The twilight sky over Hastinapura bled crimson, streaked with gold, as if the heavens bore witness to an omen yet to unfold. From the highest spire of the palace, Devavrata stood motionless, his dark hair whipping in the wind, his gaze locked onto the horizon. Below, the city pulsed with torchlight, its streets alive with the murmurs of mortal life, but his thoughts lay beyond, where legends whispered of a warrior whose name had been carved into history like an axe through stone: Parashurama.

  A sage. A slayer of kings. A storm given flesh.

  The stories had followed him like shadows since his return from the celestial realm, tales of a bowmaster whose arrows split mountains and an axe-wielding tempest who’d drowned kingdoms in blood. His name had outlived the empires he destroyed, and now, Devavrata had chosen to seek him.

  His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. The weapon thrummed against his back, a silent echo of his resolve. I was given the river’s strength, but it is not enough. The gods had forged him, but the world demanded a warrior who could stand not as a mere son of divinity, but as a legend in his own right. And Parashurama was the crucible that would either forge him anew, or break him utterly.

  His mother’s presence stirred within him, a whisper carried by the Ganga’s endless current. It was not a warning. It was acceptance.

  The path had already been chosen.

  The grand hall lay draped in the dim glow of torches, the air thick with unspoken tension. The scent of burning sandalwood and old iron clung to the stones, the remnants of past wars and prayers. Devavrata descended the steps with measured strides, each footfall a steady drumbeat against the silence.

  At the head of the court sat Shantanu, king of Hastinapura, his crimson robes faded at the edges, his once-unbreakable frame bearing the weight of time. The years had carved lines of grief and wisdom into his face, yet when his gaze met Devavrata’s, there was something else, something deeper than mere concern.

  The court had gathered: nobles in silks of saffron and indigo, their hands gripping the folds of their robes; warriors standing in rigid silence, their spears clutched as if to ward off fate itself. They had seen many things, but never this, a son of divinity declaring war against the unknown.

  Devavrata knelt, his sword reflecting the torchlight, his voice steady.

  "Father, I seek Parashurama."

  A ripple of murmurs spread through the court. Shantanu’s fingers curled against the armrest of his throne, knuckles whitening.

  Devavrata continued, "I have heard of the warrior-sage whose bow bends fate and whose axe carves empires into ruin. I will find him. I will learn from him. I will become the weapon that Hastinapura deserves."

  The silence that followed was heavier than any battle cry.

  When Shantanu finally spoke, his voice carried a weight that silence could not match. Not anger, nor pride, something closer to mourning.

  “Parashurama is not a teacher. He is a tempest that devours the unworthy.” His words were neither warning nor denial. They were truth, stripped bare. “His lessons are not given. They are taken, earned through blood and will. Do you understand what you ask?”

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  Devavrata rose, his presence towering, his resolve unshaken.

  "I was born in the river’s embrace, tempered by its current. If Parashurama is a storm, then I will not shelter from it, I will ride its lightning until I am fire itself.”

  A murmur rippled through the nobles, but Shantanu’s eyes held nothing but the weight of inevitability. A father’s love. A king’s duty. He nodded once, his voice low, roughened by something only he understood.

  "Then go."

  The court stirred, warriors shifting on their feet as if hearing a funeral decree.

  "Seek him in the forests beyond our borders, a land where the soil remembers his fury. If he accepts you, return only when you are stronger than the man who leaves today."

  Devavrata bowed. The hall held its breath.

  Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

  At dawn, the city gates yawned open, and Devavrata rode forth.

  The sky blazed like molten gold, casting his path in light and shadow. Across his back rested the celestial bow his mother had gifted him, a weapon of divine craftsmanship, its silver wood pulsing with an unseen force, its string taut with a power that whispered of battles yet to come.

  The road twisted beyond Hastinapura’s walls, past fields that had seen war and harvest alike, until at last, the forests loomed before him, a sea of ancient sentinels, their roots woven through the bones of forgotten battles.

  The air here was thick, damp with the scent of moss and something else, something heavier, metallic. The ground had been stained with blood long before his arrival.

  Devavrata’s breath was steady, but the forest did not welcome him.

  It tested him.

  The first trial came swiftly.

  A ravine yawned before him, its depths lined with jagged stone, the remnants of an old battlefield long since swallowed by nature. The bridge that once stood had crumbled into ruin.

  Devavrata did not stop. He urged his steed forward, then leapt.

  For a moment, the world hung in silence.

  Then, hooves struck earth on the other side, the impact sending dust scattering into the air.

  The forest remained unmoved.

  The second trial followed.

  From the undergrowth, a pack of shadow-eyed wolves slunk forward, their growls low, their hunger evident. Their eyes gleamed like embers, their bodies lean with famine, but their fangs sharp enough to rip flesh from bone.

  Devavrata exhaled, his movements fluid.

  He slid from his horse, fingers brushing against the bow at his back. One arrow, nocked and loosed in a single motion.

  The alpha fell before it could even lunge, an arrow buried between its eyes.

  The rest hesitated.

  Devavrata’s voice was calm but unwavering. "Go."

  And they did.

  But the forest did not yield.

  It watched.

  It waited.

  As the trees thinned, the battlefield revealed itself, a clearing scarred by axe-blows, the earth hardened by years of bloodshed. Here, time did not flow as it did elsewhere.

  And at its center stood the man who had carved this place into legend.

  Parashurama.

  He did not move when Devavrata arrived. He did not even acknowledge him. His broad frame, wrapped in tattered robes, remained still. The axe at his side gleamed with a wicked hunger, its notched edge a relic of kings it had felled. His dark hair, streaked with gray, hung in loose waves over a face carved from stone.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  "So… the river sends its whelp to seek me."

  His voice rumbled through the clearing like distant thunder. Slow. Unimpressed. Heavy.

  Devavrata stepped forward. His hands did not shake.

  "I seek your teachings."

  Parashurama’s eyes flickered. Amusement? Pity?

  "You seek war. But war is not taught, it is survived."

  He gestured to an oak in the distance, its bark riddled with ancient scars, a silent witness to those who had come before.

  "Draw your bow. Show me if you are worth my time."

  Devavrata met his gaze, then reached for his bow. The runes upon its limbs flared as he drew back the string, the arrow tip gleaming like silver fire.

  The air trembled.

  The shot was loosed.

  And the clearing erupted in silence.