The shouts of the attackers filled the air, a deafening cacophony of rage and violence that shattered the stillness of the night. Karan, clutching his father's hand, was being pulled along a narrow, winding corridor as guards fought desperately to hold back the encroaching forces of the Ahankari Prant. The once-serene palace, the home of his peaceful life, was now a scene of utter chaos and terror. The gilded tapestries were torn and shredded, the polished floors stained with dark pools of blood, and the air, so recently smelling of rain and lotuses, was thick with the choking scent of fear and smoke. The sounds of clashing steel and agonizing screams became the new, horrifying anthem of the night.
As they reached the royal armory, a large, hulking figure in black, obsidian-like armor burst through the doors, a massive, two-handed sword dripping with the blood of a dozen guards who had fallen in his wake. It was the Ahankari general, a man whose sheer size and brutal efficiency seemed to defy the very laws of nature. He was a force of pure destruction, a harbinger of the end. King Raynar, with a frantic, desperate shove, pushed Karan into the armory, just as the general's sword swung down in a lethal arc. "Run, Karan! Run!" his father screamed, his body a shield, his voice a final, heartbreaking command. Karan watched in a horrified, detached silence as the general's sword pierced his father's chest, a grotesque, silent ballet of death that felt like a slow-motion nightmare. The King's eyes, filled with a father's love and a ruler's despair, locked with his son's as he fell, the last flicker of life draining from them.
A scream tore from Karan's throat. It was not the high-pitched cry of a terrified child, but a deep, guttural roar of pure, unadulterated rage and anguish. He fell to his knees, his hands trembling violently as he stared at his father's lifeless body, a vessel of his unconditional love now empty. His mind, which had been so placid and empty, now felt a sudden, piercing jolt of a pain so intense it ripped through the sealed chambers of his soul. A torrent of images, fragmented and brutal, flashed before his eyes: a battlefield filled with blood, a broken chariot wheel sinking into the mud, a spear piercing his chest, and the mocking words of an enemy as his life faded. "If you were strong, this never would have happened." The two deaths, the two humiliations, the two moments of utter powerlessness, collided in a single, devastating moment.
The Ahankari general, a cruel smile etched on his face, looked down at Karan, wiping his blood-stained sword with a flourish. "What's wrong, little prince? Crying won't bring him back. You're too weak to even understand a king's duty. The duty to protect, a duty you have failed to fulfill." His words, laced with venomous scorn, were the final trigger.
That was the breaking point. The two lives, two deaths, and two humiliations collided in a single, devastating moment. The seal on his memories, so carefully placed by Narada, shattered completely, not with a gentle crack, but with the force of a cosmic explosion. The blissful ignorance of his second life was consumed by the fire of his first. He remembered it all: the Kurukshetra war, the betrayal of his mother, the humiliation he faced as a "Sutaputra," and the endless insults that had defined his existence. But above all, he remembered the pain of being powerless in his final moments. The pain of watching his friends fall, of having his fate mocked, of knowing he could have saved them if only he had not been cursed.
Karan's body glowed with a blinding golden light that pushed the general back, throwing him against the stone wall. The air around him shimmered and warped, and the very ground beneath his knees cracked and fractured under a power that had been dormant for decades, waiting to be unleashed. He was no longer Karan Raymond, the peaceful prince. He was Suryaputra Karna, the son of the sun, the cursed warrior, and the unsealed memory of his past now fueled a rage far more powerful than any weapon. He looked at the general, his eyes no longer innocent, but filled with a cold, righteous fury. This was not a child's grief. This was an Avenger's return. He had been mocked twice, humiliated twice, and this time, he would make his enemies pay for both lives. He stood up, the golden light radiating from him like a halo, and for the first time in his life, he was truly free. Free from the chains of peace he had wished for, and ready to embrace the path of vengeance he was now destined to walk.