The forest at the hill's summit was still, its silence broken only by the steady strike of an axe against wood. Karna followed the sound, his heart pounding. And there he saw him at last—Parashurama, the warrior-sage, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair bound in thick matted locks, his body lean with austerities. His eyes burned with a fire as if they had seen the ages themselves.
The sage's axe, Parashu, gleamed as it bit into the trunk of a tree, felling it with a single blow. There was no hesitation, no wasted strength—only perfect mastery.
Karna fell to his knees and bowed low.
"Revered master," he said, voice trembling with both awe and longing. "I have crossed mountains and rivers, forsaken home and comfort, to learn at your feet. Accept me as your disciple. Grant me the knowledge of the divine astras."
Parashurama's gaze turned toward him, sharp as a blade. His silence weighed heavier than words. After a long pause, the sage spoke, his tone stern.
"You are a Kshatriya. My vow forbids me to teach your kind. I have vowed to destroy the arrogance of kings, not arm them with greater power. Leave this place."
The words struck Karna like arrows. He pressed his forehead to the earth.
"Master, I am no king," he said. "I am but the son of a humble charioteer. My hunger is not for conquest, but for knowledge. Do not deny me because of my birth."
Parashurama's eyes narrowed. "Then you are a charioteer's son? Hm. Even if it is so, why should a sage waste his time on one who has no dharma to fulfill as a warrior? Leave, boy. Seek your destiny elsewhere."
But Karna did not move. He knelt, unmoving as stone, the dust of the forest clinging to his golden armor. Hours passed, the sun dipped, night fell—but still he bowed before the sage.
The Two Years of Silence
So began his trial.
Parashurama gave no teachings, no weapons, no mantra. Yet Karna remained. Each day he gathered firewood, fetched water, tended the hermitage, and served his master with unwavering devotion.
When Parashurama sat in meditation, Karna stood guard, fending off wild beasts that dared creep close. When the sage walked into the forest, Karna followed with quiet steps, ready to carry burdens yet never asking for instruction.
Days turned into months. Seasons changed—monsoon rains drenched him, winters chilled his bones, summers burned his skin—but Karna's resolve never faltered.
Sometimes, Parashurama would test his spirit with sharp words.
"Why do you linger here like a beggar at a rich man's door?" he would ask.Karna would only bow and answer, "A beggar waits because he believes the master of the house will one day grant alms. So too I wait, my lord."
Other times, the sage would ignore him entirely, as though Karna were nothing more than the wind rustling through the trees. Yet Karna accepted it all, serving in silence, his eyes filled with patience.
Two years passed in this way—two years without a single lesson, two years of endless service.
The First Crack
One evening, as the sun's last light turned the sky crimson, Parashurama sat on a stone, his axe resting by his side. His gaze, usually sharp, softened for the first time. He looked upon Karna, who was quietly mending the roof of the hermitage.
"You do not tire, boy?" the sage asked, almost curious.
Karna smiled faintly. "The hands may tire, master. But the heart, when it seeks knowledge, cannot."
A silence followed, heavy but not hostile. Parashurama studied him for a long moment, then closed his eyes.
The Test of the Sage
The next morning, Parashurama called Karna to him.
"You have served me without complaint for two years," he said. "But service alone does not make a disciple. Words are easy, devotion can be feigned. Today, I shall test you. If you succeed, perhaps you shall earn my teaching."
Karna's heart leapt, but his face remained humble. "Command me, master. I shall obey."
Parashurama's eyes gleamed with a strange light. He led Karna deep into the forest where a great banyan tree grew, its roots like coiled serpents.
"Sit here," the sage commanded, pointing to the base of the tree. "Rest your head upon my lap. I shall sleep. While I sleep, you must not move. No matter what happens, no matter what pain comes, you shall not disturb me. If you endure, then I shall know your worth."
Karna bowed and obeyed, his head resting upon the sage's lap. Parashurama closed his eyes, and silence fell.
At first, the forest was calm. But fate, as always, had its own designs.