Duryodhana's eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. His breath caught in his throat.
"Who is this person"? He thought, his mind racing. "He threw Bhima away like nothing…"
He had seen Bhima fight. He had sparred with him for years. Even until a moment ago, he couldn't find himself to overpower this cousin of his. Unlike his, which he attained it through pure hard work, Bhima's strength was innate and monstrous since they were kids.
In Duryodhana's eyes, only one man in all of Bharatvarsha was spoken of with such terrifying physical prowess.
Jarasandha of Magadha.
But Duryodhana knew Jarasandha would never come here disguised like a thief in the night.
Nor would Jarasandha waste time with masks and riddles.
Duryodhana's voice slipped out in a murmur, barely audible. "I have never heard of anyone with such physical strength… except Jarasandha."
Meanwhile, Bhima groaned painfully as he forced himself to rise. His body ached. His ribs screamed. The earlier clash with Duryodhana had already bruised his muscles, but this throw had driven the injury deeper. Still, Bhima's eyes burned with humiliation and fury.
High above, in the royal balcony, Kunti rose abruptly from her seat.
"Bhima!" she screamed, her voice cracking with fear.
Her hands trembled. Her heart felt as though it had been stabbed. She leaned forward, staring down at the arena as if she could shield her son with her gaze alone.
On the ground, the masked stranger did not even look at Bhima again, as if this prince was no longer worth his attention.
Instead, the stranger turned slowly and faced Dronacharya.
His voice remained calm, but the words carried the weight of a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
"Acharya Drona," he said, "it seems you trained them well in combat… but did not teach them enough manners."
The insult instantly landed like poison.
Drona's expression hardened instantly, his pride burning. His eyes narrowed as if he wanted to tear the stranger apart with sheer will.
The stranger continued without pause. "If your own disciples behave like this, do you think you have the right to point your fingers at strangers like me and call me audacious?"
The arena stirred. Murmurs spread. The nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
Arjuna stepped forward, his face tightening with anger.
"Hey… You… Don't you dare speak to my Gurudev like that," Arjuna snapped, voice sharp as an arrowhead. "Impudent!"
The masked man turned his head slightly toward Arjuna.
His voice did not rise, yet it struck harder than shouting. "If you perform well, won't your Gurudev be praised for your skills?" He tilted his head, almost thoughtfully. "Then why can't he be insulted for your brother's poor manners?"
The words made Arjuna's eyes widen in fury.
"You cannot be selective, Prince Arjuna," the stranger continued. "Those who receive a boon when they earn merits must also accept a curse when they commit sins. Those who take the lives of others must also accept death when death comes for them. That's the way of life. Didn't your guru teach you that much?"
Arjuna's jaw clenched.
"Stop preaching!" Arjuna shouted. "Fight me, if your arrows carry the same sharpness as your tongue!"
Just then, Bhima let out a low, painful groan as he forced himself upright. Dust clung to his back and shoulders, and his breath came out uneven, like a wounded lion refusing to collapse.
The impact had rattled his bones. His ribs ached, his muscles screamed, and the humiliation burned hotter than the pain itself.
Still, his eyes remained wild, fixed on the masked stranger with the same fury that had driven him into battle against Duryodhana only moments ago.
At that moment, Bhima staggered forward again, his anger refusing to die.
But Yudhishthira rushed to him, grabbing his arm firmly. "Bhima… No..."
"Elder Brother… But..."
"No, leave this to Arjuna…"
As Yudhisthira convinced him while dragging him away, slowly and reluctantly, Bhima allowed himself to be pulled away, his chest heaving as he descended from the battle platform, his eyes still burning with hatred and wounded pride.
The masked stranger watched them for only a moment, then turned back toward Arjuna, his tone turning mocking, as though this was all an ordinary sport.
"What are you waiting for, Prince Arjuna? Draw your bow and shoot. Are we in some sort of competition or something? Or was your heart too soft on the enemies?"
Arjuna's eyes narrowed at those words. Without another word, he raised his Bow. The bowstring tightened, and an arrow formed in his grip, gleaming as if summoned from the very air. The masked stranger raised his own bow at the same time, conjuring an arrow with the same ease.
They released together.
The arrows collided with a sharp burst of energy, vanishing into sparks that dissolved in midair.
The crowd gasped, thousands of breaths sucked in at once.
Arjuna's expression tightened as he immediately released another arrow, then another, his hands moving with practiced speed.
The masked stranger countered each one calmly, his own arrows meeting Arjuna's like mirrors, cutting them down before they could travel far.
The exchange became rapid, relentless, a storm of shafts that never reached their targets. It was like watching two lightning bolts crash against each other again and again.
On the balcony, Drona's fists clenched. His eyes narrowed, assessing with the sharpness of a master.
"This warrior," Drona muttered, almost unwillingly, "whoever he is… he is quite skilled to keep up with Arjuna."
For the first time since the stranger appeared, Bhishma spoke.
He shook his head slowly.
"You are mistaken, Guru Drona," Bhishma said.
Drona's gaze flickered toward him. "What do you mean?"
Bhishma's voice remained calm, but his words carried weight, as if he was pointing at a truth hidden in plain sight. "Observe carefully. They release their arrows at the same time, yet the collisions are not happening at the midpoint. They are happening closer to Arjuna."
Drona's brows furrowed as he looked again, and suddenly he noticed it. The masked stranger's arrows were meeting Arjuna's slightly nearer to Arjuna's side of the arena, forcing the collision line to drift backward.
Bhishma's gaze did not move from the battle.
"And look at Arjuna himself," Bhishma added. "His breathing has become heavier. Sweat has begun to form. His stance is shifting. He is stepping back, again and again, drawing his bow harder each time."
His voice lowered, almost like a verdict.
"He is making an effort."
Bhishma's eyes narrowed.
"And the stranger…" he said quietly, "is not."
On the royal balcony, Drona's brows remained tightly drawn as he watched the battle unfold.
Arjuna was continuously being guided backward, step by step, as though an unseen hand was steering him toward the edge of the platform.
Drona's fingers curled into his palm. His voice came out low, filled with disbelief.
"Who could this person be?"
His eyes shifted toward Bhishma, almost as if seeking a second set of eyes to confirm what his instincts were whispering.
But Bhishma was not tense. He was not alarmed. Instead, the old grandsire of the Kuru Dynasty had the faintest smile on his lips, the kind of smile that appeared when a warrior saw a truth unfold exactly as expected.
Drona stared at him.
"Mahamahim…" he asked slowly, feeling suspicious, "you know who this is?"
Bhishma's gaze never left the arena. His eyes remained calm, but his voice carried certainty.
"It's not just me. You know him, too, Guru Drona, although neither of us met him before."
Drona's throat tightened. Bhishma then continued, speaking as though he was assembling pieces of a puzzle that had always been obvious.
"One who carries a young voice, audacious enough to speak his mind freely in the court of another Kingdom without fear. One strong enough to throw Bhima aside as if he were a child. One skilled enough to push Arjuna backward in archery, not by overwhelming force, but by perfect timing and control."
Bhishma's smile deepened slightly.
"Only one person in all of Bharatavarsha fits all these things, and that person is linked to both you and me."
Drona's eyes widened, realization striking him like a thunderbolt. His gaze snapped back to the masked warrior below. His lips parted, and the name escaped him like a whisper of destiny.
"Suryaputra…"