The years had ripened Karna into a warrior unlike any other—his body carved by discipline, his mind sharpened by mantras, his heart tempered by sacrifice. At last, Parashurama decided it was time for the final test.
One morning, as the sun spread its golden fire across the horizon, the sage summoned his disciple.
"Karna," he said, his eyes gleaming with gravity, "your training nears its end. Today I shall test not only your strength but your harmony with the heavens themselves. Beyond this forest lies a village. It suffers drought; the fields are cracked, the rivers dry, and the children thirst. Go there and summon the rains. Invoke the Varunastra, call forth the clouds, and let the sky bless the land."
Karna bowed deeply, his chest swelling with resolve. "As you command, Master. Today the heavens shall obey."
The Attempt
Karna journeyed to the village. His heart tightened at the sight—parched earth split into scars, cattle fallen in dust, mothers clutching children with cracked lips. The people lifted their eyes in desperate hope as he arrived, clad in his golden armor, bow upon his shoulder.
He strode to the barren fields and raised his hands toward the sky. Chanting the sacred hymns Parashurama had taught him, he drew forth the Varunastra.
At once, clouds gathered. A low thunder rolled across the heavens. The villagers gasped as the sky darkened, lightning flashing like the swords of gods.
But the rain did not fall.
Instead, the clouds circled endlessly, heavy with water yet withholding their gift. The wind howled, and the air grew tense.
Karna frowned, sweat beading his brow. Again he recited the mantras, stronger this time, his voice echoing like a war drum. The astras flared from his hand in dazzling arcs of light, piercing the sky itself.
The clouds trembled… but still no rain came.
The Hand of Indra
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, Indra, king of the heavens, watched. His gaze was stern, his heart conflicted.
"This boy," he murmured, "this son of the sun whom fate cast into shadows—he dares to command the rains? He dares to wield astras meant for the chosen?"
Indra clenched his fist. "No! Not upon this village, not by his hand shall rain descend. If he must rise, he will rise through trial and torment—not through ease."
With his divine will, he held back the waters, sealing the clouds.
Below, Karna felt it. The resistance, the invisible defiance of the heavens themselves. His eyes widened, his lips trembled with anger, but he did not yield.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why do you deny them? These people suffer… they thirst. What sin is theirs that the sky itself must abandon them?"
The villagers, seeing the storm without rain, fell to their knees, wailing. Their hope began to die.
The Choice
Parashurama appeared then, arriving in silence, his eyes fixed upon his disciple.
"Why does the rain not fall, Karna?" he asked calmly.
Karna bowed, anguish in his voice. "Master, I invoked the Varunastra with all my power. The clouds gathered, the heavens trembled—but someone above resists. The sky denies me."
Parashurama's gaze deepened. "Then what will you do? Will you curse the gods? Will you strike the heavens themselves? Or will you abandon the task?"
Karna looked upon the weeping villagers. His jaw clenched, and slowly he shook his head.
"No, Master. I will not abandon them. If the heavens deny me, then I shall give them water myself. Let the gods keep their rains—I have arms to dig, and strength to serve."
At once he threw aside his bow. Taking up a spade from the villagers, he plunged it into the cracked earth. He dug, and dug, sweat pouring, blood seeping from his torn hands. The people, inspired by his fury, joined him. Together they carved deep into the ground, and at last—a spring burst forth, cold and clear.
The villagers cried out in joy, drinking, filling pots, splashing upon the children.
Karna collapsed to his knees, exhausted but smiling. "See, Master? If the heavens deny us, still the earth provides."
The Sage's Verdict
Parashurama watched, his eyes moist with pride. "Ah, Karna. You have passed the true test—not of weapons, but of heart. To fight the gods is arrogance. To bow before them is weakness. But to serve men, even when the gods abandon them—that is dharma."
He placed a hand upon Karna's head. "The heavens may refuse you, but you shall command the love of men. That is greater than astras, greater than rain, greater even than victory. Never forget this."
Above, Indra's face hardened as he watched. A strange unease stirred in his chest. For the first time, he saw that Karna's power was not merely in his weapons, but in his will to endure and to serve.
And so, the rivalry between heaven and earth had truly begun.