Ram sat on the cracked rooftop of his small house, staring at the city lights flickering in the distance like dying stars. The world below him was restless—horns blaring, neon signs flashing, people chasing after jobs, money, and survival. But Ram? He was chasing something else.
At seventeen, his life already felt like a burden. His father had passed away when he was twelve, leaving behind nothing but debts and bitterness. His mother worked endless shifts in a garment factory, her hands scarred and her eyes always tired. Ram studied when he could, worked part-time when he must, and dreamed… when no one was looking.
Dreams—that was where his true life lived.
Every night he would open the Mahabharata, the old, worn-out copy his grandfather had once owned. The pages smelled of dust and incense, the letters fading, but to Ram, the epic was alive. Each verse sang with battle cries, each story cut into his heart.
He admired Arjuna's skill, Bhima's strength, Krishna's wisdom. But his soul… it belonged to Karna.
Karna, the warrior born of the Sun, abandoned at birth, cursed for kindness, bound to loyalty, and fated to fall. The more Ram read, the more his heart ached.
Why did fate betray him? Why must the noblest man be remembered as the tragic one?
Sometimes, tears rolled down his cheeks as he read of Karna's last moments—betrayed by curses, unarmed, struck down by his own brother.
That night, sitting under the pale moon, Ram closed the book gently. His chest tightened.
"If only I could change it," he whispered to the wind. "If only I could take Karna's place. I would never let him suffer. I would never let him die like that."
His voice broke, but he continued, his fists clenched, his eyes burning:
"Why must dharma always lose? Why must loyalty be punished? If I could be Karna, I would fight against fate itself!"
The city noise faded. The air stilled. The moon seemed brighter, larger, as if listening.
And then… it happened.
From the shadows of the night sky, a radiance bloomed—a presence vast, eternal, and terrifying. The rooftop trembled. Ram's heart froze as he saw her:
A figure formed of pure light, neither man nor woman, yet both. Her eyes burned like galaxies, her hair flowed like endless rivers of stars. She was fire, ocean, and sky all at once.
Ram fell to his knees, trembling.
"W-who are you?" he whispered.
The being's voice was not heard, but felt, vibrating through his soul:
"I am Shakti—the beginning and the end. From me were born Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer. I am the mother of power itself."
Ram's breath caught. He felt smaller than dust before her.
Shakti's gaze pierced him, softer now, almost like a mother's touch.
"You have called from the depths of your heart. You have wished to stand where Karna stood. Tell me, Ram—do you truly seek his burden? Do you truly wish to become the son of Surya, the warrior who defied destiny?"
Ram's lips trembled, but his answer came without doubt.
"Yes. I will bear his pain, his fight, his destiny. But I will not let him fall again. I will rise."
The night split with a sound like thunder and conch shells. Shakti raised her hand, and light poured into Ram's chest, searing, blazing, filling him with unbearable fire.
He screamed, the world dissolving around him.
Her final words echoed as darkness took him:
"Then rise, Suryaputra. Rise, Karna unchained."