The year with his family passed like a fleeting dream. Each dawn, Karna felt the quiet rhythm of village life bind him with invisible threads—Radha's soft blessings, Adhiratha's gentle wisdom, Shon's eager laughter. Yet, beneath that stillness, his heart burned with a fire no hearth could soothe.
The knowledge of arms he had gained under Droṇa was vast, equal to the Pandavas themselves. But he knew there were secrets that Droṇa had denied him—the astras, weapons not of steel but of the gods, forged in the realm of fire, wind, and thunder.
One evening, as the orange sun sank behind the fields, Karna stood alone. The air smelled of ripened grain, but his thoughts stretched far beyond the horizon.
"Mother, Father," he said at last, bowing before Radha and Adhiratha, "you gave me a home and more love than any man deserves. But I cannot rest here. Knowledge calls me yet again. I must seek the wisdom of the great sages who hold the keys to the divine weapons."
Radha's eyes glistened, though she had long known this day would come. "Son," she whispered, "go where your dharma leads you. But remember—no weapon is greater than truth, no armor stronger than righteousness."
Adhiratha clasped his shoulder, pride swelling in his heart. "Walk straight, my boy. Even if the gods themselves test you, let your feet not turn from dharma."
A Wanderer Once More
With blessings upon him, Karna departed once more. His bow hung across his back, his golden armor shimmered faintly under the rising sun, and his mind was fixed upon one name whispered in every corner of Bhārata:
Parashurama.
The warrior-sage, son of Jamadagni, who had once rid the earth of Kshatriyas twenty-one times. A man whose anger shook kingdoms, yet whose austerity bound him to Lord Shiva himself. The teacher of gods and demons alike, feared and revered as the one who held mastery over every astra known.
It was said Parashurama lived far from courts and palaces, in forests where silence itself seemed afraid to stir. And to reach him was no easy task.
Karna crossed rivers swollen with monsoon, their currents threatening to drag even the strongest swimmer into their depths. He climbed mountains where the wind cut his flesh like knives and the snow blinded his eyes. In dense forests, he fought wild beasts—lions that pounced with fury, serpents coiled like death itself—and yet, his arrows never missed, his sword never faltered.
Through it all, he did not complain, nor did he turn back. His hunger for learning was greater than any pain.
The Silence of Rejection
On his path, Karna sought out sages and hermits, hoping they might guide him toward Parashurama. Yet, many looked upon him with suspicion.
"You are a charioteer's son," some said with disdain. "Why should divine knowledge rest in your hands?"
Others warned, "Parashurama despises Kshatriyas. His wrath upon kings is legendary. Do not seek him, lest you perish under his axe."
But Karna bowed to all, never letting anger poison his heart. Inwardly he thought, If I am not worthy, let my deeds prove me so. If the world bars my way, then let persistence be my weapon.
The Hermit's Clue
At last, after months of wandering, Karna came upon an aged hermit deep within a sacred grove. The man's beard flowed like silver, his eyes carried both fire and peace. He studied Karna for a long while before speaking.
"You walk with the gait of a warrior," the hermit said, "yet your heart bears the weight of a seeker. Why do you wander these roads?"
Karna bowed deeply. "I seek the master of all astras—Parashurama. I seek to drink from the ocean of knowledge he guards."
The hermit closed his eyes, as if listening to voices only he could hear. Finally, he said, "The road to Parashurama is not walked by the proud. It is walked by those who kneel, who endure, who deceive not even themselves. If your hunger is true, the forest will guide you. Travel east, past the seven streams. Beyond them lies a hill where no birds sing, and at its summit dwells the one you seek."
Karna's heart surged with gratitude. He touched the hermit's feet, received his blessings, and set out again.
The Oath of Karna
Days turned into weeks as Karna pressed onward. Hunger gnawed, wounds stung, yet his resolve only sharpened. At night, he lay beneath the stars, speaking silently to the gods.
"O Surya Deva, father of light," he whispered, "grant me the strength to be your worthy son. Let not the judgments of men hold me back. I seek knowledge not for greed, not for vanity, but for dharma—for the chance to stand equal in this world, where birth alone decides a man's worth."
The wind stirred softly, and Karna took it as a sign.
At last, one morning, he stood before the hill of silence. No birds sang, no leaves rustled. The air itself seemed heavy, charged with an invisible power. Karna tightened his grip upon his bow, inhaled deeply, and began the climb.
Each step carried him closer not only to Parashurama, but to the destiny that would define his very soul.