Meanwhile, in the river Ganga, Karna was seen rowing with steady, patient strokes, forcing the small boat against the stubborn pull of the current. Because it is an upstream from Prayag to Kashi, every time his oar cut into the water, the Ganga seemed to resist him, as if testing whether his will was stronger than her flow. Hence, the speed was quite slow.
The boat was nothing special, a plain wooden vessel with uneven planks and a faint smell of fish that refused to leave it. He had bought it from an old fisherman near Kashi, paid more than the man asked, and still promised he would return it once he was done. Karna could have abandoned it without anyone knowing. He could have walked through the forest like any warrior would.
But a promise, even to a stranger, was not something he could toss aside like a broken arrow.
At the moment, his eyes stayed on the riverbanks, scanning the darkness for a safe place to land.
For a moment, it almost felt peaceful.
Then the sound came.
It was faint at first, barely more than a whisper carried by the wind, but it crawled into Karna's ears and settled in his bones.
Karna's hands tightened on the oar without him realizing.
His expression changed so sharply it was as if a mask had cracked.
His chest tightened, and for a brief moment, he couldn't tell if the feeling was instinct, worry, or something else entirely. It was not the kind of fear that made a man tremble. It was the kind that made him alert, ready, dangerous.
Something was wrong.
He stopped rowing for a heartbeat, listening carefully, letting the river carry the sound again.
The cries returned, louder now, mixed with something else. Metal striking metal. The dull crunch of something breaking. A low guttural roar that didn't sound human at all.
Karna's jaw clenched.
Without hesitation, he began rowing faster.
His arms moved like pistons, his muscles tightening with effort as he drove the boat forward. The upstream pull fought him harder now, but Karna did not slow. The cries grew louder with every stroke, becoming clearer, sharper, turning into unmistakable sounds of battle.
The river had carried many screams before. It had carried the prayers of dying men, the curses of drowning fools, the cries of mothers who lost their children.
But this scream was different.
This scream carried the sound of someone refusing to die.
His eyes flicked toward the bank, and he spotted a narrow opening between thick trees. A small patch of land where the mud was firmer, where roots rose like twisted fingers from the earth. It was not a proper landing spot, but it would do.
Karna angled the boat sharply and drove it toward the shore.
He jumped out immediately, boots sinking slightly into damp soil, and grabbed the rope. His fingers worked quickly, tying it around a thick root with a knot that would hold even against the river's stubborn tug.
He paused only long enough to glance at the boat.
"I will return," he muttered, as if the promise needed to be spoken aloud again.
Then he turned and ran.
The forest swallowed him instantly.
Thick branches scratched at his arms and tore at his clothing, leaves slapping against his face as if the trees themselves were trying to stop him.
The ground was uneven, full of roots and stones, but Karna moved as if he had been born in this darkness. His feet found their way without hesitation, his body slipping between trunks and bushes with the ease of a predator.
The sounds grew closer.
Now he could hear the battle clearly. The growling laughter of something monstrous. The sharp ring of steel clashing. A woman's voice rising again and again, not pleading, not panicking, but roaring like fire given a mouth.
Karna's pace increased.
His heart beat hard, not from exhaustion, but from urgency. He didn't know why his blood was boiling, why his instincts were screaming at him to move faster, why his hands were already itching for a weapon before he had even seen the enemy.
He only knew one thing.
If he arrived too late, something would be lost that could never be recovered.
He pushed through the last line of trees and burst out of the forest.
The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat.
The camp was ruined.
Tents burned like funeral pyres, collapsing inward as flames devoured cloth and wood. The air was thick with smoke, blood, and the metallic stench of death.
Bodies lay everywhere, scattered across the ground like discarded armor. Some were soldiers of Kashi, their faces frozen in shock. Some were rakshasas, their twisted limbs sprawled unnaturally, their black blood mixing with human red.
The earth had turned into mud from all the blood soaking into it.
And in the center of that nightmare, two figures were spotted.
Mrinalini stood with her trishula raised, her saree torn and stained dark with blood. Her hair had come loose, wild around her face, and her eyes looked like they had forgotten what tears were.
Every swing of her weapon cut through the air with deadly precision, silver light flashing with each arc. She was breathing hard, but she did not hesitate. She did not retreat.
She attacked as if her grief had become a blade.
Opposite her was Vritraketu, who was on defense.
Mrinalini lunged again, her trishula slicing through the smoke like a silver fang.
Her feet slipped slightly on the blood-soaked earth, but she didn't care.
She didn't even seem to feel the burns on her arms or the cuts across her shoulder. Her eyes were locked only on Vritraketu, and in those eyes there was no princess left, no softness, no hesitation.
Vritraketu snarled and met her charge head-on.
His boot slammed into her chest with brutal force. The impact stole the air from her lungs, and her body flew backward like she had been struck by a chariot.
She crashed into the dirt with a heavy thud, the wind knocked out of her, the trishula skidding from her grip for a heartbeat before she clutched it again.
Vritraketu didn't give her time to rise.
He leaped high into the air, his sword raised above his head, shadows twisting around him like a cloak. His face was lit by the firelight, and his grin was sharp enough to cut flesh.
"Now die, woman!" he roared. At first, he wanted to humiliate her, but as he battled her, Vitraketu realized that he couldn't have any upper hand. His Asuric arts, his swordsmanship, his illusions… this princess had an answer to everything, and with the divinity emerging from her trishula hurting him even more because of his evil nature, Vitraketu only felt the hurry to kill her as fast as possible.
Now that a chance has opened, Vikrateku didn't hesitate to try piercing her chest with the sword
Mrinalini tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled. Her chest burned. Her breath came out as a harsh gasp. For the first time since the battle began, her body betrayed her, refusing to move fast enough.
The sword then came down.
But just at that moment, Karna moved.
He didn't shout. He didn't announce himself. His hand simply flashed to his waist, and his dagger flew straight through the smoke, clean and fast, and struck Vritraketu's wrist with a sickening crack.
The sword that was supposed to end Mrinalini's life was spun away mid-air instead, tumbling end over end before clattering into the dirt with a heavy sound.
Vritraketu screamed, the sound full of shock and pain through his wrist that seemed to have incapacitated his dominant right hand. His body twisted awkwardly as he fell, landing hard, stumbling forward as he tried to regain balance.
Mrinalini's eyes widened then.
She didn't waste even a breath, not intending to waste this opportunity.
She rolled to her feet with a snarl, her bare feet digging into the earth. Her trishula then rose with her. Before Vritraketu could even lift his other hand, she drove the weapon upward with all her strength.
The three prongs pierced his chest.
"Ugh...."