Chapter 104: The Call to the Tournament of Power
A year is a fleeting thing. To some, it passes like the gentle rustle of leaves in a summer breeze. To others, it is an eternity of sweat, pain, and perseverance. For the Kuru princes, Subhadra, Dushala, and those chosen few who had been taken under the guidance of Mahishmati's mightiest warriors, the year had been nothing short of transformation.
When they had first stepped into Mahishmati, they had been little more than entitled youths—ignorant of the vastness of Bharat, the depth of its warriors, or even their own hidden potential. But under the relentless trials of training, under the unforgiving eyes of their mentors, they had been broken down and rebuilt. Now, as the dawn of their final test approached, they stood tall, not as pampered princes and princesses, but as warriors.
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Three months earlier, Arjun had completed his rigorous training under Karna. Karna had pushed him beyond limits he had never known, molding his bowsmanship into something sharper, deadlier. When Rudra had seen Arjun leave for Dwarika to continue under Krishna's spiritual guidance, there had been a silent pride in his eyes.
"Jeshtha Bhrata" Arjun had once said before leaving, bowing deeply, "your teachings will remain in my hands every time I draw a bow. I do not know whether fate will pit us as brothers or as rivals, but I will never forget what you have given me."
Karna had simply placed a hand on his shoulder, his voice calm but firm, "Do not live in the shadows of others, Arjun. Find your own light. That will be your true strength."
And with that, Arjun had gone.
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Duryodhan's transformation had been nothing short of remarkable. Under the tutelage of Rudra's father, Maharathi Suresh Pratap, the great mace master who had once learned directly from Lord Hanuman, Duryodhan found both strength and humility.
The mornings were filled with the sound of thundering strikes, the gada whistling through the air. Suresh's voice would roar like thunder itself.
"No, boy! Your mace is not just a weapon—it is an extension of your arm, your breath, your soul! Again!"
Again and again, Duryodhan would lift, swing, strike, until his arms trembled and sweat poured down like rain. At first, he would grit his teeth in frustration. But slowly, his movements became smoother, his strikes sharper. The rage that had once blinded him was honed into discipline.
One evening, after a particularly brutal spar, Suresh Pratap had leaned closer and said, "Remember, the mace does not forgive arrogance. Wield it as a protector, and it will grant you victory. Wield it with greed, and it will shatter you."
Duryodhan, panting, had bowed. For the first time in his life, true respect had entered his heart.
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The other princes of Hastinapur were not neglected either. Under Arun, they learned agility—the art of moving like the wind, of dancing between strikes. Arun would shout from the sidelines, "If you are struck, it is not your enemy's fault—it is your body's fault for not flowing with the air!"
Varun, calm and steady, drilled them in the proper use of strength. "Raw power is wasted without precision," he would say, forcing them to break boulders with carefully measured strikes.
And Dhoomketu—the beast among men—taught them the brutal art of resilience. They ran through forests, fought barehanded against animals, and toughened their bodies until they could take blows that would cripple ordinary warriors.
The Kurus who had once scoffed at hard labor now bled and sweated like common soldiers. And in that humility, they found strength.
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Among them, Vikarna shone like a rising fire. Under Veer Pratap, he not only honed his archery but also learned to master his fiery Siddhi.
During one training session, Vikarna stood with bow in hand, sweat dripping down his brow. Veer's voice was firm, "Your flame is your soul, Vikarna. Do not let it consume you—command it!"
Drawing his bow, Vikarna released an arrow that burst into flames midair, striking a distant target with a blazing roar.
The firelight reflected in his eyes, but his face remained calm. He had mastered not just his weapon, but also the fire burning inside him.
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If anyone underestimated the women of Hastinapur, they paid dearly during training. Dushala, under Ishita's guidance, awakened her Sword Siddhi. Twin slender blades that gleamed like silver lightning in her hands. When she fought, it was like watching a deadly dance—every step graceful, every slash fatal.
During one spar, a fellow prince had mocked, "Will you dance for us or fight?"
Dushala's eyes narrowed, and in three swift steps she had disarmed him, the cold steel of her blade at his throat. "Sometimes," she whispered, "the dance is the fight."
Subhadra, on the other hand, revealed her gift of illusions with the Maya Mani. The golden ring with its blue gem glowed whenever she raised her hand. Enemies would see three of her, or none of her, or their own greatest fears staring back at them. Ishita had warned her, "Illusion is a weapon sharper than any sword. Use it wisely."
The younger princess had nodded, her playful smile hiding a dangerous resolve.
And then there was Anupriya. The girl who had once entered Rudra's life quietly, had now become an inseparable part of his family. Bela adored her like a daughter. Ishita treated her as a sister.
But her greatest growth came in her secret training under Rudra. By riversides, in moonlit courtyards, and in the hidden grounds of Mahishmati, Rudra pushed her limits.
"You hesitate, Anu," Rudra once said as she fumbled with a spear.
"I… I fear that I will never match Ishita," she confessed softly.
Rudra shook his head. "Do not compare. Do not imitate. Your strength is your own. Find it."
And she did. Through relentless practice, she awakened her Siddhi: Golden Intent. With it, any weapon she wielded shone with lethal brilliance, its power magnified. Her movements became precise, her strikes devastating.
When she showed it to Rudra for the first time, he smiled faintly. "Now, Anupriya, you no longer follow the path—you make it."
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Yudhishthir, steady and disciplined, had grown under Rudra's personal eye. He learned to channel his spear intent with clarity, and his Siddhi became sharper. He could almost sense the righteousness or falsehood in his opponents, a gift that gave his strikes terrifying accuracy.
Sahadeva, under the mighty Vijay Raj Pratap, trained in the art of war and the battle axe. Maps, strategies, formations—they were drilled into his mind. And when he wielded the axe, it was as though the Silver Lion himself fought through him.
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The Gathering
Finally, after a year of transformation, Rudra summoned them all.
The training grounds of Mahishmati buzzed with anticipation. The princes, the princesses, Anupriya, even the mentors stood around. Rudra, clad in his dark robes, walked to the center. His presence silenced them all.
His eyes swept over them—faces hardened by sweat and war, eyes filled with newfound resolve. He could see the changes in each of them, and silently, he felt a rare swell of pride.
"You have walked through fire," Rudra began, his voice steady. "When you came here, you were children of privilege. Now, you stand as warriors. You have bled, you have fallen, you have risen. And now, your training is complete."
The group stirred, whispers echoing. Was this farewell?
"But," Rudra raised his hand, "before you go, you must prove yourselves. Not to me, not to your mentors, but to Bharat itself."
A hush fell.
"I will hold a Grand Tournament—the Tournament of Power," Rudra declared. "Every warrior below Maharathi level from across Bharatvarsh will be welcome to join. There will be competitions of skill, strength, and spirit. And the winners…" his eyes gleamed, "will be rewarded with gifts equivalent to a small boon."
Gasps echoed across the field. Even the mentors exchanged glances. A reward equivalent to a boon? That was unheard of.
The princes' eyes lit with excitement. Subhadra gripped her ring tightly, Dushala touched the hilt of her twin swords, Duryodhan clenched his mace with determination.
Rudra looked at all of them, his gaze like fire. "This is no longer training. This is destiny. Prepare yourselves—for Bharat will be watching."
And with that, the seeds of the grandest battle yet were sown.
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