Part Two: The Bow and the Fire
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The sun reached its highest point when Bhishma stood and raised a hand.
"Let the heirs of Kuru show their mettle," he said. "Not in war—but in skill."
The court gathered in the royal arena—cushioned balconies for nobles, stone seats for warriors, and shadowed corners for men who whispered.
First came Bhima—swinging twin clubs with such force that the very floor groaned. He crushed stone dummies, shattered iron bars, and roared with satisfaction.
Next, Yudhishthira, graceful and balanced, parried three veteran swordsmen in a flowing dance of defense.
Then Duryodhana, fierce with the mace, his form aggressive, eyes burning. He felled a massive bull-statue with a single spinning blow.
And finally—
Arjuna.
The court hushed.
He stepped forward with confidence but not arrogance. His bow—Gandiva—glowed faintly in his hands.
He didn't miss.
Every arrow split the last. He pierced coins from midair. Shattered water pots with ricochets. He moved like a storm that had learned rhythm.
Even Agasthya—silent in the viewing tier—watched closely.
Dronacharya stood and lifted both arms.
"Let it be known," he declared, voice echoing through the marble, "that none in this world can match Arjuna in the art of the bow. He is the future of this land's defense. He is without rival."
The court cheered.
Until a voice cut through it like silk through chainmail.
"Not without rival."
Heads turned.
Agasthya stood.
Calm.
Precise.
Every syllable a command.
Dronacharya narrowed his eyes. "You disagree?"
"I suggest a test."
Bhishma raised a brow, interested. "Speak."
Agasthya nodded once toward Karna.
"Let the prince of Radha draw his bow."
A murmur swept the court.
Karna stepped forward slowly.
He did not grin. He did not smirk.
He only unstrapped his bow and stood across from Arjuna.
Duryodhana grinned. "Now this is worth watching."
Drona frowned. "He is not of royal blood."
Agasthya replied softly, "But his arrows don't seem to care."
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The duel began.
Tension hummed through the air.
They circled each other—no anger, no hatred.
Only the silence shared by those who have long carried a question they've never spoken aloud.
Karna loosed first.
Arjuna blocked—barely.
Arjuna countered with a triple-shot spiral.
Karna evaded, loosed two downward strikes and a blinding high arc.
Steel clanged.
Dust flew.
The air itself bent under their contest.
Neither missed.
Neither slowed.
They weren't fighting to wound.
They were fighting to know.
And in the corner of his heart, Arjuna heard a voice:
> Why does he feel like a part of me lost?
And Karna felt:
> Why does his breath move like mine?
Agasthya watched every arrow, every step.
When the final volley came, both nocked their last shafts.
Karna's struck first.
It knocked Gandiva from Arjuna's hands—clean, perfect.
The second arrow—Arjuna's—veered off-course in the same instant.
Karna's final strike surged forward—
—and struck his own chestplate.
The divine armor flared.
The arrow shattered.
And Karna stood, unmoved.
The court gasped.
Arjuna stepped back, wide-eyed.
Dronacharya clenched his jaw.
Bhishma stared—not at the fighters, but at Agasthya.
Who smiled… just once.
And whispered, "Now you remember."
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