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Chapter 109: The Thousand-Handed Shura
The arena still buzzed with disbelief, the echoes of Rudra's explanation lingering in every corner.
"The cocoon breaks only when there is one left standing. If Arjun had continued, it would still not shatter unless he or Ram quit."
Even the mighty Bhishma, who had faced countless wars and divine battles, narrowed his eyes in silence. His calm, aged voice carried across the royal stand:
"Then had Arjun not withdrawn, the cocoon would never have yielded?"
Rudra turned toward him, his gaze sharp yet calm.
"Exactly. For two to persist together means endless stalemate. Only when one quits can the trial yield results. Persistence in solitude—that is the essence of breaking the cocoon."
The Maharishis present—Parashurama, Vishwamitra, even Narada—fell silent. What kind of test was this, where even the most talented prodigies like Arjun had no chance unless they endured beyond every mortal limit? They could only mutter amongst themselves:
"Dharma is indeed testing the soul through this man…"
"This exam… is harsher than any battlefield."
Rudra's words cut the air again, calm yet edged with fire.
"Yes, the trial is cruel. But should not the prize for the victor be proportional to the suffering endured?"
A hush fell over the entire arena. Everyone felt the weight behind his words.
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The Price of Endurance
On the stage, the cocoon finally shattered. Fragments of blackness dissolved into motes of light.
Ram stepped out.
For nearly two hundred days within that suffocating void, he had hammered his fists against the wall without rest, without food, without air. Yet all the crowd saw on his hands… were faint red swellings, nothing more.
Gasps rippled like waves across the coliseum.
"A swelling? That's all!?"
"Impossible! His bones should've shattered a thousand times over!"
"What monster of flesh is he!?"
Even Rakshasa warriors, proud of their monstrous constitutions, lowered their heads, unwilling to compare themselves with this being who stood tall with his eyes still closed, his expression cold and unreadable.
His aura weighed upon the surroundings, pressing the breath from many weaker participants. Some staggered back, clutching their chests, as though the air itself belonged to him.
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The Hug
Rudra's voice rose above the crowd.
"Behold, the victor of the first game—Ram."
The audience erupted with both awe and unease. All eyes followed as Rudra beckoned him.
Ram walked forward, his steps heavy yet unwavering. Wherever he passed, the crowd parted like waves before a ship, no one daring to brush against him. His eyes remained closed, his body carried a solemn stillness.
But when he reached Rudra… something stirred.
For the first time since his appearance, Ram's chest trembled. His lips quivered, though no words escaped. His moistening eyes betrayed the storm hidden beneath his stoic mask.
And before anyone could comprehend it—Rudra stepped forward and embraced him.
The crowd gasped.
Ram's rigid body froze, his mind blank. But the warmth of that embrace—simple, human, unshaken by fear or disgust—pierced his iron will. His fists clenched tighter, but his tears finally betrayed him, sliding silently down his scarred cheeks.
Rudra whispered softly so that only Ram could hear:
"You've carried enough alone. From this day, you are no longer just a shadow."
Ram's breath shuddered. His heart, buried beneath years of silence and pain, cracked open for the first time.
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The Reward
Rudra turned to the audience, his arm resting firmly on Ram's shoulder.
"Here stands the winner. Not because he had strength beyond measure, not because he wielded prana or astras, but because his will did not break when all others fell. Such endurance deserves a prize unlike any other."
A pause.... then his hand lifted.
In his palm light surged forming into a scroll woven of golden fire, the aura that radiated from it made even Parashurama's eyes widen.
"This," Rudra declared, "is a Siddhi not seen for generations—The Thousand-Handed Shura. The very Siddhi once possessed by Kartavirya Arjun, Sahasrabahu—the legendary Maharathi, the ancestor of Mahishmati and...my own guru."
The name struck like thunder. Gasps erupted.
"Kartavirya Arjun's Siddhi!?"
"That godlike king who once shook the three worlds!?"
"The one who beat Ravan and caged him like a prisoner?"
"Why would Rudra grant such a divine inheritance to a mere commoner?"
But Rudra said nothing more. His eyes, however, told a truth only he knew:
[Because this boy is no mere commoner, He is... Sahasrabahu reborn]
He did not reveal it aloud, but the conviction burned in his heart
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Transformation
The golden scroll dissolved into threads of radiant energy, spiraling into Ram's body.
In an instant, his flesh convulsed. Veins of light tore through his scars, his body—once incapable of holding prana—screamed, cracked, and then… absorbed.
BOOM!
An overwhelming aura burst forth, rolling across the arena like a tidal wave.
Participants staggered, nobles shielded their faces, even seasoned warriors clenched their jaws as the oppressive weight of Ram's new existence bore down on them.
For the first time, his body accepted prana, His once-mute veins lit like rivers of molten gold, His once-lifeless frame pulsed with godlike vitality.
The Siddhi manifested behind him—phantom arms, countless in number, fanning out like an ocean of limbs, each clenched in a fist, each radiating terrifying might.
The THOUSAND-HANDED SHURA had returned to Bharatvarsh.
Ram slowly opened his eyes for the first time.
They glowed
Not with arrogance
Not with malice
But with tears and quiet fire
The arena fell into stunned silence.
Even those who doubted before bowed their heads.
And in that moment, the name Ram was no longer whispered as rumor or feared as a monster.
It became carved into the annals of legend.
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