The echoes of conquest had not yet faded when Achyuta, the Unfailing One, arrived at Indraprastha. With him walked the two warriors whose names now reverberated across Aryavarta: Bhima, the slayer of Jarāsandha, and Arjuna, the architect of strategy and battle. The gates of the grand city stood wide as if embracing their return, and awaiting them was the eldest Pandava, Yudhishthira, his face luminous with the satisfaction of a righteous victory.

"Brata!" Yudhishthira's voice rang with joy as he stepped forward, his arms open in welcome. "Through good fortune, Brata Bhima has slain the mighty Jarāsandha! The kings who suffered in his iron grip have been freed. By divine grace, the skilled Brata Bhima and Dhananjaya stand before me, unharmed and victorious!"

His words carried the warmth of genuine relief, and without hesitation, he embraced his brothers, their bond now fortified by yet another trial of fate. Then, his gaze turned to Krishna, the orchestrator, the unseen hand that had led them to this moment. The King of Indraprastha bowed low, offering Achyuta reverence because there was none but him.

And so, the world's burdens were set aside for a moment. The Pandavas, basking in the glow of their triumph, relished the joy of kinship and laughter. But duty never slumbers for long. The freed kings, grateful beyond words, stood before Yudhishthira, offering their respects by their age and stature. "Return to your kingdoms," the righteous king declared, his voice a steady beacon of authority. "Rule with justice. Let the shackles of tyranny never bind you again." And so, they departed, mounted on their swift steeds and chariots, hearts unburdened, spirits soaring.

Yet, amidst the triumph, Krishna's celestial gaze swept the assembly, searching and questioning, seeking the presence of one absent figure. "Where is Niyati?" His voice was calm, yet it carried an undertone that made the air in the hall still.

A heavy and telling silence followed. Finally, Draupadi stepped forward, her voice measured, her eyes revealing more than words could ever convey. "She is in her Yoga Dhyana at Maharshi's ashram."

Krishna's brows knit slightly. "Suddenly? Why?" Yudhishthira exhaled, his expression shifting. Then, hesitantly, he narrated the events that had led Niyati to leave the palace. As the tale unfolded, Krishna sighed, a sound laden with the weight of inevitability.

He had foreseen this. He knew that this moment would come and that Niyati would not let this go unnoticed. But what pained him was Yudhishthira's lapse, however subtle it may have been. Krishna turned to the eldest Pandava, his eyes dark pools of celestial wisdom. "Maharaja Yudhishthira," he spoke, his voice no longer gentle. "You may belittle me, and I will endure it. But never dismiss the concerns of my Bhagini, Niyati."

The room grew tense, the air thick with unspoken truths. "She has woven the threads of your fate in ways you cannot even begin to fathom. Had she not stood by you, the Pandavas' destiny would have been so different that..." For the briefest of moments, Krishna faltered. A rare occurrence, an even rarer glimpse into the labyrinth of his mind. Then, regaining himself, he continued, his words ringing like a warning. "If you dismiss her concerns, you are embracing your doom."

The pronouncement settled like a storm waiting to be unleashed, shaking those who heard it. And with that, Krishna turned, taking his leave of Dhoumya, the royal priest. The moment passed, but the weight of his words lingered.

As he ascended his divine chariot, gifted by Yudhishthira, its golden frame gleaming in the sunlight, a great rumbling filled the air. It thundered through the skies, announcing his departure as it cut across the horizon like the first rays of dawn. And there, in solemn reverence, the younger Pandavas, led by Vasusena, circumambulated him. Their gestures were not merely of respect but of acknowledgement—for they knew, now more than ever, that Krishna's wisdom was the shield that guarded them against the unseen.

As Devaki's son vanished beyond their sight, Indraprastha stood resplendent in newfound glory. The Pandavas had secured victory, strengthened their dominion, and safeguarded the realm. They found joy in their hearts in Draupadi, their radiant Maharani, their beloved wives, and the unity that bound them together. Thus, the name of Yudhishthira echoed far and wide, not just as a king but as a protector of his people, an upholder of dharma, and a sovereign whose actions remained ever faithful to righteousness, desire, and prosperity.

Yet, in the distant ashram beneath the canopy of the ancient trees, Niyati sat in deep meditation, untouched by the palace's revelries. And somewhere, in the vast expanse of his omniscient mind, Krishna knew this was only the beginning.

Hastinapur's Dilemma

The torches burned bright in Hastinapur's grand assembly hall, flickering flames casting long shadows upon the cold marble floor. The air was thick with tension, the scent of sandalwood barely masking the storm brewing within.

Suyodhana strode in, his golden angavastram swaying with his measured steps, his gaze sharp as an eagle surveying its prey. His father, the blind yet ever-perceptive Dritarashtra, sat upon his throne, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings on its armrests, a silent habit whenever unease settled within him. "Pitashree," Suyodhan's voice sliced through the silence, laced with confidence and calculation. "Indraprastha is not an independent kingdom. Yudhishthira may be its ruler, but he is still bound to Hastinapur's sovereignty. Bhima has slain Jarāsandha; now, those kingdoms are under Indraprastha's banner. But should they be? We can tell Yudhishthira to hand them over to us. Why should they bask in such riches when we can enjoy them instead?"

The ministers exchanged wary glances, the weight of his words settling upon them. But before Dritarashtra could respond, a measured voice emerged from the shadows. "Na, Rajkumar." Hastinapur's shrewd advisor, Mantri Kanika, stepped forward, his wizened face unreadable, yet his voice carried the firmness of experience. "You did not win those kingdoms. The greed that is not supported by action will only lead to destruction. Let Yudhishthira keep what he has acquired, for he plans a Rajasuya Yagna. If sovereignty is what you seek, do not beg for it conquer it. Win kingdoms under your banner, then perform the Yagna before he does. In this way, Hastinapur's supremacy will remain unquestioned."

Dritarashtra, nodding slowly, exhaled a deep breath. "Kanika speaks wisely, my son. If you wish for sovereignty, you must earn it."

But then came a chuckle, a low, knowing sound that sent a shiver through the chamber. Shakuni. The Gandara prince leaned forward, his fingers idly toying with the ivory dice in his palm. His expression bore amusement, yet his words dripped with cold logic. "No, Maharaja," he said, turning to Dritarashtra. "This is not just about sovereignty. This is war but an internal one. You say, 'Win your own kingdoms' as if it is simple. Do you realize what you are suggesting?" His voice lowered, his eyes gleaming like a serpent coiled to strike. "Yudhishthira now has eighty to a hundred kingdoms under his rule. If Suyodhana marches for war, he will not only face rival kings he will face the Pandavas themselves. And trust me when I say this: it is not the time for war. You are at a disadvantage."

Suyodhan's jaw tightened. "I am not. I have Guru Drona, Ashwatthama, Kripacharya, and many others at my side."

Shakuni smirked. "Yes, you do. But they have Krishna." A silence followed, heavy and undeniable. "And do not forget," Shakuni continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "Vasusena is Vijayadhari. Arjuna now wields the Gandiva. Bhima now has a colossal mace with the strength of a hundred thousand maces. Though Yuyutsu is not with them, he will return when they need him. Yes, Gangaputra Bhishma swore not to lift weapons, but tell me, Suyodhana, does that make him powerless?" His words slithered into their ears like venom. "He is no longer just Pitamah Bhishma. He is Guru Devavrata now. If the call of Dharma arises, he will stand; if he stands on the battlefield, even Guru Drona cannot hold him back. So, tell me, is this truly the time for war?"

A heavy silence followed. Vikata, one of Gandhari's sons, finally broke it. "But why must the Pandavas possess such riches?" he asked, his voice laced with resentment. "What need have they for such wealth?"

Shakuni's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Because, dear prince, it is not just about wealth." He let the words settle before leaning forward. "Though they claim to be establishing Dharma, they are, in truth, establishing sovereignty. By strengthening their empire, they make Indraprastha an independent power beyond Hastinapur's grasp. And let me remind you the day we lost Gangaputr, we lost the power of Hastinapur."

He let his words sink in before delivering the final strike. "And who orchestrated all this?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Vasusena. He played his moves with a brilliance that even the greatest kings would envy. And he did not do it alone." Shakuni's eyes darkened. "Niyati, the one force in this world that even Krishna does not control. Together, they have turned the tides against us."

Dritarashtra remained quiet for a long moment, his unseeing eyes turning inward. But when he spoke, his words were unexpected. "I know." His voice was calm, but something else was hidden beneath it: understanding, perhaps even sorrow. "But I also know this: Krodhini and Stambhinī are unhappy."

Suyodhana turned sharply. "What?"

Dritarashtra sighed. "Vasusena was once a king. But today, despite his victories and power, he is not a king. Not in the eyes of his wives. The world sings of Arjuna's Gandiva, Bhima's strength, and Yudhishthira's Dharma. But Vasusena? Where is his name in this glory?" His fingers clenched against the throne's armrest. "And it does not help that his wives, daughters of the Suta clan, feel the weight of their lineage when standing beside Maharani Draupadi."

Mantri Kanika saw the opening and seized it. "Then let us meet them," he suggested. "Let us speak to Vasusena's wives. If we can turn them, we can turn him. If Suryaputr stands with us, we will gain much."

Suyodhana exhaled sharply. "It won't be that easy." He stood, his gaze dark with thought. "First, Jyeshta won't betray his brothers. He will only do so if he aligns with us as a neutral force. Second, he follows only Dharma. He will not be swayed by riches or sentiment." He turned, his voice lowering. "And third, if he comes to our side, he will take the throne of Hastinapur. That is the only thing that will make Bhabhishree Krodhini and Bhabhishree Stambhinī push him toward us." His eyes flickered. "And that, I will never allow."

A pause. Then, a slow, cruel smile crept across his lips. "But... their jealousy?" He let the words roll off his tongue like poison. "That, we can use." He turned, walking away, his final words sending a chill through the chamber. "At the moment, Krishna is not with them. Niyati is at Ashrama. Let the Pandavas hold their weapons, strength, and celestial boons. None of it will matter if they destroy themselves from within." He glanced back once, eyes gleaming. "They might be the mightiest in arms, but they have no wisdom. And that will be their downfall."

The Shattered Bonds of Indraprastha

The echoes of conquest had barely settled in Indraprastha when the seeds of discord, sown with whispers of jealousy, began to sprout once more. The younger Pandavas had embarked on their Digvijaya Yatra, subduing kingdoms and securing their tribute for Yudhishthira's impending Rājasūya Yajña. Indraprastha basked in newfound glory, yet within its golden halls, a storm was brewing, silent, insidious, and far more dangerous than any war fought on the battlefield.

Krodhini and Stambhinī had just returned from Anga, where they had visited their parents. But their hearts were not light with familial warmth. A lingering shadow clung to them. Words, insidious as poison, had been planted by Mantri Kanika of Hastinapur. His voice still echoed in their minds. "Only Vasusena has conquered the eastern kingdoms, while the younger Pandavas have amassed treasures far greater than his. Have you heard his name being sung in glory anymore? Once, his valour was praised throughout Aryavarta, but now? Now, his brothers have cast him aside, jealous of his prowess. They did not even send him on the Digvijaya Yatra, though he built Indraprastha upon the ruins of Khandavaprastha. And yet, others reap the fruits of his labour."

These words festered in their minds, twisting admiration into resentment. The moment they entered their chambers, their eyes desperately sought Vasusena. But he was not there. Following the faint echoes of laughter, they found him in the royal courtyard, sitting beside Kunti, his face illuminated by an unguarded smile, one reserved only for his mother. A sight that should have warmed their hearts instead fuelled their insecurity.

They took Kunti's blessings before turning to him. "Arya, why did you not go on the Digvijaya Yatra?" Krodhini asked, her voice carefully neutral yet heavy with suppressed emotion.

Vasusena smiled at her, unbothered by the question. "If everyone leaves, who shall guard Indraprastha? I am its commander, Krodhini. With Yuyutsu away, I hold the title of Mahamahim. How can I forsake my duty?"

"Why should you be the one to guard it? Why not Arjuna?" Stambhinī's voice carried a sharper edge. The words were like flint against steel, but before Vasusena could respond, another voice cut through.

"Why do you always speak this way?" Kunti's gaze bore into them, unyielding. "Why do you let jealousy take root in your hearts? Have you ever seen Draupadi speak of such things? Or the other wives of my sons? They are content with the love and respect they receive. Why can you not see what you already have?"

She took a step closer, her voice turning softer yet no less powerful. "You speak of conquest, but tell me, has any kingdom dared to march against Indraprastha? No, because my son, the Suryaputr, the Brahmarshi Pandu's son, is here. Do you not see? The others left to wage war because they knew that as long as Vasusena stood within these walls, no harm would come upon this kingdom. That is my Jyeshta Putra."

Her voice turned sharp again, a mother's warning laced within her words. "If I hear such words from you again, where you belittle yourself and my Putr, then I shall order him to act in a way from which there will be no return."

Stambhinī's lips curled, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Ordering is something you are well-versed in, Mata. Didn't you make your sons share Draupadi, binding a woman to five men with cunning words? What else can one expect from you? Tomorrow, will you order us to become the wives of the younger Pan—"

"STAMBHINI!" The name was torn from Vasusena's throat like thunder cracking across the sky.

The ground trembled beneath them. A blinding golden light erupted from his form as his divine Kavach and Kundela flared to life. It was not just rage, but the sun's wrath manifested in human form. The very walls of Indraprastha shuddered. Those who had not yet arrived came running, drawn by the sheer force of his fury.

Yudhishthira was the first to reach him, eyes filled with concern. "Jyeshta, what has happened?"

But Vasusena did not answer. His gaze was fixed upon his wives, his molten-gold eyes burning with betrayal. The silence was suffocating. Then, at last, Kunti spoke. "Vasu." It was not a plea. It was not a command. It was merely his name, yet it held all the weight of a Mata's love. And just like that, the storm within him calmed enough for his fury to be contained but not extinguished.

He turned to his wives, his voice cold as the steel of his Vijaya bow. "I could curse you this very moment for the words you have spoken." Krodhini and Stambhinī stiffened, their eyes wide, not with fear but realising what they had done. "But for the sake of my children, I shall let this go." His voice wavered, not with hesitation, but with grief. "From this moment on, you have lost my love." The words struck deeper than any weapon. "Jealousy is the poison that destroys a home. And today, you have destroyed me. Completely." He turned without another word, his golden light dimming as he walked away.

Krodhini and Stambhinī fell to their knees, their eyes blurred with tears, as they reached out for a man who had already slipped beyond their grasp. And despite all its riches and triumphs, Indraprastha felt a new emptiness within its walls.

A Storm Unleashed

The hooves of warhorses thundered across the land of Kuninda, their gallop echoing Arjuna's relentless pursuit of victory. With each pull of the bowstring, the sky resounded with a symphony of destruction as shafts of fire rained upon enemy ranks. The kings of Kuninda reeled under his might, their banners torn, their warriors humbled. The air crackled with the scent of sweat and blood, and soon, the land lay subdued before the wielder of Gandiva.

Beside him, Sumandala, the relentless vanquisher of evil, took charge of the rear guard. Together, they pressed forward, sweeping through the Anartas, the Kalakutas, and the Kunindas like an unrelenting tempest. The city of Shakala stood defiant, but Arjuna, the scorching flame of the battlefield, razed through its defences. King Prativindhya of Shakala mustered all his forces, the clash of steel reverberating across the seven regions. Warriors fell, one after another, before the unparalleled prowess of Savyasachi. By the end of the blood-drenched day, Shakala had bowed to the son of Kunti.

Without pause, Arjuna turned his gaze eastward, where Pragjyotisha awaited—Bhagadatta's impregnable fortress, guarded by the fierce Kiratas and Chinas. The warriors of the oceanic shores roared in defiance, their spears gleaming under the sun, their battle cries merging with the roaring waves. The battle raged for eight days, arrows darkening the skies like a celestial storm. Yet, Arjuna stood untiring, his arms unwavering, his spirit unbroken.

On the dawn of the ninth day, Bhagadatta, the great warrior and Indra's trusted friend lowered his weapon. His face creased with a mix of admiration and resignation. A smile played upon his lips as he regarded the Pandava. "Ah, child of Kunti," Bhagadatta exhaled, his voice rich with wisdom and respect. "Your valour blazes like the midday sun. I have stood against the might of Indra himself, yet I find in you a force I cannot withstand. Tell me, O Arjuna, what do you seek?"

Arjuna stepped forward, his eyes reflecting the fire of his conquests. "Maharaja Yudhishthira, my Brata, seeks to unite the land under Dharma. He asks not for servitude, but for a tribute, a mark of respect for his just rule. His voice softened as he continued, "You were my Pitashree's friend, and I have known your kindness. I cannot command you, but will you offer this tribute with joy?"

Bhagadatta chuckled, shaking his head in admiration. "Arjuna, you are as dear to me as Yudhishthira himself. What is mere tribute before bonds of affection? Take what you will, and let me know if I can offer more.

With Pragjyotisha under his command, Arjuna turned northward, his chariot wheels leaving a trail of conquest in their wake. The mountains rose before him like silent sentinels, but even the Himalayas' inner, outer, and upper peaks yielded to his might. Kingdom after kingdom fell, their rulers bending their knees before the son of Indra. Riches flowed into his coffers, and loyalty swore allegiance to Indraprastha.

Then came Brihanta of Kuluta, emerging from his citadel with a vast army, his pride unyielding. The battlefield roared as their forces clashed. Swords rang against shields, and arrows found their marks, but Brihanta's spirit wavered before Arjuna's divine strength. Clouded with disbelief, his mind soon turned to acceptance, and he laid his wealth at Arjuna's feet. The war drums of Pandavas echoed once more as Senabindu was dethroned, the northern Kulutas brought to heel, and the five kingdoms conquered in swift succession.

Divahprastha trembled beneath the weight of his army. From there, the march continued against Vishvagashva Pourava, his banners fluttering defiantly in the wind. But like all before him, he too fell. The seven savage tribes of Utsavasamketa, bandits who ruled the mountain passes, met their reckoning. Kashmir and Lohita, fortified with fierce Kshatriyas, waged a desperate war, but Arjuna's encircling legions crushed them, leaving their thrones vacant and their cities humbled.

Like a storm sweeping through the land, Partha's path led to Abhisari, where Rochamana stood his ground in Urasha. He fell, his defeat heralding Arjuna's march toward Simhapura, where Chitrayudhasura's defences crumbled before his fury. From the Suhmas to the Cholas, from Bahlika to the distant Trigartas, kingdom after kingdom surrendered to the unstoppable tide of the Pandava prince.

But even in the face of mortal defiance, the ancient powers of the north lay. The Daradas and Kambojas, fierce and unyielding, met him in battle, their warriors as wild as the untamed lands they guarded. Yet, Gandiva spoke, and silence fell upon them. The Rishikas, mighty seers of the north, summoned their divine weapons, but even their sorcery could not halt Arjuna's advance. Their lands, riches, and warriors now fell under the shadow of Indraprastha.

At the foothills of the Himalayas, Arjuna stood victorious. The eight celestial horses, their coats shimmering like a parrot's breast, were his prize. Peacocks' hues adorned others, their colours a testament to the wonders of the north. The white peaks of Nishkuta loomed before him, sacred and eternal. With conquest complete, with lands united under Dharma, Arjuna, son of Kunti, heir of Indra, conqueror of the north, stood amidst the mountains, his spirit soaring as high as the heavens.

The snow-laden peaks of the White Mountains stretched behind him as Arjuna, the indomitable warrior, ventured into the mystical land of the Kimpurushas. The air was thick with the scent of coniferous trees, but the serenity of the landscape belied the storm that was about to descend upon them.

Drumaputra, the guardian of this land, had rallied his warriors, their weapons gleaming under the pale sunlight. The battlefield echoed with the clash of steel and the war cries of Kshatriyas, whose valour knew no bounds. Yet, like a tempest tearing through a fragile grove, Arjuna's might was unchallenged. His arrows rained upon his foes like the wrath of Rudra himself, and the best of the Pandavas emerged victorious. The Kimpurushas, defeated, bowed before his strength, offering tribute in reverence.

But his journey was far from over. His heart set upon Hataka, a land fiercely guarded by the Guhyakas—beings of great mystical prowess. Unlike the previous conquests, this battle was not fought with swords and bloodshed. Arjuna, wise and resolute, chose the path of conciliation. His words, laced with a warrior's authority and a statesman's wisdom, won them over. The Guhyakas, recognizing his righteousness, submitted to his will, paving his path towards the sacred lake of Manasa, the very mirror of the celestial Ganga.

As he traversed through lands sanctified by the presence of rishis, Arjuna arrived at Manasa. The Gandharvas, celestial musicians whose very existence resonated with divine melody, stood as its protectors. A fierce battle ensued, the air resonating with the twang of bows and the rhythmic cries of warriors falling to the ground. But no force could withstand Partha's might. The Gandharvas, vanquished, bestowed upon him a prize befitting a king—horses of unparalleled beauty, their coats speckled like partridges and their eyes glistening like those of a frog in the moonlight.

With his victories mounting, Arjuna's ambition soared. His gaze turned toward the northern lands of Harivarsha, a realm untouched by mortal conquest. Yet, as he neared its borders, formidable gatekeepers emerged from the shadows, giants in stature and resplendent in power. Their voices, deep and resonant like the echoes of the mountains, halted him.

"O Partha," they said, their smiles betraying neither hostility nor fear, "This land is beyond your reach. No human, no matter how mighty, can lay claim to it. If you value your life, turn back. You have conquered enough. Nothing remains for you here, nothing that mortal eyes can perceive. The Northern Kurus dwell here, and war has no place in this sacred expanse."

Arjuna, his pride tempered by wisdom, did not challenge them. Instead, he spoke with grace befitting the son of Indra, "I seek not my glory, but the sovereignty of my brother, Maharaja Yudhishthira. If this land is beyond the grasp of mortals, I shall not set foot upon it. But grant me tribute, not for myself, but for the emperor of Aryavarta."

The guardians, pleased with his humility, bestowed upon him celestial gifts garments woven from divine threads, ornaments that shimmered with ethereal brilliance, and hides of beasts unknown to the mortal realm.

Thus, Arjuna sealed his conquest of the northern lands. He fought battles that tested the limits of his endurance, clashing against valiant Kshatriyas and ruthless bandits alike. Kings bowed before his might, offering treasures beyond measure, gems that gleamed like stars, gold that shone like Surya's radiance, and horses whose hues rivalled the splendour of peacock feathers, parrot wings, and the very sky at twilight. And so, with his fourfold army, a force that stretched like an endless tide, Arjuna turned his chariot southward. The road to Indraprastha lay before him, and upon his return, he would not come as a mere warrior but as the harbinger of an empire's supremacy.

The gates of Indraprastha trembled under the weight of victory. Accustomed to grandeur, the city had never witnessed such an awe-inspiring sight. Arjuna had returned from his northern conquests, and his arrival was nothing short of celestial. His chariot, adorned with banners that had once fluttered amidst the tempest of battle, cut through the streets like a comet streaking across the heavens. Surrounding him was a colossal fourfold army, their armour glistening under the sun's gaze, their chariots, elephants, horses, and foot soldiers marching with a rhythm that made the earth shudder.

The spoils of war were magnificent. Kings who once held their heads high now walked behind him in subdued allegiance. Tribute poured in, and among the riches were jewels that shimmered like frozen starlight and horses whose colours mimicked the wild beauty of nature. Some bore the earthy speckles of partridges, others gleamed like parrot feathers, and some shone with the iridescence of peacock plumes. All were swift as the wind, their hooves eager to outrun even the fastest storm. As Arjuna entered Indraprastha, his head was held high, but his heart was grounded in duty, and the city erupted in jubilation. The victory was his, but the glory belonged to his brother, the king, Yudhishthira. And in his heart, Arjuna knew this was only the beginning.

The Thunderous Tide of Strength

Far to the east, another storm raged. Where Arjuna was the arrow, swift and precise, Bhima was the tempest, unstoppable, unrelenting. With a vast army at his command, Bhimasena, the son of Vayu, advanced like a force of nature itself. His mission was not just to conquer and make the earth tremble under his might. His first destination was Panchala. But Bhima was no mere brute; he knew when to wield power and when to wield wisdom. The Panchalas were not subdued through force but through understanding. With words as powerful as his mace, he won their allegiance, securing an ally rather than an enemy.

From there, the warrior thundered through the lands of the Gandaki and Videhas, claiming victory after victory. Then came Dasharna. Here, the air was tense, for King Sudharma of Dasharna was no ordinary ruler. He did not send armies against Bhima; he did not hide behind walls. Instead, he stood alone, his muscles taut with anticipation, his eyes glinting with the madness of a warrior's spirit. At that moment, Bhima recognized something rare in an equal.

The duel that followed was not one of weapons but of sheer, raw strength. The land bore witness as two titans clashed, fists striking like meteors against the earth. Dust rose, the ground cracked, and the onlookers held their breath as each strike sent shockwaves through the battlefield. When it ended, it was not with the fall of one but with the rise of both. Impressed beyond measure, Bhima declared Sudharma the supreme general of his campaign in an act of unparalleled respect. And then, the march continued. The lord of Ashvamedha, Rochamana, and his brother quickly fell before him. The cities of the Pulindas yielded, and the mighty rulers Sukumara and Sumitra surrendered to his might. Bhima's name became a storm whispered in fear and awe.

Then came Chedi.

By now, the kings of Bharata were aware of what was to come. But Shishupala, the king of Chedi, was not one to cower in his palace. He emerged from his city, not with weapons drawn but with a smile. Bhima stepped forward, expecting resistance, but he was met with open arms instead. "Welcome, O Bhimasena," Shishupala said, his voice carrying warmth and mischief. "Come, tell me, what does the mighty Yudhishthira desire?"

Bhima studied him. There was no fear in Sisupala's gaze, only curiosity, confidence, perhaps even arrogance. "The Rajasuya," Bhima stated. "Maharaja Yudhishthira wishes for your submission." Shishupala laughed. "Take my kingdom if you must, but first, let us feast."

And so, for thirty nights, Bhima remained in Chedi as Shishupala's guest. The halls of Chedi echoed with the clink of goblets, the roars of laughter, the weight of unsaid words. But beneath the mirth, Bhima watched Shishupala closely. There was something about him, an enigma, a storm waiting to be unleashed. When the time came, Shishupala honoured his word, and Bhima left, his army stronger, his mind troubled by the man he had left behind.

The road to Ayodhya was paved with conquests. Kumara Shrenimana fell. Brihadbala, the lord of Koshala, was defeated. In the sacred land of Rama, Bhima met Dirghaprajna, a warrior of unparalleled righteousness and strength. The battle is fierce, but Bhima emerges victorious in the end, not through cruelty but sheer dominance. One by one, kingdoms fell. The land of Gopalakaccha, the Sottamas, and the lord of the Mallas became part of Indraprastha's growing empire.

Then came the north, the land of the Himalayas. Here, Bhima faced Jaradgava, a warrior as unyielding as the mountains themselves. Yet, within moments, the northern kingdom bowed before Bhima's might. Further, in the lands where mountains kissed the sky, Bhima met a formidable foe—his father-in-law, Subahu, the king of Kashi. This was not just a battle of arms but of pride. Subahu, a warrior who had never retreated, fought with all his might, yet even he could not stand against the hurricane that was Bhima.

From there, the warrior prince turned his gaze toward Suparshva. King Kratha, the ruler of those lands, stood against him, but Bhima, with the weight of Yudhishthira's destiny, left no room for defiance. Matsyas, Malayas, Gayas—all fell before him. Kingdoms that had once been distant names now became tributaries to Indraprastha. The lands teemed with life, forests thick with game, rivers that had never known the taste of Pandava rule now all belonged to the sons of Kunti.

The end was near. Bhima repulsed Mardavika and Mahidhara, then turned his eyes northward once more. The foothills of the Himalayas trembled beneath his march. The Vatsas, Bhargas, and Nishadas rulers succumbed one by one. Even Manimana, a king of great renown, bent the knee.

The southern Mallas and Bhogavanta were conquered not with war but with wisdom. The Sharmakas, the Varmakas, and even the legendary King Janaka of Videha saw reason and submitted without bloodshed. Finally, deep within the heart of the mountains, Bhima faced the seven Kirata lords near Mount Indra. They were fierce, their ways untouched by the civilization of kings, but Bhima's strength was unmatched. One after another, they fell until, at last, the land was his.

The dust of war swirled in the air, thick with the scent of blood and the echoes of steel clashing against steel. Bhima stood at the vanguard, his mace dripping with the remnants of his fury. The Suhmas had fallen, their warriors groaning on the battlefield, their banners trampled under the march of Indraprastha. But Bhima did not pause. His blood raged for more.

"Magadha," he growled, eyes burning with the memory of the past. The very soil of Girivraja had witnessed the might of his bare hands crushing Jarāsandha. Now, his son stood before him, a mere shadow of his father. Danda and Dandadhara, proud kings with armies at their backs, stood firm, unwilling to bend before the Bhima storm. But Bhima, unyielding as the Vajra, shattered their lines, his war cries ripping through the battlefield like the roar of a tempest. The earth trembled beneath his advancing chariots under the weight of his fourfold army.

His path was paved with conquest—the mountain kings, their fortress-like homes offering no protection from his wrath; the mighty Modagiri, who fell under Bhima's sheer strength, his bones cracking like dry wood; and Vasudeva of Poundra, whose valour, though formidable, crumbled before Bhima's indomitable might.

"Is there none who will challenge me?" Bhima's voice thundered across the battlefield, drowning out the war drums. The warriors of Vanga answered. Samudrasena and Chandrasena rode forth, their banners fluttering like the last defiant stand of an extinguishing flame. The king of Tamralipta and Kacha of Vanga all came and fell. The ocean's shores bore witness to the might of Pavana's son as he shattered the defences of those who dwelt along its expanse, crushing the Mlecchas who dared to resist.

When the fires of war had cooled, and the battlefield lay silent, Bhima turned eastward, his chariot laden with riches: sandalwood, aloe, gold, pearls, and gems gleaming in the dying sun. The Louhitya bore testimony to his triumph. The oceanic islands that once stood defiant now bowed, offering wealth beyond measure.

And so, he returned to Indraprastha. Before Yudhishthira, he laid his spoils of war, his voice reverberating with satisfaction. "Brata, the world bends to your will."

The Roar of Conquest

Far to the South, another storm was brewing beneath Surya's scorching gaze. Sahadeva, the silent one, the keen-eyed son of Madri, moved like the whisper of fate. His army stretched behind him, a river of steel and banners flowing toward conquest. The Shurasenas fell first, their warriors bowing before his relentless advance. The Matsya king trembled before him, forced into submission yet left with his throne, a mercy Sahadeva granted, not out of weakness, but wisdom.

Dantavakra, emperor of kings, stood with fire in his eyes, his army a tide against Sahadeva's might; their battle raged, swords singing their deadly song. But Sahadeva's precision was divine, his strikes calculated, his purpose unwavering. Defeated, Dantavakra yielded, the tribute of his kingdom swelling Indraprastha's wealth. One by one, they fell: Sukumara, Sumitra, the Nishadas, Goshringa, the towering mountain fortress, and Shrenimana, the mighty ruler. Even Kuntibhoja, the elder, chose suzerainty over defiance, his wisdom guiding him to accept the inevitable.

At Charmanvati, the past returned to haunt the battlefield. Bhoja, son of Jambaka, stood against Sahadeva, his heart burning with the old enmity his father bore against Krishna. His warriors surged, desperate to reclaim lost honour, but the young Pandava was merciless. His blade sang through flesh and steel, his army crushing the resistance ruthlessly. Bhoja fell.

With tribute amassed, Sahadeva turned westward, his sights set upon Avanti. Vinda and Anuvinda, rulers of immense power, stood waiting, their armies prepared for war. The battle was fierce, a storm of arrows, the clash of swords, the screams of the dying. Yet, as the dust settled, Sahadeva remained standing, the twin kings forced to bow. But the war was not over.

The gates of Mahishmati loomed ahead. King Nila awaited him, accompanied by a force unlike any before. The battle erupted with a fury that shook the heavens. Armies perished like autumn leaves in a storm. Fire rose against Sahadeva, igniting his warriors and devouring chariots and elephants. For the first time, doubt flickered in the young Pandava's heart. The flames danced in his eyes, mocking his confidence.

Yudhishthira sat in deep contemplation, his fingers tracing the armrest of his ornate throne as the weight of unsettling news pressed upon him. His brow furrowed, he turned to Vasusena, the ever-stalwart elder brother, and asked with measured concern, "Jyeshta, why has Agnidev risen against us? Arjuna once aided him during the Khandavadahan. What has changed?"

Vasusena, his gaze calm yet knowing, exhaled softly before responding, his voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "Agnidev's enmity is not born of recent events but of a tale woven through time. In the days of yore, he resided in Mahishmati, where, under the guise of a Brahmana, he was caught in an act of transgression. King Nila, upholding dharma, pronounced punishment upon him, unaware of the deity's true form. But Agnidev, furious, revealed himself in blazing wrath. The king, awestruck, humbled himself before the mighty one. And then..."

Vasusena's voice deepened as he recounted the divine boon, "Agnidev, appeased by the king's reverence, granted a boon—Mahishmati's forces would forever remain untouched by fear. From that day forth, any king who dared to conquer the city perished instantly, devoured by fire. Moreover, the women of Mahishmati were freed from restrictions beyond the bounds of any man's claim. In fear of Agni's wrath, rulers have shied away from this kingdom."

Yudhishthira absorbed this revelation, his mind racing. He glanced at Vasusena, concern evident in his eyes. "Then what will Sahadeva do?" he asked, a hint of worry threading his voice. Vasusena, ever composed, let a small, knowing smile touch his lips. "Trust him, Yudhishthira. He may be the youngest, but he is the sharpest of us all.

Sahadeva stood at the precipice of chaos. His warriors, their courage waning, trembled as Agni's fire encircled them, a searing barrier of divine fury. The ground beneath their feet simmered, and the air crackled with an ominous heat. The youngest Pandava, however, remained unmoved. With unwavering resolve, he strode forward, the flames casting flickering shadows upon his serene face. His fingers brushed the calm water's surface, purifying himself in a sacred manner before raising his voice in a clear, firm, and reverent tone toward the raging deity. "O Pavaka! I revere you. It is an honour to undertake this task in your name. You are the mouth of the gods, the bearer of sacrifice, the purifier, and the essence of yajnas. The Vedas have emerged from you, and hence you are known as Jataveda. O divine flame, do not hinder this sacred offering!"

Sahadeva laid kusha grass upon the scorched earth as his words echoed through the battlefield. With ritualistic precision, he seated himself before the oncoming inferno. His soldiers, filled with dread, watched in astonishment. And then the impossible happened.

Like the vast ocean that halts before the shoreline, the fire stopped. The flames roared and surged, but they did not cross him. The inferno that had swallowed warriors whole now bowed before a single, unyielding man. A hushed silence fell. And then, a voice emerged from within the flames, deep, resonant, affectionate. "Rise, Sahadeva. This was but a test. I know your heart as I know the hearts of all Pandavas. Yet, bound by my boon, I must safeguard Mahishmati so long as King Nila's lineage endures. However, what you seek shall be granted."

The fire receded, and the air cooled. Sahadeva rose, his heart swelling with divine satisfaction. He bowed to Agnidev with deep reverence, his hands folded in salutation, a warrior victorious without unsheathing his blade. And then, King Nila emerged from a distance—his presence regal, his expression a mixture of awe and respect. He stepped forth and welcomed Sahadeva and his warriors, acknowledging their valour. He bowed, accepting the Pandavas' supremacy, not as an adversary but as a tributary.

With his mission accomplished, Sahadeva turned southward, the echoes of fire and fate behind him and the road of conquest stretching ever forward. The air was thick with the scent of conquest, yet Sahadeva's gaze was calm and calculating. Unlike his brothers, his strength lay not just in his sword but in how he read men, lands, and fate. His journey to the South was not merely a march of dominance but a dance of strategy, power, and destiny.

For Sahadeva, the silent storm moved like the wind, unseen yet unstoppable. "Traipuras stood against me, brimming with energy, but what is mortal energy against the will of dharma?" Sahadeva mused, his voice measured yet unyielding. His forces had clashed with the mighty warriors of Traipura, a battle fierce and relentless, but in the end, the land bowed to his strength. Next came Potana, whose lord was proud and unbending. The battle was not fought with mere steel but with the burden of will. The earth shook beneath the warriors, but in the end, Potana's ruler fell to the inevitability of Sahadeva's advance.

Ahriti, king of Saurashtra, was a disciple of Koushika and a man of wisdom and resilience. "To break a warrior's shield is easy, but to break a disciple's spirit is a test of patience," Sahadeva had said. It took more than strength to bring Ahriti under his command—it took relentless endurance, a battle fought with wit and endurance rather than brute force.

Once Saurashtra bowed, the real test of diplomacy arrived—Bhojakata, the kingdom of Rukmini Bhishmaka. An ally of Indra, a king of unshakable dharma, and the father of Rukmini, Krishna's beloved, would such a king kneel? "Go," Sahadeva commanded his envoy. "Tell him that it is not steel I bring, but a request from one who walks the path of dharma."

The answer came swiftly. Bhishmaka and his sons, honouring their bond with Krishna, gladly accepted the suzerainty. No battle was fought, yet a kingdom was won. The conquest did not halt. Sahadeva gathered his tributes and marched south into the lands of Shurparaka and Upakrita, inhabited by clans who prided themselves on their independence. The clash was brief but decisive. "Pride without strength is but an illusion," he had murmured as the banners of Pandu fluttered in the conquered lands.

Then came the Dandaka forests, where kings and outcasts roamed. Yet none could stand against the youngest of the Pandavas. One by one, the rulers of the land fell, and as his reach extended, even those born of mleccha wombs, island dwellers of the vast oceans, trembled before his might.

The Nishadas, fierce man-eaters, fell in battle. The Karnapravaranas, creatures who bore the blood of rakshasas, yielded. His banner claimed all of the Kolla mountains, Murachipattana, the island of Tamra, and the towering Mount Ramaka.

Then, there was Timingila, a king whose name carried weight even among the rakshasas. Many believed him untouchable, but Timingila stood among those who had surrendered, his riches pouring into Sahadeva's coffers when the dust settled.

And then, the strangest of them all—the forest-dwelling men with a single leg. Legends spoke of them as ghosts, myths woven into reality. Yet when Sahadeva's envoys arrived, even they paid tribute, acknowledging the unseen force that had shaken the South. However, the conquest was not merely about force. Sahadeva, unlike many, knew when to wield the sword and when to wield the word.

The Pandya kings, the Dravidas, the Chodras, the Keralas, the Andhras, the Talavanas, the Kalingas—each fell not to war but to diplomacy. His envoys, messengers of fate, carried the unspoken truth: Resistance was futile. The might of Indraprastha had spoken. Even those across the seas—the Ushtrakarnikas, the Antakhis, the Romas—felt the ripple of his presence. Even the Greeks, rulers of distant lands, acknowledged the sovereignty of the youngest of the Pandavas. Then came Bharukaccha, a city of trade and wealth that had stood untouched by the tides of war. Sahadeva walked its streets not as a conqueror but as a force of inevitability.

His final envoy was sent to the mighty Poulastya Vibhishana, ruler of Lanka. He was a demon king but one who had dharma in his heart. Vibhishana, the wise and far-seeing, smiled when he received the message. "It is destiny," he whispered. "And who am I to fight what has already been written?"

Thus, from the golden sands of Lanka came the riches of Ravana's once-mighty kingdom: sandalwood and aloe, divine ornaments, garments finer than air, and jewels that shone with the fire of stars. Sahadeva, the youngest, had marched alone. And yet, he returned with more than riches—an empire under his sway.

When he arrived in Indraprastha, he did not boast. He did not roar of victories like Bhima or exult in his conquests like Arjuna. He placed his tributes before Yudhishthira, his brother, and bowed respectfully. "My task is complete," he said. But the world knew the youngest Pandava had left a mark upon the South that would never fade.

A Journey Across

The thunder of hooves and the grinding roar of chariot wheels against the earth announced Nakula's departure from Khandavaprastha. His warriors, fierce as lions, filled the air with their battle cries, shaking the very ground beneath them. The youngest son of Madri, radiant and resolute, led his army westward, where lands of wealth, valour, and untamed defiance awaited his conquest.

His first destination was Rohitaka, an illustrious land beloved by Kartikeya, renowned for its wealth in cattle, horses, and abundance. Yet, its gates were not easily yielded. The Mattamayuraka warriors, fierce and unrelenting, rose in resistance. Swords clashed, arrows rained like a tempest, and the battlefield echoed with the symphony of war. Nakula, his presence a beacon of radiant fury, led his forces with the precision of a celestial warrior, striking down those who stood against him. The victory was his, and the land of Rohitaka bowed before his might.

From there, he advanced into the desert lands of Sairishaka, its golden sands whispering tales of battles long past. He subdued Maheccha, the mighty Shibis, the warlike Trigartas, and the fearless Ambashthas with unwavering determination. Each land he conquered, each kingdom that fell at his feet, added to the splendour of Indraprastha's dominion.

The Malavas, renowned for their unyielding spirit, met him in battle. Yet, Nakula, radiant as the midday sun, outmanoeuvred their defences. The five Karpata clans and the learned Brahmanas of Madhyamikaya and Vatadhana, too, witnessed his might and submitted their lands, now part of his ever-expanding conquest.

His journey took him further to the Pushkara forests, where the Utsavasamketa clans resided. The battle was fierce, but the son of Pandu was unstoppable. He pressed onward, reaching the banks of the Sindhu, where the formidable Gramaneyas stood in defiance. They, too, fell before him.

The Shudras and Abhiras, the dwellers of Sarasvati's sacred banks, watched in awe as Nakula's forces surged forward. The prosperous and vast land of the five rivers was soon under his rule. No mountain, valley, or fortress could resist Nakula's advance. The western Paryatas, the northern Jyotika, the city of Vrindataka, and the gate-guarded Dvarapalaeach of them yielded, their rulers sending forth tribute in acknowledgement of his supreme power.

Even the proud Harhunas and the kings of the distant West, who once thought themselves beyond reach, were made to bow before him. With lands conquered and power established, Nakula turned to diplomacy. He sent word to Krishna, and the ten great kingdoms of the West pledged allegiance to Indraprastha. But one more place demanded his presence—Shakala, the kingdom of Madra.

Here, strategy dictated restraint. His maternal uncle, King Shalya, ruled this land. Nakula, wise beyond his years, knew that bonds of kinship could be mightier than swords. He entered Shakala not as a conqueror but as a guest, treated with the honour befitting a prince. In return for his wisdom and patience, Shalya became an ally. Laden with treasures, Nakula left Shakala not as a victor of war but as a victor of diplomacy.

But not all lands could be won with words. Beyond Shakala lay the fierce mlecchas of the ocean's edge. The Pahlavas and Barbaras, fearsome warriors of the western coasts, sought to resist, but Nakula's might was unassailable. He swept through their cities like a storm, subduing them and securing vast riches.

The wealth of the western lands was immeasurable. So great was his bounty that ten thousand camels struggled to bear the weight of his spoils. Laden with victory, his heart swelled with pride as he returned to Indraprastha.

Standing before Yudhishthira, he laid forth the treasures of the West—golden ornaments, precious gems, silks, and rare fragrances. His mission was complete. The West, protected by Varuna and once graced by Krishna's footsteps, now stood under the dominion of Indraprastha, conquered by the valour of Nakula.



Note: -

The only deviation from the original script is the omission of Bhima's decisive victory over Suryaputr Karna in battle, in which he decisively vanquished him and brought the Anga region under the dominion of Indraprastha. Apart from this singular alteration, the rest of the Digvijaya Yatra remains unchanged, preserving the conquests and tributes as originally chronicled.