Chapter 11: The Trial Teaching
Bhargav rose slowly, every movement deliberate. He stepped toward the pond and mimicked a swing.
But it wasn't flashy. It wasn't even fast. It was slow, almost painfully so. And yet, as I watched, my heart skipped. Because it felt… inevitable.
Like the swing had already landed, like the world had already accepted its verdict.
"The sword," Bhargav said softly, "is quick. The spear is far. But the axe…" His arms cut through the air again. "…the axe ends. It does not tease. It does not dance. To raise it is to accept the weight of judgment. Once swung, it cannot be taken back."
I couldn't breathe. Just watching his imitation made my palms clammy.
Bhargav's tone hardened. "That is why Parashurama's art was not technique alone. It was restraint. To cut not for anger, not for vanity, not for the thrill of battle. But only when judgment was due. Every swing was a verdict. And verdicts must be final."
Something inside me cracked.
That was why his style felt so different from anything I'd seen in this world—or my last. It wasn't about efficiency. It wasn't about elegance. It was about weight. Finality.
And suddenly I hated myself a little. Because in my old world, I'd wanted cheats, shortcuts, flashy powers. And here was an art that didn't forgive that kind of greed.
Bhargav must have seen it in my face. He gave a grim nod. "Yes. You begin to understand."
Then his voice faltered. His shoulders slumped.
"But I… I was only a shadow of him. What I created was not his art. At best, a reflection. At worst, a mockery."
He clenched his hand, the veins along his arm trembling.
"I trained until my bones cracked. Until my skin tore and bled into the dirt. Until my soul itself split to leave behind this fragment you see before you. And still… I could not glimpse even a fraction of Parashurama's truth."
I froze.
"You mean…"
Bhargav gave a bitter smile. "At my peak, at the height of my discipline, I could claim no more than 0.1 percent of his art. Not one percent. Not half. Not even close. A tenth of a percent. Do you understand, Kael? If Parashurama swung his axe once, it would eclipse every strike of mine combined."
The words crushed me.
I'd seen Bhargav split falling leaves into eight perfect fragments without drawing his blade. And he said that was a mockery?
"If Bhargav is 0.1%… then what the hell am I?" The thought burned inside me. I couldn't stop it.
My knees trembled. My mouth went dry.
Bhargav stared at me, his eyes hollow. "Remember that despair. Hold it. It will keep you humble."
Bhargav's words sat heavy in the garden air, and I could almost hear them echo across centuries.
0.1 percent.
The number mocked me. If this master, who seemed like a living mountain of discipline, had only carved out a fraction of Parashurama's path, then what was I? A stray ant trying to lift a boulder?
But Bhargav wasn't finished.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time his voice cracked, like it carried not only reverence but grief.
"This world has forgotten him, Kael. Forgotten Parashurama. Forgotten what it meant to carry an axe not for war, but for Dharma. Forgotten that justice is not the sword's edge, but the weight of choice."
His hand trembled as it hovered above the pond, fingers brushing the water. Ripples spread outward, distorting the koi's reflections.
"Generations passed. The stories became softer. Kings erased their shame. Scribes turned his battles into parables for children. And the axe… became just another weapon. Its burden reduced to ornament."
I clenched my fists. Something about that struck too close. I had done the same thing. I had read about Parashurama like trivia. A checkbox in my mind labeled interesting myth. I never thought about what kind of will it would take to raise an axe twenty-one times against entire kingdoms.
I never thought about what it meant to keep swinging, not for oneself, but for the world.
Bhargav's voice rose, a faint edge of rage behind his control.
"They call themselves warriors today. They twirl blades, chase titles, carve their names into history. But who among them remembers the balance? Who among them weighs the verdict before they swing? None. They kill for themselves. For vanity. For kingdoms built on rot."
His gaze bore into me like a blade.
"Kael, you walk in a world that has forgotten legends, and because of that… it will forget justice. Unless someone remembers."
I looked down at my hands. They still bore no scars from the trials, though my mind carried them all.
How can I?
I wanted to scream. I wasn't some ancient sage. I wasn't Parashurama. I wasn't even Bhargav.
I was a reader. A bystander who had skimmed through battles in novels like flicking pages of a comic. And now the world was telling me: Here. Carry the axe. Carry Dharma.
My chest ached.
"What if I fail?" The words escaped before I could stop them. "What if I don't have what it takes? You said yourself you only touched 0.1 percent of him. How am I supposed to even—"
My voice cracked. I bit it down, but the tremble betrayed me.
Bhargav's expression softened, not with pity, but with recognition.
"You will fail," he said simply.
The words stung sharper than a blade.
"You will fail again and again. You will falter. You will fall short. You will swing in doubt, you will hesitate, you will regret. That is the nature of mortals. That is why even I, with all my years, only touched a fragment."
He stepped closer, and his hand landed heavy on my shoulder.
"But failure does not free you from the burden. To inherit the axe is not to be perfect. It is to rise after every imperfection and keep swinging—not for yourself, but for what must be done."
His grip tightened, his eyes burning.
"That is Dharma, Kael Arden. Not purity. Not perfection. But acceptance of the weight, even when it breaks you."
Bhargav's voice grew distant, almost chanting, as though he were reciting something older than his own life.
"Parashurama never claimed divinity. He was not a god masquerading among men. He was a man who bore the gift and curse of being chosen to reset the balance. His art was not taught. It was lived. Every swing he made was a sutra of its own, a scripture carved into history. And yet, mortals forgot."
The air trembled. For a moment, I thought I saw him—Parashurama himself towering behind Bhargav, his silhouette holding an axe larger than life, radiating judgment.
I blinked, and it was gone.
Bhargav exhaled, his frame sagging as if that memory alone drained him.
"What I created," he whispered, "was but an imitation. I studied the tales, I sought the rhythm, I disciplined my body until it was no longer mine. And still, I only birthed an echo. A style carved from fragments. A mockery that I named art."
He looked at me then, eyes filled with something heavier than regret.
"But even a mockery of truth carries power, if wielded with sincerity. If you choose to walk it—not for vanity, not for glory—but as verdict… then perhaps, perhaps, Parashurama's shadow may flicker once more in this forgotten world."
Silence stretched.
My throat burned. My chest felt hollow and full at once. I wanted to reject it, to scream that this wasn't mine, that I wasn't worthy. But beneath that fear, something else stirred.
A memory.
Sitting in my old world, scrolling through comment sections of novels I didn't write, laughing at readers who argued over morality, over who was right, who was wrong. I had read them all, safe and detached.
Now… there was no comment section. No distance. Just me. My hands. My choices.
Bhargav's words cut deeper than any blade.
Failure does not free you from the burden.
I clenched my fists tighter.
Maybe I wasn't worthy. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I'd never glimpse even 0.01 percent.
But if I didn't try… then the world really would forget.
I lifted my head.
"I'll carry it," I whispered. My voice trembled, but the words stayed.
"Even if it breaks me. Even if I fail again and again… I'll keep swinging."
Bhargav studied me for a long time, as though measuring not my words, but the fracture lines in my soul.
And then, for the first time, he smiled not bitter, not regretful, but proud.
"Good. Then you are ready to learn what little I can give."
Bhargav stood, his robes whispering against the stones of the garden path.
The koi pond behind him shimmered, reflecting his silhouette, as though the water itself bowed to his presence.
"Kael Arden," he said, his voice low but thunderous in weight, "you will not inherit my strength. That cannot be given. You will inherit only the rhythm, the path carved into my soul by endless repetition."
I rose to my feet, heart hammering.
Bhargav raised his hand, palm up. With a sharp motion, an axe appeared—massive, double-edged, yet worn. Its haft was dark with age, and faint cracks traced its head. But when he held it, the weapon radiated something indescribable.
Not raw power.
Not sharpness.
But… gravity.
It felt like a verdict embodied in iron.
"This is not Parashurama's axe," Bhargav said softly. "That divine relic has long been lost to time. This is my own. A copy. An offering. It carries only the faintest echo of what it means to swing for justice."
He hefted it once, and the entire garden seemed to hold its breath.
"Watch closely."