The forest was quiet, heavy with the weight of night. Karna lay beneath the great banyan tree, his head resting upon Parashurama's lap. The sage had closed his eyes in meditation, his breath slow and steady, as if the world itself dared not disturb him.
For a time, there was only peace—the rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind. But fate seldom allowed peace to last.
From the roots of the banyan, a black insect crawled forth, drawn by the warmth of flesh. It crept across Karna's thigh, small and harmless at first. Then, suddenly, it pierced his skin with a sting sharper than a needle.
Karna's body shuddered. Fire spread through his leg as the insect burrowed deeper, gnawing its way into muscle, drinking his blood. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot spear tearing through his flesh.
Yet Karna did not move.
Sweat trickled down his forehead. His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood, but he made no sound. His master slept, and that was sacred. No pain of his own could be greater than the duty of protecting his guru's rest.
The insect tore deeper, a red stream soaking his garments. His vision blurred, his heart pounded like a drum. He bit down upon his tongue until blood filled his mouth—but still he endured.
Hours passed. The moon shifted its place in the sky. The agony became a constant fire, yet Karna remained still as stone.
At last, Parashurama stirred. His eyes opened, calm and watchful. And there he saw the blood, dark and heavy, staining Karna's thigh.
The sage's gaze hardened at first, but then softened with something rare—wonder.
"Rise, boy," he said.
Karna struggled to his feet, swaying from weakness, his leg soaked in crimson. He bowed deeply, his voice hoarse. "Forgive me, master, for staining your lap."
Parashurama's eyes blazed, not with anger, but with admiration.
"You fool," he said, his voice trembling. "Why did you not cry out? Why did you not move?"
Karna lowered his head. "A disciple's comfort is nothing before his guru's peace. If my flesh must burn, let it burn. If my blood must flow, let it flow. But your rest, master, is more precious than my life."
For a moment, Parashurama was silent, struck by the purity of the words. Then, slowly, a rare smile spread across his face.
"Ah, Karna," he said softly. "You are no ordinary man. To endure such pain without complaint—this is not the mark of a liar, nor of the weak. This is the patience of one who can sacrifice himself for the world."
He placed a firm hand upon Karna's shoulder. "You have passed the test. From this day forth, you are my true disciple. And because you have proven your heart, I shall not withhold from you any knowledge. I will teach you the mantras, the weapons, the divine astras—all that I have received from Lord Mahadeva himself."
Karna's eyes widened. His throat tightened with emotion. He fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. "Master… I am unworthy of such grace."
Parashurama's voice grew stern again, but beneath it was warmth. "Do not mistake humility for weakness. You are worthy, Karna. You shall learn to command the Brahmastra, the Agneyastra, the Varunastra, the Vayavyastra, and countless others. But remember this—knowledge is not for pride. It is for dharma, for sacrifice, for protecting those who cannot protect themselves. Forget this, and your power will devour you."
Karna raised his head, his golden armor gleaming in the moonlight. "I swear, by the fire of my patience and the blood I have shed this night, I shall never use your teachings for selfish gain. My life will be for dharma, even if the world calls me otherwise."
Parashurama looked deep into his eyes, and for the first time, the sage felt a flicker of something rare in his heart—trust.
"Then rise, Karna," he said. "For from this day, you are not merely a warrior—you are a wielder of the divine."
The Years of Knowledge
Thus began Karna's true tutelage. Day after day, Parashurama poured into him the knowledge of weapons—bows that never missed, arrows that carried fire, maces that shattered stone, swords that gleamed with celestial radiance. He taught him the hymns of invocation, the secrets of meditation, the ways to summon and recall astras with but a thought.
Karna absorbed them all, as though his soul had waited lifetimes for this moment. He practiced tirelessly, his arrows splitting mountains, his mace striking with the strength of thunder, his voice chanting mantras until the forest itself seemed to tremble.
Years passed in the hermitage, and Karna's fame grew even among the rishis who dwelt in hidden places. Whispers spread—there is a disciple of Parashurama who endures like the earth, who learns like fire, who fights like the storm.
And Parashurama himself, though stern, began to regard him not only as a disciple, but almost as a son.
The Blessing
One dawn, after long years of training, Parashurama stood before Karna with his axe in hand.
"You have learned all I can give," the sage declared. "You are the most patient disciple I have ever known, the one who proved that sacrifice is greater than pride. I grant you my blessing—that in battle, the world shall tremble before your astras, and even the gods shall witness your might."
Karna bowed deeply, tears shining in his eyes. "Master… I have nothing to give you in return."
Parashurama shook his head. "You have already given what no treasure can—your blood, your endurance, your unwavering devotion. Go now, Karna. Walk the path destiny has carved for you. But remember—the fire of knowledge can either protect or consume. Use it wisely."
And thus, with the blessing of the great Parashurama, Karna left the hermitage, carrying within him the full might of divine astras and the deeper strength of sacrifice.
But somewhere, deep within, he also carried the knowledge that such power would one day demand its price.