadly calm.



Then, his gaze snapped back to the Purohit.



"What did you call this boy, you cold-hearted monster?" His voice trembled—with wrath barely leashed. "You called him filth?"



He took a slow step forward. The Purohit instinctively stepped back.



"They are created from the feet of Brahmadeva. And you call them filth?" Suyodhana let out a cold laugh. "Then, according to you, the feet are equal to filth, yes?"



In one fluid motion, he drew his sword from its sheath.



The metallic whisper of steel against scabbard sent a ripple of unease through the court.



"Then let me rid you of your filthy feet."



The Purohit's face drained of all color as Suyodhana advanced, his blade gleaming like frozen lightning. The assembly erupted into frantic cries. Hands reached out, voices pleaded—stop, stop, stop!—but he did not stop. He did not hesitate.



Just as he was about to bring his blade down—



Vasusena moved.



No one saw it happen. One moment, he was at the farthest edge of the hall, silent, watchful. The next—he was there, standing between the Purohit and Suyodhana, his presence an immovable wall.



Yudhishthira rubbed his eyes. No—his mind was not playing tricks. Vasusena had crossed nearly half a kos in the blink of an eye.



"Suyodhana," Vasusena spoke, his voice a murmur yet carrying the weight of a promise. "Trust me... I will handle this. Please stop."



Only then did Suyodhana stop. His chest rose and fell, his grip on the hilt still tight, his fury still burning. But at Vasusena's quiet command, he stilled.



Looking past his suta guard, he fixed the Purohit with one final, smoldering glare.



"The reason why Shudras are the feet of Brahma," he said, each word deliberate, sharp as a dagger, "is because they are the foundation upon which this society stands. They look to us for our direction and they are the one who will take the society on the path we show to them. If we lead them astray... our society too will be in ruins."



Then, without another word, he turned away.



The Purohit exhaled, his breath shuddering, his body trembling. But few minutes after Suyodhana left the court... fear gave way to indignation, his lips twisted once more.



"I curs—"



A blade pressed against his throat.



Vasusena's hand was steady, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were ablaze with wrath.



"If the next words from your mouth are a curse on Prince Suyodhana..." his voice was soft, almost gentle. "I will cut out your tongue."



The Purohit froze.



"That," Vasusena murmured, tilting his head slightly, "would not be Brahmanahatya, would it?"



His voice was velvet, his words a noose. "So choose wisely, Purohit."



"You hateful suta... I curse you..."



Yudhishthira's breath caught in his throat.



In that instant, it felt as if Surya Deva himself had descended into their midst. The very air warped with unbearable heat, thick and suffocating. Cries of agony filled the hall—gasps, yelps, the rustling of fabric as men recoiled, shielding their faces as if scalded by invisible flames. The scent of singed cloth and sweat thickened the air. It was as if molten lava had been poured over them, as if the very walls of the court would melt under the intensity of the heat.



And yet—



Yudhishthira's eyes darted to the lone figure who remained utterly unaffected.



Vasusena stood at the center of the storm, untouched, undisturbed. His expression did not shift, his body did not flinch. And then, as Yudhishthira looked past his pain... realization struck him like a hammer to the chest.



The heat—



It was coming from Vasusena himself.



The very air trembled around him. Light bent at impossible angles, distorting reality itself as though the world struggled to contain the force he radiated. His form burned with an ethereal brilliance, neither mortal nor divine, yet something far beyond both. It was not just radiance—it was like a second sun, fierce and unrelenting, casting elongated shadows that trembled as if bowing before him.



This was no suta. No man born of mere mortals could command such power. There was no chance that Vasusena was anything but divine.



A moment later, the light vanished, consumed into the stillness of the chamber. But the silence that followed was not peace—it was dread.



The Purohit gasped. His skin, once fair, was swollen, darkened to an angry crimson, as if seared by unseen flames. His once-bright eyes had sunken deep, hollow with terror, his body trembling under the weight of judgment. His pristine white robes had blackened, charred beyond recognition, as if even the fabric had been condemned.



The assembly recoiled. This was divine vengeance. No argument, no scripture, no doctrine could refute what had just occurred.



Vasusena exhaled softly, his voice devoid of anger, devoid of mercy.



"It seems even the gods themselves find you blasphemous, Purohit Paramsukh."



A shudder ran through the gathered courtiers and Brahmins. The weight of those words, spoken with such calm finality, was heavier than any decree, any curse. Because only the clothes of others have charred a bit. And Vasusena looked perfectly normal. But Purohit Paramsukh... he looked like he rolled on hot coals for a very long time.



He turned to a soldier "Summon a physician. We will resume once the Purohit has been treated."



Half an hour later... (Kripa's POV)





Today in his impulsive wrath... Suyodhana had set fire to the world.



The utter, impulsive and foolish idiot.



With a few reckless words, he had shattered the fragile balance that held their world together. His voice had not merely echoed through the halls—it had cracked the very foundations of their society.



There would be no containment. No control. No hope of undoing what had been done.



Vasusena was supposed to be the threat today. Vasusena.



Yet in his arrogance, Suyodhana had done something far worse.



He had set the entire society ablaze.



The Purohit was brought back, his body wrapped in thick layers of bandages, his very presence a ghostly reminder of what had transpired. His once-imposing figure had withered, reduced to a trembling, hollow shell. A man who had dared to invoke judgment upon another, only to be judged himself.



Kripa's gaze lingered on the broken form, and in that moment, a plan took shape in his mind. A gift. That was what this was. A divine boon from Surya Narayana himself.



"However... If there is one thing I have resolved now, O Protector of Cosmos...it is that anyone who dares to harm him without a good reason... will be naught but ashes the very next moment."



This was the oath sworn by the ruler of Navagraha—the vow that no man, no god, no force in existence would lay a hand on his son and live to tell the tale. A promise forged in blood, sealed with an unshakable will. He had upheld it without mercy, without exception.



The Eldest Son of Aditi may have acted out of love for his child, his fury ignited solely to protect what was his. But gods were not concerned with mortal politics—humans, however, were.



And this... this could be turned to their advantage.



The weight of the blame could be shifted. Not onto Vasusena, not onto the court, but upon the Brahmins themselves. A lesson, a warning. A leash around the necks of the foolish ones who dared to overstep their bounds.



And more importantly, this would strengthen both Suyodhana and Yudhisthira. This was an opportunity, wrapped in divine wrath, waiting to be seized.



"Before you pass judgment... both sides should be heard, should they not?"



Kripa was pulled from his thoughts by Vasusena's voice.



The boy who was supposed to be condemned to death was lost in the chaos, had faded into the background of it all, now stepped forward. His steps were hesitant and reverent, as he made his way toward Vasusena.



The corners of Vasusena's lips curved, his voice gentle as he crouched slightly, bringing himself to the child's eye level.



"What is your name, child?"



The boy sniffled, his small fists clenching as he wiped his tear-streaked face. "Shh... don't be scared, just tell us what happened."



"Sadava..." he murmured.



"Alright, Sadava... do you know why you are here?"



Sadava hesitated, his lips quivering before he finally spoke, his words fractured with quiet sobs.



"I entered Purohit's house... that's why he brought me here. To kill me."



Kripa felt something inside him hollow out. A child. A boy so small, his face still round with the softness of youth, his eyes too wide, too filled with fear for someone his age.



And what had Kripa been thinking? Politics. Strategy. Control. Not once had he stopped to consider the child's life hanging in the balance. Hell, he hadn't even known his name until now. Shame burned in his throat.



How close had they come to letting this innocent life be snuffed out, all because men like him had been too caught up in their own games?



Vasusena's voice remained steady. "Purohitji claims you stole a talapatra in his house and recited the Vedas. Is that true?"



Sadava's head bowed, his small fingers twisting together. His voice was barely above a whisper.



"I don't know how to read. Purohitji is lying," Sadava continued, his voice trembling but firm. "I only entered his gates to get my gold chain back."



A raspy croak cut through the air. "He is lying." Paramsukh, beaten but defiant, forced the words out.



Vasusena did not acknowledge him.



Instead, his attention remained solely on the child.



"Why would your gold chain be in Purohit's house?" His tone was patient, kind.



Sadava swallowed, glancing at the bandaged priest as though afraid he might lunge at him again. But when he looked back at Vasusena's face, at the quiet, unwavering presence before him, he found the courage to speak.



"Kaaliya my big brother always teases me," he admitted, shame creeping into his voice. "He tries to make me cry. He's bigger and stronger than me. He pulled off my chain and ran away, and when I chased him, a dog started chasing both of us."



His small hands clenched at his sides.



"Kaaliya got scared and threw the chain away. It landed in Purohitji's house."



Sadava took a shaky breath.



"Amma bought the chain for me on my birthday. I heard Father say it took her three months of saving to get me that gift. I was scared she would be upset, so I went to look for it. It was in Purohitji's garden, and I climbed the fence to get it back. That's when he found me... and dragged me here."



Paramsukh coughed, his voice rasping from the pain, but his tone still laced with venom.



"That low-caste filth is lying."



When Vasusena finally spoke, his voice was unchanged—calm, quiet... but now merciless. "So you tell the truth then."



His voice never rose. Yet the tone pressed against every soul in the chamber like a slow, creeping dread. A shiver ran through the assembled courtiers and Brahmins.



The warmth in Vasusena's eyes had turned into pure fury, kindness in his eyes stripped away as if it had never existed. What remained was something far devastating—unyielding, absolute. There was no outward sign of wrath, yet the weight of his presence pressed against their throats like the sharp edge of a blade.



"Please, don't keep us waiting, Purohitji." His golden eyes bore into the trembling man, unblinking, merciless. "Tell us what happened."



"I—I found this f—" The Paramsukh swallowed hard, his voice catching in his throat beneath Vasusena's gaze. "—child in my house. He had the talapatra in his hands... and was reciting it."



A soft hum escaped Vasusena's lips. It should have been harmless, yet it curled with something insidious, something that sent a shiver down the spine. "Ohh... I see." His voice slithered through the air, deceptively smooth. "Then tell me, Purohitji, through which way did the boy enter? The front door?"



The Purohit's face twisted in a snarl. "No! He crept in through the back—like a thief, like the filth he is."



"Backdoor?" Vasusena echoed, tilting his head, his expression unreadable. "You're certain he didn't enter through the front?"



"My wife and I were sitting by the front porch when we heard a noise. That's when I went to see this filth reading the Vedas."



"Are you sure you found him in your house? And you are in your front porch?"



A slow nod. Then Vasusena turned sharply, pointing at a soldier. "Check the child's body. Any injuries? Any tears in his clothes? I want to know everything."



The relevance was lost on many, but the soldier obeyed, kneeling beside the boy. Moments later, he rose. "No injuries, Vasusena. Not a single tear in his garments."



A cruel grin spread across Vasusena's lips, cold and razor-sharp. "So..., you are both a liar and a traitor then."



The Purohit's face contorted in fury. "What nonsense are you spewing, you vile Suta—"



"You think I don't know your house?" Vasusena's voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip. "I will never forget that accursed place. Three fences encircle your home—one near the garden, the other behind the house and one between the porch and the garden."



The hall was deathly silent.

"Both the front fences? They are a simple, normal steel weave fence. But the back?" Vasusena's voice turned lethal. "It was made with steel horns. Barbed, cruel thorns—to keep your cattle from escaping and the intruders from getting in. You had it built for protection of your cattle, didn't you?"



The Purohit's breath quickened.



"So tell me, Purohitji... if this child had entered through the back as you claimed, why is he unscathed? Why are his clothes untouched?"



The truth settled like a noose tightening around the man's throat. His lips parted, but no words came. His hands trembled. His breath came in short, rapid bursts.



"You stood before this court," Vasusena's voice was a growl now, heavy with restrained fury, "and you lied—to condemn a child to death."



The Purohit staggered back, his face drained of all color. Fear gripped him, raw and unrelenting, as Vasusena's killing intent surged through the air.



"Just because a child stepped onto your land, you wanted him slaughtered." Vasusena bared his teeth, his rage barely contained. "For nothing more than existing."



The Purohit's jaw clenched. His body shook, but his hatred still burned. "Low-caste filth has no right to trample upon the sacred lands of Brahmins."



The air in the hall grew suffocating.



A low, venomous growl came from Sadava's father. His fists clenched, his body quivering with barely restrained fury. "You eat the food we harvest. You wear the clothes we weave. You live by the labor of our hands. And yet we are not allowed to walk upon your land?"



The Purohit sneered. "A Shudra has no place in the land of Brahmins. That is why I had that foolish child killed nine years ago. He, too, stepped onto my land—to retrieve something that was his. But I accused him of reading the Vedas."



A pause. A cruel smirk.



"Yes, I lied. But I did not commit adharma." His voice darkened, dripping with disdain. "Like a gardener plucking out weeds... I had him uprooted. And what can you do... You cannot punish me unless you want to discredit Manu Smriti."



The admission sent a cold shock through the court. The silence that followed was deafening.



And then—



A roar of fury tore through the air. Sadava's father lunged, murder in his eyes. But before he could strike, someone else moved faster.



A collective gasp echoed as the Purohit was hoisted into the air, a powerful hand gripping his throat. He flailed, his legs kicking frantically, his face contorted in terror.



No one had seen him enter.



No one had expected this.



Bhishma.



For the first time, his Jyestha Devavrata Bhishma had lost control.



His grip tightened. The Purohit choked, his hands clawing desperately at the unyielding fingers around his throat.



"Mahaamahim," Vasusena's voice rang out, sharp but pleading. "Put him down."



Bhishma did not move. His eyes burned with unspoken rage, his fingers tightening even more on the throat of the Purohit.



"Brahmahatya is an unforgivable sin." Vasusena's voice softened, but there was steel beneath it. "Do not knowingly stain your soul for a person like him, Mahaamahim."



The silence stretched—heavy, charged.



And then, slowly, Bhishma's grip loosened.



The Purohit crashed to the ground, gasping, coughing, hands flying to his bruised throat. His wounds reopened, and blood began to seep through his bandages, staining the marble floor beneath him.



"Because of him... these hands..." Jyestha's voice trembled as he raised his shaking hands before his face. His fingers curled inward, as if trying to grasp something that could never be held again. "These hands are stained with the blood of an innocent child. I knew what I was doing was wrong even then... but I told myself—comforted myself—that the child, though ignorant, had committed a sin. That somehow, his death was justified. But no matter what I do... my sin cannot be cleansed."



Vasusena placed a firm yet gentle hand on Bhishma's back, an anchor in the storm of emotions raging within the elder warrior. It was a quiet, unspoken offering of solace—one warrior to another.



Bhishma's breath hitched, and his voice, usually so resolute, cracked under the weight of grief. "Why did you stop me from killing him, Vasusena?" His eyes, filled with uncharacteristic anguish, turned towards Vasusena. "He had your brother killed on false charges. Why are you not angry?"



Vasusena's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching as if barely restraining something violent. His golden eyes burned—not with rage, but with something far more potent. "Trust me, Mahaamahim Bhishma..." he said, voice low and dangerous. "I am very angry right now."



"However," Vasusena continued, his voice steady despite the storm raging within, "an eye for an eye, an ear for an ear, and a life for a life... that is revenge. And I do not want revenge." He exhaled sharply, his hands clenched into fists. "I want justice." His voice raised turning from calm to wrathful and demanding.. "Will this court provide justice for my brother, who was murdered nine years ago?"



"Yes." Bhishma's vow was instant, unwavering.



Vasusena inhaled deeply, steadying himself. "Then, before the sentence for this Purohit is given... I want Prince Suyodhana to return to the court."



His voice, so firm until now, faltered for the first time. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks, though he made no move to wipe them away. "Today, the court wished to test the capabilities of both the princes," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I want Purohit to be sentenced by both Prince Yudhishthira and Prince Suyodhana."



Bhishma turned to Guha, Suyodhana's personal guard, his expression grave. "Guha... please call Prince Suyodhana back. We have found the true culprit in this case, and we are yet to pass judgment."





(Yudhishthira's POV)



"I heard that Vasusena attends court twice or thrice a month... Are all the court sessions he attends this dramatic, Kakashree?"



Nakula's voice was light, but it was the kind of lightness that rang hollow, an attempt at levity that neither deceive nor softened the weight of what had transpired.



Uncle Dhritarashtra exhaled sharply, his fingers rubbing at his forehead as if the mere act could banish the headache that had settled deep within his skull.



"I think it is because you Pandavas are here," Kakashree murmured, his voice quieter than before but no less heavy. "The gods themselves intervened."



His hands curled into fists.



"The sin of Shishu Hatya did not taint this sabha today. But not because of us. Not because of me. Not because of Kakshree Bhishma. And certainly not because of that wretched Purohit."



The bitterness in his voice was a living, writhing thing, clinging to every syllable.



"We do not know how many sins he has committed before today—how many lives he crushed beneath the weight of his so-called dharma. And yet, despite all his crimes, he walked untouched. Unpunished."



The words settled like a curse upon the air itself.



"I think it is only because your brother sat as judge today... that the truth came to light at all."



The reigning King of Hastinapura, silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was calm, yet each word carried a weight that pressed down on the chamber.



"Yama Dharmaraja is the son of Surya Narayana."



His sightless eyes did not need to see to pierce Yudhishthira's very soul. The stillness that followed was suffocating.



"Perhaps, to prevent your reign from being tainted..." He paused, the meaning of his words hanging in the air like an unsheathed blade. "Your grandfather himself delivered judgment today."



A shiver ran down Yudhishthira's spine.



"Otherwise... why would they even bother?"



The bitterness in his uncle's voice was sharper this time. Not loud. Not overt. But it coiled around each syllable, sinking into the marrow of his words, sinking into Yudhishthira's own bones.



He had not seen what had transpired. But he understood. And, in his own way, he questioned.



Because it was a far more palatable explanation than the alternative—than the truth that none dared say aloud. That a being of divine origin had chosen the path of a suta.



(Miles away, a dark-skinned child smiled enigmatically.)



Yudhishthira clenched his fists. His mind raced with several thoughts on why Vasusena wanted his cousin back.



The reason Vasusena had asked for Suyodhana's return... it was clearer than ever. His cousin had openly admitted that the suta had been his teacher in Nyaya Shastra.



And throughout it all, Yudhishthira had not once taken his eyes off Vasusena.



Suyodhana had spoken of Manusmriti. The gathered Shudras had been stunned—then furious. The very foundation of their existence had been shattered before their eyes.



And yet—Vasusena had been silent.



There had been no flicker of shock. No hesitation. No reaction to a truth that should have left him reeling.



He had remained still. Unbothered.



As though he had known all along.



Because he had.



There was only one way Vasusena could have known of those words before today. Only one possibility.



Suyodhana had taught him Manu Smriti against the law of the land. And both of them sat down and devised a punishment for this scenario if it ever happened.



This was no coincidence. No mere court proceeding.



This was a well-crafted puppet show of the cold-blooded suta.



And the only additions to the script... were himself.



In this mummer's show... Vasusena would be the one who would prove the accuser wrong. And Suyodhana would be the one who would pass the judgement.



The Purohit's punishment had already been sealed. Both his cousin and the suta... they already decided how to deal with cases like this if they ever come up.



Yudhishthira did not know the details of what punishment his cousin had decided for the Purohit but... he knew one thing—his brother Arjuna was wary of Vasusena in a way he had never been of anyone else.



And if Arjuna feared what was to come... then the punishment must be horrifying.



However Suyodhana, in his love for his friend, had lost control. He had said too much. He had unveiled a truth meant to remain buried.



Now Vasusena wished him back and he used Pitamah to achieve what he wished for. Because despite his call for justice... Vasusena wants revenge.



The Purohit had sinned. But his punishment should be according to Manu Smriti. That was the way of the world. The way dharma had been upheld for ages.



But when Yudhishthira looked into Vasusena's eyes—



He did not see a man who sought justice. He saw a man who would settle for nothing less than execution.



So even if it was his cousin speaking the words, the verdict was Vasusena's.



And if he was not careful... if he let this trial slip beyond the bounds of scripture— Then today, in this very court, they would all witness a punishment not dictated by dharma.



But by wrath.



His cousin reentered the chamber, his steps measured, gaze sweeping over the assembled courtiers before settling on the Purohit. The man was a pitiful sight—swathed in thick bandages, his once-pristine robes now reduced to charred remnants. His skin, where visible, bore the angry crimson of severe burns, his hands trembling at his sides like withered leaves clinging to a dying branch.



Suyodhana frowned.



"...Did someone throw him into fire?" he asked, genuine confusion lacing his voice.



"After you left, Suyodhana..." Uncle Dhritarashtra's voice was soft. Measured. Yet there was something in it—something restrained as if he's trying not to lash out. "...For trying to taint the reign of your cousin, divine punishment struck the Purohit."



Suyodhana's brows furrowed slightly, puzzlement flickering across his face.



"After you left the court," Pitamah Bhishma spoke this time, his tone cool, distant, "Purohit Paramsukh tried to curse you and Vasusena. However before he could curse anyone... Surya Narayana protected his son from being cursed. You saw the punishment he doled out."



Yudhishthira's fingers tightened around the fabric of his dhoti. The wording was strange.



He was technically the grandson of Surya Narayana. So why had Pitamah stated that Aditya had acted to protect his son?



And more than that—when had Pitamah even arrived? He had not been present at the start of the trial. He had only appeared later—just in time to nearly kill the Brahmin.



Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arjuna flinch. Why?



As for Suyodhana... he was smiling. A slow, cruel smile.



"So even the gods themselves punished you, huh?" His voice was mocking, taunting. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, as if relishing the thought. "I wish I had been here to see it."



He leaned forward slightly, gaze dark with amusement. "So... what happened next?"



Chief Sanjaya stepped forward, voice steady as he relayed everything that had transpired.



By the time he finished, an eerie silence had settled over the chamber.



And then...



The look in Suyodhana's eyes and the look in Vasusena's. They were the same. So alike that it sent a shiver down their spines.



Chief Sanjaya swallowed, before continuing carefully.



"Vasusena wished to compare the punishment that you and Prince Yudhishthira will decree upon the Purohit. He said... as you are the first one who wished to learn, he wanted you to be here."



"Very well then..." Suyodhana's voice was taut, his wrath coiled beneath every syllable, barely restrained. His fingers curled against the armrest of his seat. "Let's hear what the son of Dharma has decreed for this murderer."



Yudhishthira met his gaze without flinching, his voice calm, measured.



"According to the Manusmriti, the slaying of a child is equivalent to the slaying of a Brahmin. For such a crime, one must take a vow of continence for six years (refraining from sleeping with wife), offer a thousand cows along with a single bull in penance, and devote himself entirely to prayer."



He let the words settle before continuing.



"However, because the accused is a Brahmin... his punishment is to be reduced by to one eighth.



So the true punishment, as per the scriptures, for the murder of Adhirathi Swarnajeet is this—" his voice did not rise, but it carried. "He must give away one hundred and twenty-five cows and a single bull to the family of Adhiratha. He must take a vow of continence for nine months. And he must pray—unceasingly."



A pause.



"This is my judgment."



(Don't ask me to quote this.I did not read the Manu Smriti. This however is what is written in Manu Smirti. I contacted my uncle and he gave me this.)



A hush followed. Then, murmurs—of approval, of reverence started in the court. Pitamah Bhishma's eyes gleamed with pride. At that Yudhishthira felt his heart swell, the weight of joy pressing against his ribs. The Brahmins nodded in satisfaction, courtiers whispering their agreement.



Yudhishthira breathed in deeply, steadying himself against the tide of expectation. Today, he had upheld Dharma.



He can see that Shudras that had gathered there are starting to get agitated with wrath. He can understand their frustration. However the law is final.



He hoped that his fathers—Pitashree Pandu. Pitashree Yama Dharmaraja.—would look upon his judgement and be proud.



Then laughter broke out in the court.



Dark. Twisted. A sound that did not belong in a court of justice but in the depths of something far worse.



Slow, deliberate claps followed, echoing like the mockery of unseen specters.



"That's your punishment?"



Suyodhana's voice was not raised, yet it tore through the silence like a blade dragged across raw flesh. There was madness in his eyes, an unhinged wrath barely contained beneath his mocking amusement.



Pitamah Bhishma exhaled slowly, his voice measured, almost gentle—almost.



"Suyodhana." The single name was both warning and restraint. "Yudhishthira has passed judgment as per the law. If you have your own, speak it. But do not mock him."



Suyodhana's sneer did not fade. If anything, it deepened—an expression that belonged less to a prince and more of a man who wished to watch the world burn.



His next words were slow. Precise. "The Purohit's head will be shaved. And then he will be branded on what sins he had committed."



He did not blink. "He will be paraded through the streets on an ass (donkey) with his sins for the entire Kingdom to see.."



The court had already fallen silent. But now— Now, it felt as though even the very walls recoiled.



"And then..." Suyodhana's lips curled, as if savoring the weight of his next words. "He will be exiled."



This was not a punishment. It was a spectacle.



A lesson of fear to Brahmins, written in blood and humiliation. A warning.



Yudhishthira felt the air leave his lungs.



This was not justice.



It was vengeance. Unforgiving, demonic.



And it terrified him.



How deep did Suyodhana's love for that suta run, that he would deliver such a horrifying punishment to a Brahmin? Nakula and Sahadeva shuddered in their seats, while Arjuna, Pitamah Bhishma, and Kripacharya stared at Vasusena—whose face mirrored Suyodhana's cruel smile.



"Suyodhana..." Pitamah Bhishma's voice thundered with fury. "Have you lost your bloody mind?"



"Oh, I am most certainly sane, Mahaamahim." Suyodhana sneered. "Just as Prince Yudhishthira passed his judgment based on the Manu Smriti... so have I."



Yudhishthira felt as though he had been plunged into ice-cold water. What adharma was Suyodhana speaking of?



"The punishment you decreed follows the Manu Smriti," Suyodhana snarled. "But you chose the wrong one.



The punishment you stated applies to a Brahmin who has fulfilled his duty with sincerity. The punishment you decreed applied to a man who is devoted to his duty and upheld it. This punishment applies to Mahaamahim Bhishma... not Pandit Paramsukh.



Purohit Paramsukh is not a man who upheld his duty."



A particularly bold—or perhaps foolish—courtier dared to ask, "Are you saying Purohit Paramsukh was not devoted to his duty?"



Suyodhana turned to face the man, who immediately paled beneath his sharp gaze. "Tell me... what is the duty of a Brahmin in society?"



The courtier swallowed hard, but before he could answer, Pitamah Kripa spoke. "A Brahmin's duty is to guide society along the righteous path."



"By that definition..." Suyodhana sneered, as if referring to an insect rather than a man. "This is no Brahmin. This is filth. It has no Varna."



"Adharmic child—" one of the Brahmins cried, his voice a mixture of fear and rage.



"Adharmic, am I?" Suyodhana laughed coldly. "Then tell me, how is this a Brahmin?



A Brahmin is meant to be the guiding light of society. What did this man do?



He committed perjury. Not once, but twice. A Brahmin should never lie to his King. Yet he did. He is a fraud. A deceiver who condemned an innocent child to death. Even if the King strays from dharma, even if society itself is lost, the Brahmin is the one who must lead them back to righteousness.



But he did not.



He did not guide us to dharma—he dragged us into adharma.



He is a murderer. A man who committed Shishu Hatya for no greater reason than his own ego. He spilled innocent blood in the court of law, defiling these sacred lands.



And worse than that—he is a traitor. For the sake of his own bloodlust, he did not merely stain his hands with the blood of an innocent child. He tainted yours as well. All of you."



Suyodhana's piercing gaze swept across the assembly, his finger pointing at each courtier in turn.



"You. And you. And you."



"Every last person present that day—you bear the sin of Shishu Hatya. The blood of Adhirathi Swarnajeet is on each and everyone of your hands."



The court fell deathly silent beneath the weight of his words.



"So tell me, Brahmin Devata..." Suyodhana's voice was almost mocking now, sharp as a blade. "How is this filth a Brahmin?"



The entire court stood breathless because no one could refute him.



"Mahamahim Bhishma. Kulguru Kripacharya. Crown Prince Yudhishthira. Pitashree." Suyodhana's voice rang through the chamber, sharp and unyielding. "It seems you have forgotten—this punishment follows the Manu Smriti."



He turned, gaze piercing, towards the assembled Brahmins. "Oh, revered Brahmins... tell me. Is my punishment not fit for the crime? Or is my punishment not according to the law?"



Silence.



Because he was right.



Yudhishthira clenched his fists. His mind screamed for a counterargument, for anything he could say to oppose this punishment. But Suyodhana's decree followed the sacred law. A Brahmin who had committed four of the gravest sins—who had lied, killed, betrayed, and defiled the court itself—was to be punished exactly as Suyodhana had demanded.



Yet, the punishment... it was monstrous.



"Tell me..." Suyodhana growled, his voice laced with challenge. "Tell me if I am wrong."



Kripacharya sighed. His voice, usually steady, was quiet—reluctant. "Your punishment follows the Manu Smriti, Suyodhana." Then, his voice wavered. "But to subject a Brahmin to such a—"



"Such a what?" Suyodhana snapped. His fury crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break. "If they can take a life under the laws they created... then they should be bound by those very laws."



He swept his gaze across the room, daring someone—anyone—to defy him.



"Now, choose." His voice rang through the court like a war drum. "Between our judgments... which is right? Decide. And carry out the Purohit's punishment."



A moment of stillness.



Then—



The Shudras in the court erupted. "Suyodhana! Suyodhana! Suyodhana!" Their voices shook the chamber, their chants thunderous. To them, there was no question. Suyodhana's justice was true justice.



The soldiers, hardened warriors , straightened their backs and nodded to Suyodhana in respect.



The judgment was set in stone. Uncle and none in the court could not dare to go against the judgement provided by Suyodhana. Because the Brahmins and themselves agreed that his judgement was just. And now they cannot spare the Purohit even if he is a Brahmin.



Purohit Paramsukh was forced to his knees and his hands are bound behind him.



"Barber..." Duryodhana's voice was almost amused. "Shave his head."



The shika was shorn off while Pandit sobbed continuously. The first part of his punishment was done.



For the next part... Two emblems were to be seared onto his forehead.



For the murder of Adhirathi Swarnajeet—the mark of the headless man. A symbol of a murderer.



For treason against the kingdom—the shattered palm tree. The sacred flag of Bhishma himself. A mark of betrayal against Hastinapura's protector.



His forehead wrapped in thick bandages. The branding must be made to his forehead. However due to Surya Narayana's wrath... his forehead has second degree burns and had to be bandaged. But the punishment cannot be stopped.



So the bandages were removed.



The branding irons glowed white-hot.



A soldier stepped forward, his grip firm on the first instrument.



He raised it.



Then—



He froze in his place, his eyes widened in absolute horror. He was rooted to his spot for several moments.



And then with a strangled cry, he stumbled back.



Gasps erupted through the court as all eyes turned to Paramsukh's unbandaged forehead.



There—



Where iron and fire were meant to burn his sins into his flesh—



Three symbols were already there.



Branded into his skin by a force greater than any human hand.



On the right, the mark of the headless man. On the left, the shattered palm tree.



But in the center—



A radiant emblem of Surya Narayana—pierced straight through by an arrow.



A divine proclamation. A curse.



The ruler of Navagraha himself had spoken.



Surya Deva had branded Paramsukh a blasphemer against himself.



A deathly hush fell over the court.



Fear.



Real, raw fear coiled in the hearts of the Brahmins, the nobles, the courtiers who had sat in judgment.



Suyodhana was the only one who walked near the condemned man and smiled. Cold. Triumphant. Gleeful.



"After this..." his voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Does anyone still question the legitimacy of this punishment?"



No one spoke. No one even dared.



The nobles and Brahmins shivered in their seats.



But the Shudras—the forgotten ones, the trampled ones—fell to their knees. Right where they stood, they bent their heads, hands clasped, and whispered fervent prayers to Surya Narayana.



Suyodhana turned to the guards.



His eyes flickered to the soldiers.



"And one of you..." He tilted his head slightly.



"Throw him into the dungeons for tonight. Tomorrow at dawn... find an ass for this man to be paraded on. His sins should be proclaimed to the entirety of the Kingdom. Only after that exile him"





(Arjuna's POV)



"I warned you, didn't I, Jyestha?" His voice was quiet, yet heavy with certainty. "Vasusena does not enter the court unless he knows he will win."



His Jyestha's breath turned unsteady. "How can they issue such a horrifying punishment to a Brahmin?" he murmured, disbelief lacing his voice. "And while I understand Surya Deva's wrath—the Purohit disrespected me—but how can he ever condone what is happening here?"



Arjuna forgot that his Jyestha does not know the real truth.



Surya Narayana's fury had nothing to do with them like their uncle had thought. The Purohit was not marked for speaking against a prince. He was branded because he dared to lay his hands on Vasusena. And yet... even knowing that, Arjuna could not understand how Surya Narayana could ever condone this?



Why had he never intervened in Vasusena's actions before? In that past life, his son had walked alongside adharma. He had perished beneath its weight, crushed by the very darkness he had chosen to embrace. And he never stopped Karna.



But this time...



This time, the wrath of Aditya had descended with such ferocity that even Arjuna—who had once wielded celestial weapons with ease—felt his blood turn to ice.



The mark of blasphemy. A mark no man should bear—let alone a Brahmin. Paramsukh had tried to take a child's life in his ego, but this mark is a punishment beyond imagination.



To bear the mark of blasphemy— is a curse like none other. A sentence crueler than death itself.



Suyodhana had called Purohit a man of no caste in his anger but Surya Narayana had made it the truth.



Never again would Paramsukh be able to practice Brahmanya. Never again would he stand among his own. Never again would he be seen as anything more than a man forsaken by the heavens themselves.



A life where death would have been a mercy.



"Surya Narayana did what needed to be done, Yudhishthira," Kakashree Dhritarashtra's voice was soft, yet unyielding. "Take your blessings where you can. Had you merely done penance for his crime... the Purohit and the Brahmins would have been emboldened to commit more."



Yudhishthira stiffened, but Dhritarashtra continued uncaring of their shock.



"If his sins had remained buried, if you had bowed to his demands, he would have used you as a puppet for his own agenda. And using your guilt, he would have done even more atrocious crimes. Next time when you are faced by a fanatic like this... remind him that a Brahmin could only advise the King and trying to force their own agenda is treason."



The words struck like a blow. Arjuna recoiled, stunned. He had never considered that possibility. It seemed his brother hadn't, either.



Their uncle rose from his seat, his movements slow, deliberate. "Now, if you'll excuse me..." His tone dropped into something dangerously low. "I have a fool to discipline."



Arjuna winced. Their uncle was furious. And for good reason.



Suyodhana had made a grave mistake. His words, his actions—he had shaken the very foundation of the varna system.



In their past life, Putra Moh had stayed their uncle's hand, softening the punishment. But this time, Suyodhana went too far.



"Looks like Uncle Dhritarashtra is furious with Suyodhana," Nakula remarked, his voice laced with unease.



Yudhishthira exhaled sharply. "Despite his words aligning with the Manu Smriti... he should never have spoken them aloud," he murmured. "There is a reason why we restrict Shudras from reading the Manu Smriti and the Vedas.



Even the Sutas in the army are only permitted knowledge of the punishments meant for them—not those for Kshatriyas or Brahmins. They have no right to know."



Nakula sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well... at least no adharma was committed, even if I wish the Pandit had received a lesser punishment." He turned to his elder brother, offering a lopsided smile. "Look at the bright side, Jyestha—neither the child nor the Brahmin lost their lives. You owe no one a debt like our uncle said, and no sin stains your hands. That, to me, is a victory."



"If he had lost his life, it would have been mercy," Yudhishthira murmured, his voice heavy with thought. "I suspect Suyodhana allowed the Suta to read the entire Manu Smriti."



Arjuna exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Nakula turned to their Jyestha, eyes widening in disbelief. He couldn't say that Vasusena already knew the Manu Smriti—not without revealing that the suta had been the disciple of Mahadev himself.



And if they questioned how he had come upon such knowledge, he would be forced to tell them the truth—that he was from the future. That revelation would open a floodgate of problems Arjuna had no patience to deal with.



"Even Suyodhana wouldn't be foolish eno—" Nakula began, but then he stopped. He remembered his cousin's reckless audacity and why his uncle is angry now... it all made sense. He groaned.



"Never mind," he muttered. "He really is that stupid."



"And Sahadeva... you lied." Nakula turned to their youngest brother, his voice carrying a mock accusatory lilt. "You said our Jyestha would win today."



Arjuna glanced at Sahadeva, who looked like a startled rabbit caught before a wolf. He too wanted to know—why had his brother's prediction failed?



"According to the stars... I told you what I saw." Sahadeva stuttered. Before they could press him further...



"Yudhishthira did win today, Nakula."



A sharp voice cut through their musings, and they turned to see Pitamah Bhishma approaching, carrying three scrolls. His presence was imposing, his eyes glinting with the mixture of love and disappointment.



"He stood for dharma today," Bhishma continued, his voice calm yet firm. "He tried to protect the order of society."



Nakula frowned. "But the judgment... even if it aligned with Manu Smriti, it was too much for a Brahmin."



"Too much for a Brahmin in ordinary cases." Bhishma's tone sharpened. "But this was not one. Your grandfather, Aditya, decreed it himself. If Surya Narayana deemed it just, then who are we to question that?"



Arjuna's brows furrowed. "So how did we win?"



Pitamah's gaze hardened when it met his eyes. Arjuna felt his heartbreak. He should have listened to Vasusena the day before. He hadn't. And now he was paying the price.



Bhishma exhaled, his voice low but unwavering.



"Because the entire kingdom will learn how the ruler of Navagraha came to his children's aid. The chaos Suyodhana tried to incite? Snuffed out. From this day forward, the people will know—speaking against you means opposing the gods themselves.



No Brahmin. No Kshatriya. No noble. No one will dare to lie in your presence. None will attempt to deceive you.



And so, the sanctity of the court is preserved.



And your reign, Yudhishthira... will be remembered as the reign of Dharma."



When seen in this light, Surya Narayana's actions were not just justice but a boon. The Brahmins and Kshatriyas would remember Suyodhana as obstinate, even cruel. Only the Shudras and Vaishyas would look upon him with favor—but they, too, would soon learn the order of the world and understand his brother.



Bhishma's voice pulled them from their thoughts.



"Can you deliver these scrolls to Dhritarashtra, Kripa, and Vidura," he requested softly. "I must prepare for Gandhari's and my stay at Ved Vyasa's ashram for the next eighteen months—or more."



"Why, Pitamah?" Nakula asked, his tone laced with shock.



Bhishma's lips curved into something resembling a smile, though it carried no warmth.



"Have you forgotten your brother's judgment upon me?"



"Pitamah!" Yudhishthira gasped. "When did I ever judge you?"



Bhishma lowered his gaze. "I am complicit in the killing of Swarnajeet Adhirathi. The judgment passed upon the Purohit applies to me as well. And because I am a Kshatriya, my punishment is double that of a Brahmin. I willingly took that boy's life, knowing it was against Manu Smriti to kill anyone below three and ten summers."



A breath of silence. Then, he continued, voice steadier than it should have been.



"So, I will go to Ved Vyasa's ashram—to pray and atone for my sin. Gandhari wishes to go there for her own reasons, so we will leave together."



Arjuna felt the ground shift beneath him. The words sounded simple on the surface, as if Pitamah sought nothing but penance. But Arjuna knew the truth behind Pitamah's sudden trip to Ved Vyasa ashram.



Jaya Samhita.



Vasusena had ordered them to place the book in their aunt's hands by any means necessary. And since she did not trust Vasusena, she would go to Ved Vyasa to verify its authenticity.



Now, Pitamah too was using this punishment as an excuse.



To hear the book's words for himself.



Arjuna's stomach twisted. What would come of this? Would Pitamah love him upon his return? Or would he hate him and his brothers even more? Vasusena was certain that Aunt Gandhari would despise them all—and Vasusena was never wrong.



But Pitamah... Pitamah was still an uncertainty.



Dazed, he barely registered Bhishma pressing the scrolls into his hands. He fumbled, nearly dropping them, but recovered at the last moment.



"Jyestha..." Sahadeva spoke softly, his voice careful, measured. "Please rest today. The court was... too eventful. We will deliver Pitamah's messages."



Before Yudhishthira could protest, Arjuna's fingers closed around the scroll meant for Kripacharya. He would handle it.



He had no idea how Acharya would react when one of them stood before him after what Vasusena had done. No idea whether the man who had once been their teacher would receive them with cold indifference or outright scorn.



Last time, Kripacharya was so wrathful that wished for their deaths. He did not know the entire truth and Arjuna had no way of telling his side of the story.



So it was better this way.



If Acharya still hated them—and it was very likely that he did—then at least his brothers wouldn't have to see it. Wouldn't have to know why. Wouldn't have to bear the pain of it.



"Kulguru was last seen going towards the Samudra division, Prince Arjuna," a soldier informed him.



So Kripacharya went to Vasusena. When he arrived, he found Kripacharya patiently talking with one of the soldiers present there. But Vasusena was nowhere to be seen.



It seemed he had not come here directly from the court.



Well... at least he wouldn't have to face Vasusena now. That, at least, was a small mercy. After the back-to-back shocks from the suta, Arjuna wished for a few days of distance—just enough to steady himself.



"It seems we missed a lot, Kripacharya," an old soldier murmured. "We were all afraid he would kill a Brahmin today... and stain his soul forever."



"I was under the impression that all of you hated him, Dheru," Kripacharya replied softly.



The soldier let out a breath, shaking his head. "It's hard to hate a man who ensures that every soldier under his command returns home—alive and unscathed—no matter what it costs him." His voice was steady, certain. "He might be cruel, but he is no tyrant."



Then noticing him the older soldier bowed and greeted him. "Sorry Prince Arjuna... I didn't see you here."



Kripacharya turned toward him, his gaze turning cold. Arjuna straightened, willing himself not to flinch. Better to finish his task quickly and leave.



"Mahaamahim Bhishma has decided to take an eighteen-month break from his duties, Kulguru Kripa," he explained, forcing his voice to remain steady. He wished—just for a moment—that Pitamah had been a little more considerate. Given what had happened yesterday, sending any of them to Kripacharya was... well.



"This is the missive he wished to give you." He extended the scroll, careful to keep his hand still.



Kripacharya unfolded the missive, his gaze skimming the words in silence. A moment later, he shut it with a measured breath. "So, he expects me and Vidura to shoulder his duties until he returns. Did he tell you why he is taking this break?"



"For his penance, Kulguru," Arjuna replied. "For his role in the death of Swarnajeet Adhirathi... Pita—" He faltered under the weight of Kripacharya's cold stare and hastily corrected himself. "Mahaamahim Bhishma wishes to atone. He claims that the judgment my Bhrata gave the Purohit applies to him as well. And since he is a Kshatriya, his punishment must be double what the Brahmin received."



A soldier nearby paled. "Mahaamahim... he will be punished like the Purohit?" His voice was tight with unease. "The Purohit acted out of malice. But whatever we may think of that day's ruling..." He swallowed hard. "Mahaamahim did not punish the boy out of hatred. He was deceived—pressured."



"His punishment is different," Arjuna replied reassuringly. "Mahaamahim will be judged by the same my brother issued."



Kripacharya pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "All of you, out. I need to speak privately with Vasusena" His tone was clipped, laced with irritation. "And if any of you see your Division Head—"



"No need for that." The words were soft, yet they carried the weight of command.



Vasusena stood at the edge of the training grounds, his gaze sweeping over the gathered soldiers. "Did none of you hear the Acharya?" His voice, calm yet firm, left no room for disobedience. "Scram already. Today all training sessions are cancelled."



The soldiers hesitated for only a breath before they obeyed.



As the last of them disappeared, Vasusena turned his attention to Kripacharya. "So, why are you here, Acharya?"



Kripacharya did not answer immediately. His gaze flickered toward Arjuna before he exhaled deeply. "Was such a cruel punishment necessary, Vasusena?"



Arjuna, who had every intention of slipping away unnoticed, found himself rooted in place. He, too, wanted to understand. Why had Vasusena condemned the Purohit to a fate so severe that death would have been a mercy?



Then, Vasusena smiled.



It was soft—almost gentle.



And it chilled Arjuna to his core.



For was this not the same man whom Keshava himself had called merciful? The one who had been revered for his devotion to Brahmins, who had given in charity without hesitation, who had never turned anyone away? A man of unshakable vows, upheld as righteous by all?



Yet here he stood, the architect of a punishment so horrifying that even Kripacharya questioned its necessity—and he smiled.



"I had no hand in deciding this punishment, Acharya." Vasusena's voice was calm, almost amused. "That was all Suyodhana. I was the reason why this punishment happened, yes... but I did not influence anyone in any manner."



Kripacharya's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Are you saying you did not influence Suyodhana to inflict this punishment on the Purohit?"



Vasusena let out a soft chuckle. "Acharya, Suyodhana is not a child for me to lead by the hand and shape his judgments." His tone was light, almost playful. "All I did in today's court was walk in with the grieving father and glare at a few fools. The rest of the pieces fell into place on their own."



"You're lying." Arjuna's voice was low, dangerous.



Vasusena turned to him, and then—he laughed out loudly.



"Child, I am not the kind who lies." His mirth was unshaken. "I learned my lesson when I lied to Sage Parashurama. Twist the truth? Sometimes I do that. Leave things unsaid? Certainly. But an outright lie? No."



Kripacharya's patience snapped. "Vasusena," he snarled. "You told that grieving father his son's murderer would suffer a fate worse than death before the judgement had been delivered."



"I did." Vasusena snorted, eyes gleaming with amusement. "But I never influenced the court's decision." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "I said it because I already knew what would happen." Then, as if addressing two particularly slow-witted idiots, he sighed. "If I already know the outcome, do you truly believe I wouldn't know the Purohit's fate?"



Their stunned silence was answer enough.



Vasusena clicked his tongue. "Alright... let's put the pieces together. Let's see what happened today and what would have happened if certain elements were removed."



"I walked into the court with the grieving father beside me. My reputation is what it is—I do not lose. Naturally, the court panicked. I do love my reputation.



Suyodhana, desperate to speak with me, believed that a favorable judgment in my presence would bring me back to his side.



Now, let's see what happened next." His tone was light, but his words fell like stones.



"Because I never lose, the courtiers sought a counter. Who better than Crown Prince Yudhishthira? Thus, they framed the case as a contest—My Suyodhana versus your brother.



Did I suggest bringing in Prince Yudhishthira? No. Did I ask Suyodhana to intervene? No."



Kripacharya exhaled sharply. "We all know what happened, Vasusena. Come to the bloody point."



"Then consider this," Vasusena smiled, slow and knowing. "If Suyodhana had never entered the court seeking me, I would never have been able to save that child. And this kingdom would have been stained with a second Sishu Hatya."



Kripacharya and Arjuna exchanged glances, their faces unreadable.



"What?" Kripacharya asked, a hint of unease in his voice.



"By your oh-so-sacred, utterly biased Manusmriti, no one except The King, Princes of the Kingdom, or a fellow Brahmin may question a Brahmin or remind him of his duty. Did you forget that?"



Arjuna felt the blood drain from his face. He hadn't forgotten. He had never considered it.



Vasusena could not have questioned the Brahmin according to Manu Smriti. Could not have proven the child's innocence. Because he was a Suta.



Vasusena watched their dawning realization with amusement.



"Looks like both of you did." His voice was almost pitying. "Yes... you should be thanking Suyodhana's presence today. It is the only reason Sishu Hatya was not committed in this court."



"Parameshwara..." Kripacharya murmured under his breath.



Vasusena's smile widened. "Oh, the next scenario is even more amusing. If the fools in court had used their brains—if they had remembered that law or never sought to discredit Suyodhana—they never would have called in Prince Yudhishthira."



Kripacharya frowned. "It was when he entered... that you told the boy's father the Purohit would suffer a fate worse than death."



"Indeed." Vasusena's expression did not change. "If only Suyodhana had presided over the case, the child would have been saved, yes. But the Purohit's crimes would have remained buried."



Arjuna, still reeling, found his voice. "How?"



Vasusena tilted his head. "Had Suyodhana presided alone, he would have acquitted the child without hesitation. But he would not have questioned the child. He would not have questioned the Purohit. He would have let the child go—just as your brother did."



Kripacharya scoffed. "Then there would be no great change."



"Not quite." Vasusena smirked. "Remember how the Purohit lashed out at Prince Yudhishthira? It was because Prince Yudhishthira declared the acquittal.



If it had been my Suyodhana who announced the acquittal instead, it would be a very different case. If the Purohit had tried his tricks against his son, the King would have intervened. He would have reminded the Purohit that a Brahmin's duty is to advise, not to dictate. And that his son had upheld the law.



And the Purohit would have been forced to leave at that. Because pressing further would have been treason."



Silence. A silence heavy with understanding.



And it was then that he realized just how deeply Vasusena had thought this through. Because he was right. Their uncle—blind, yes, but never foolish—would have spoken for his son. But not for Yudhishthira.



Vasusena's voice was almost gentle. "Suyodhana loves all people equally. And because he was not silenced by the King, the filth in the Purohit's heart came spilling out for all to see."



"From this point... if Suyodhana was present or absent, the next steps would have led to the same end."



"If he was there, I would have told the child's father to beg the court to hear both sides—because that is Dharma."



"If he was not there... you saw what happened. I made it clear to the King that I care for nothing except his son. And he understood that the only person Suyodhana listened to at that moment was me. So when I requested to question both sides, he agreed.



"If the Purohit had possessed even a shred of sense and invoked that wretched, biased Manu Smriti... I would have simply had Sadava's father appeal to the King, demanding that both sides be heard."



Vasusena's expression did not change. "But the Purohit decided it was a good idea to curse me." His voice was almost bored. "At that moment, I prayed to my father that he should be punished for his crime according to dharma."



Their faces turned even more pale, remembering the punishment Aditya gave to the Brahmin.



Vasusena raised a brow. "What did you expect me to do?" His voice was almost mocking. "Stand and accept a curse?"



"You called Suyodhana back. You let that punishment happen, Karna." The accusation was sharp, unrelenting. "That makes you complicit. If you have not called him back... the Purohit wouldn't be given such horrifying punishment."



Vasusena chuckled, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Never said I'm not complicit, Gandivadhari. I am complicit. I wanted the Purohit punished that way. But tell me, Arjuna—when did I ever influence the court?



When did I tell Suyodhana what judgment to pass? Even when Mahaamahim asked me how the Purohit should be punished I never bothered to do so." His gaze was steady, unbothered. "I am keeping a low profile here. No Suta has the right to read the Manu Smriti, remember? I just taught him the law of Hastinapura and how to fight. Nothing more, nothing less."



"You never discussed Manu Smriti with him?"



Vasusena scoffed. "After seeing the kind of twisted and biased justice the current version of that book upholds, why would I bother? And I'd be actually punished for knowing what lies in it's pages. I'm no fool. Even in our past life, I never wasted my breath discussing that book with him."



His gaze was steady, sharp. "All I did was take the Purohit's words and strip them bare before the world and exposed his lies."



"It was your brother," he continued, voice laced with mockery, "who, whether out of fear or blind reverence for the Brahmins, stated a punishment so laughably lenient it might as well have been a pardon. And it was Suyodhana who delivered the sentence that actually fit the crime."



His smile was cutting. "So tell me, Arjuna—how exactly did I influence the court?"



"All I did was stand like a statue, glare at a few fools, and ask that all sides be heard—something your brother should have done from the start." Vasusena laughed, the sound light, almost amused. "And Dharma prevailed."



"And by the way... even if I hadn't called Suyodhana back, the final punishment would have remained the same. The only difference? That time, I would have influenced it myself."



Vasusena's gaze was cold, unwavering. "I would have asked just one question to the King—



A man who committed perjury, murder, and stained this kingdom with the blood of an innocent... and that man is to walk away with a slap on the wrist? While children are killed just for entering his home. It would have turned into a war cry from Shudras and Vaishyas.



That question alone would have been enough for the King to hand down the punishment I wanted that monster to suffer."



"Why are you so cruel, Vasusena?" Arjuna's voice was quiet, almost lost. He had never spoken to Karna like this before. "Keshava himself called you kind. He called you devoted to the Brahmins. Why?"



Vasusena smiled, soft, almost serene. "Because I hated him."



Arjuna recoiled. "How can you say that?" he shouted. "Did you not see the consequences of your actions?"



"No," Karna stated softly. "I knew the consequences. I simply did not care." His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of finality. "I hated the Purohit. I would have burned the world if it meant he got what he deserved."



"You are an asura with a polluted heart, Karna," Arjuna growled.



"On the contrary..." Vasusena murmured, tilting his head slightly. "Hatred, unlike love, is the purest emotion a person can feel for another."



"Are you touched in your head Karna?" Arjuna asked in a shocked tone.



"You hated Suyodhana in your past life for many reasons, didn't you?" His tone was calm, unhurried, but every word was a blade. "Because he tried to kill Bhimasena. You forgot that his own brothers were tortured by yours."



"You hated him for trying to kill you and your brothers. Yet you never saw the torment Mahaamahim Bhishma and Mahamantri Vidura inflicted upon him. You never saw how his own mother despised him without ever listening to his side. Because of you five, he and his brothers were condemned before they ever had a chance."



"Being hated by the world is a horrifying thing, isn't it?"



Arjuna stood frozen, breath unsteady.



"You hated him and me for our actions in Dyut Sabha." Vasusena's smile never faltered. "For Suyodhana seeking a kingdom through a game of dice. But your brother did the same, didn't he? Yet for the same sin you for which you hated us... you forgave him."



"I won't deny that our actions toward your wife were unforgivable. So yes, you were right to hate us for that." His voice didn't waver, but the amusement had faded. "But you forgave your brothers, the ones who put her in that position to begin with. Are you right in doing so? Is what you did right?"



"You hated us for killing Abhimanyu." Vasusena's voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. Then, after a pause—



"How many of our children did you kill, Arjuna? Hundreds."



The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike.



"And yet, you expected us to mourn your one child, the one who killed several of our children, mind you...while you slaughtered ours without hesitation."



Silence.



"Love makes us blind, turns us into hypocrites to our own actions and the actions of our loved ones," Vasusena whispered. "But hate... hate reveals everything as it is. In love... you committed so much adharma and yet called it dharma.

But in hate... we see ourselves in the mirror and know, sometimes, that we are not right. We know what we are doing is wrong." Vasusena's voice was quiet. "I don't know about you, but I prefer a truthful sinner to a hypocritical good man."



His gaze darkened. "I didn't care that he was a Brahmin. I wouldn't have cared if he were a Kshatriya or a Suta. I hated him. I didn't care for the world. I didn't care for society. I hated him." His smile did not falter, but his voice dropped to a whisper, cold and cutting. "I hated him for touching what I love. I hated him for killing my brother. And for that hate... there is nothing that would not do to annihilate him."



By Gods... looking at the world through Vasusena's lens is horrifying even to see.



To Vasusena the world is a place where righteousness is a mockery, where justice is whatever a man's hands can take, where love is weakness and hatred is strength.



He watches Vasusena stand before him, unwavering, unrepentant—his eyes alight with something cold, something final. He speaks of dharma as if it is a game rigged from the start, a thing men twist to suit their needs. He does not seek fairness. He does not believe in law. He does not wait for justice. He takes. He decides. And that terrifies Arjuna.



There is no room for doubt in Vasusena's world. No hesitation, no mercy, no faith in something greater. There is only him, his hatred, and the unshakable certainty that he is right.



Arjuna wants to call him wrong. He wants to say that dharma is not a lie, that justice is not a weapon, that love is not weakness. But Vasusena does not believe in pretty words. He looks at the world and sees it for what it is. And worse—he is willing to act on it.



And that is what unsettles Arjuna the most. Because when Vasusena saw the world as cruel... he did not mourn it or he did not rage against it.



He accepted the darkness of the world and like his father... he destroyed it when the darkness dared to hurt the ones he loved.



Arjuna hates Vasusena for his worldview. But above all he hates him for seeing the world as it is, for never having the luxury of believing in dharma the way Arjuna once did. Hates him because the world—merciless, indifferent—proved Vasusena right. Because He is one of the people who proved Vasusena right.



His breath comes shallow, his vision blurs. The weight of it is too much. The weight of knowing that every lesson Vasusena learned came from wounds too deep to heal, that every truth he speaks was carved into his flesh by a world that never once showed him kindness.



Arjuna's knees buckle. He staggers, then collapses onto the ground.



He wants to call Vasusena cruel. Wants to spit accusations, to deny the truth in his words.



But he cannot.



"Forget everything I have said so far," Vasusena exhaled, his voice carrying the weight of something far more dangerous than anger—calm, knowing, unshaken. "Mahamantri Vidura is a suta by birth. By Manu Smriti, he should never remind the King of his duty, never preside over this court.



By those very laws, he should have been executed countless times—merely for daring to sit in the presence of a Brahmin."

His golden gaze flickered toward Kripacharya, then to Arjuna, watching them without judgment, without malice—just the cold, undeniable truth.



"Tell me, Kripacharya, will you accept that?" His voice was soft, yet it struck like a blade. "And you, Arjuna... when you grow into the warrior you are destined to become, will you carry out that punishment? Will you raise your weapon to execute your own uncle if the Purohit did what he did to my brother?"



The question was a hammer to the chest.



A strangled noise tore from Kripacharya's throat, his knees buckling as he collapsed beside Arjuna. His breath came shallow, his eyes wide with something too raw to name.



Arjuna's vision swam. His thoughts twisted into chaos—confusion, denial, fury.



"If the Purohit demanded Mahamantri's execution for the same reason just for his prejudice," Vasusena pressed, his tone eerily gentle, "what would you have done?"



The haze in Arjuna's mind shattered, giving way to something primal, something deeper than reason—a wrath so absolute, so all-consuming, it rivaled the moment he learned of Abhimanyu's fate.



The growl left him and was echoed by Kripacharya... before they even knew it was their own.



"I'd tear him apart."



The words hung heavy, the vow sealed not in mere rage, but in something far older—an instinct that defied law, defied dharma itself.



Vasusena smiled then. A quiet, knowing smile. His fingers ruffled Arjuna's hair, the gesture startlingly familiar. For a fleeting second, Arjuna felt like he was a child again—the unusual warmth of Vasusena felt the warmth of Mata Kunti's hand upon his head.



The illusion was gone as soon as it came.



"So tell me, Arjuna," Vasusena murmured, his eyes filled with something that was neither triumph nor sorrow—only quiet, amused pity. "Why are you so shocked that I wished for Purohit's destruction?"



Vasusena tilted his head slightly, his voice a whisper against the silence, yet it carried the weight of a verdict already passed.



"I am only human, Kripacharya," he murmured, his golden eyes unblinking. "The punishment that applies to my brother... should be the same punishment that applies to Mahamantri Vidura."



Both he and Kripacharya went still.



"Mahamantri Vidura is born a suta. My brother was born to a suta couple. The child Sadava who was meant to die today was of the suta caste."



His voice did not rise, did not demand. It did not need to.



"All three I mentioned were accused of the same crime." A pause. "All three could be given the same punishment."



His gaze swept over them, the weight of his words pressing into their bones.



"And yet," his tone turned impossibly softer, more lethal, "you only raised your voice in anger when it was Mahamantri whose life was threatened."



"So tell me," Vasusena exhaled, each word dragging them deeper into the abyss, "give me one lawful difference between these three accused."



The silence was absolute.



Because they could not. By the Gods, they could not.



"Why did Surya Narayana declare Paramsukh a blasphemer, Vasusena?" Kripacharya's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Of all the Devas, he is known to be the most impartial. So why? Why did he single out Paramsukh? I am not defending him—I only wish to understand."



"Two reasons." Vasusena's voice was calm, yet his eyes held something colder, something resolute. "First, because the man dared to fashion himself as Vishnumurthy incarnate. He did not see himself as a mere man administering justice—no, he believed he was uprooting 'weeds' from society, passing judgment as though he were Vishnu himself."



A shiver ran down both their spines.



"The second reason," Vasusena continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge, "was a warning. A warning to all Brahmins not to overstep their bounds. Tell me, Acharya—did you know that the Manu Smriti we follow today is not the one written by Sage Bhrigu?"



"What?" Arjuna's voice was barely above a whisper, stunned.



Vasusena nodded, his smile quiet, knowing. "Nothing was removed from the original. But the Brahmins—ah, they added to it, twisting it, warping it, until it became something unrecognizable. The laws they claim as ancient, eternal—are merely shackles they forged for others."



"You are lying." Kripacharya's denial was immediate, but his voice lacked its usual firmness.



"I do not lie, Acharya," Vasusena said, almost amused. "If you wish, I can prove it. There are passages that should not exist, words that do not belong to a rishi of Sage Bhrigu's stature."



Kripacharya was silent, his expression uncertain. Vasusena pressed further.

"The Vedas say that wisdom should be sought even from the lips of a child. That knowledge should be gathered from every path, every lesson, no matter where it comes from. Do you disagree?"



"No," Kripacharya admitted, his voice steady.



"But Manu Smriti states that a Brahmin must never be reminded of his duty. That whether he fulfills it or fails, he must not be questioned." Vasusena's voice dropped lower. "Sage Bhrigu was a Manasputra of Brahmadeva. A seer among the Saptarishis. A man who tested the Trimurti themselves. Do you truly believe that such a man would discard the principles of the Vedas and write a law of oppression?"



Arjuna's breath came shallow. His world—the world he had believed in, fought for—fractured with every word Vasusena spoke.



"Then why?" he rasped. "Why do none of the Saptarishis, none of the Gods, correct them?"



"The difference between a wise man and a wicked one is simple, Arjuna," Vasusena said softly. "A wise man, when given divine knowledge, will use it to uplift himself and his people. A wicked one will twist it to serve only himself.



The Gods give wisdom. What path men take—that is their choice.



We failed in our past life. You succeeded."



Arjuna could not breathe. The weight of those words crushed him.



"I'll give you a simple example." Vasusena's voice was calm, but his words struck like thunder. "No child is born a Shudra. It is education that determines one's varna. If a child fails to be educated by thirteen, only then is he considered a Shudra. That is what the original Manusmriti said."



He let that truth settle for a moment before continuing.



"And what did these Brahmins do? They refused to teach Shudra children. They destroyed their right to learn. Vaishyas could pass their trade to their sons, but Shudras—who would teach them? With that single loophole, they stripped away generations of opportunity, ensuring those born as Shudras remained forever bound to that fate."



Vasusena turned to Kripacharya. "Acharya, it is not wrong to wish for your children to follow in your footsteps. It is wrong to believe that only your children should have that right."



Arjuna felt something in him crack.



"These Brahmins fashioned themselves as Brahmadeva," Vasusena said, voice low and unrelenting. "They played with the lives of the innocent, and you Kshatriyas allowed it. So what was meant to be a guiding light became a shadow of oppression."



Kripacharya swallowed hard. Arjuna felt lightheaded.



Vasusena laughed then—freely, without bitterness. "My father's punishment was just," he said, shaking his head. "Perhaps he did it to protect me. But that does not change the truth—his punishment was just."



With an amused smile, Vasusena turned and walked out, his laughter echoing in their ears, leaving both of them behind to wrestle with the weight of his words.



"Parameshwara..." Kripacharya muttered, his voice ragged with disbelief. The weight of the realization pressed down on him as he collapsed beside Arjuna, his knees no longer able to hold him up. "If I ever felt foolish enough to confront Vasusena on his choices again... Please, remind me of this moment."



Well... Arjuna too felt the same. He never wished to know what ran through the mind of Karna again, for the world of logic, justice, and morality he'd once known had been reduced to dust in the wake of that man's merciless vision.







Hey there, everyone!

So, I have a feeling some of you might be a bit let down after reading this chapter completely.

It's not the chapter you were all eagerly awaiting. Even I know that. This is more like a over-the-top filler episode in your favorite anime.

However this is for my dear friend to help him feel better and bounce back from his depression

But honestly, I had so much fun writing this! Normally, I'm all about playing it cool and reserved, so getting to write this chapter felt like I was letting my inhibitions go and just running wild.

I was the one who wrote Kripacharya's POV (and some parts of Suyodhan's POV too) here. Now, I'm not super deep into religious texts or their intricate details (since, you know, I'm not Hindu), so I left it to my dear friend who is strong in it, and focused on the politics part. If I got something wrong, don't hesitate to leave a comment and let me know where I missed the mark.