The sun rose over the banks of the Ganga, casting golden light across the sprawling grounds of Rishi Dronacharya's Gurukul. The river shimmered like a blade, and the air was thick with anticipation. Today was the day the sons of Hastinapur would begin their formal training.
The Pandavas arrived first—five brothers, each marked by divine lineage and royal blood. They bowed to the sage, their posture perfect, their eyes gleaming with destiny. Dronacharya accepted them without question.
The Kauravas followed—sons of Dhritarashtra, proud and ambitious. They too were welcomed, their names already etched into the politics of the palace.
The gurukul buzzed with excitement. Bows were strung. Targets were set. Destiny was in motion.
The Boy Who Stepped Forward
Among the crowd stood Karna.
His robes were plain.
His bow was handmade—carved from neem wood, wrapped in goat leather, its string frayed from practice.
His eyes burned with longing.
He stepped forward.
"I wish to learn," he said.
Dronacharya turned.
"Your lineage?" he asked.
"I am the son of a charioteer," Karna replied.
The sage's gaze hardened.
"I teach only Kshatriyas and Brahmins."
Karna stood still.
The Pandavas smirked.
Arjuna looked away.
Duryodhana raised an eyebrow.
Other boys whispered.
"Charioteer's son wants to be an archer?"
"Go polish wheels."
"This is not your place."
Karna clenched his fists.
But said nothing.
The Evening Under the Neem Tree
That night, Karna sat alone beneath a neem tree.
His bow lay beside him.
Untouched.
His dream felt distant.
Like a star behind clouds.
He replayed the moment again and again—the rejection, the laughter, the silence. He had trained for years in secret, shooting arrows into tree trunks, carving targets from clay. He had studied the wind, the arc, the rhythm of release. But none of it mattered here.
Vrushali, his childhood friend, approached.
She didn't speak at first.
She sat beside him, her presence quiet but steady.
Then she placed a mango leaf in his hand.
"If one teacher won't teach you…"
She looked at him.
"…find another."
Karna stared at the leaf.
"But where?"
Vrushali smiled.
"The world is wide."
The Storm Walks On
Far to the east, Dhira and his gang were preparing to leave Magadh.
They had spent three days sparring, laughing, and learning with Jarasandha—the prince of Magadh, the mountain-hearted warrior who had clashed with Dhira in a battle that shook the training grounds.
But the road called.
The storm never stayed.
They stood at the edge of the city, ready to walk again.
Jarasandha arrived with a satchel of mangoes and a small, carved box.
Inside was a royal talisman—a disc of polished stone, etched with the lion crest of Magadh, strung on a cord of silver thread.
"This," Jarasandha said, "marks you as a friend of Magadh."
"With it, you may enter my halls at any tim."
"You will be treated as a royal guest."
Dhira took it.
Held it.
Felt its weight.
"I don't wear titles," he said.
"It's not a title," Jarasandha replied. "It's a door."
They clasped hands.
No words.
Just respect.
The Followers' Reaction
The five senior followers crowded around Dhira as he tucked the talisman into his satchel.
"Boss, does this mean we get royal Food?"
"Can we sleep in silk beds now?"
"Do we get Lion escorts?"
"Can we rename ourselves the Chappel of Lions?"
Dhira shook his head.
"We walk. We don't sit."
Bhairav, standing quietly behind them, watched the exchange.
He didn't speak.
But he understood.
This wasn't about luxury.
It was about recognition.
Dhira had earned respect not through lineage, but through movement.
Through grit.
Through storm.
The Road Ahead
As they left the city, Jarasandha stood atop the watchtower, watching the seven figures disappear into the horizon.
He didn't wave.
He didn't call out.
But he smiled.
"Strong," he whispered. "And strange."
Back in Hastinapur, Karna stood beneath the neem tree, gripping his bow tighter.
He didn't know Dhira.
Not yet.
But the wind carried stories.
And the storm was walking closer.