Nirvikapla's gaze softened further. "You do not turn away, son. You carry it with you—but you do not let it stop you. The sun carries the night inside itself, yet it still rises. Let your grief be the night you carry. Let it remind you of love's depth. But do not let it keep you from rising. And when you realize that from within the heart, you will start finding happiness in the happiness of society, and you start finding sadness in the struggles of society. That will be when you can find your life's purpose, son."
He reached out and placed one hand lightly on Karna's bowed head.
"May your endeavors find success in Kashi and you receive the blessings of Mahadeva."
Karna closed his eyes.
The conversation inside the hut had stretched long into the evening.
When Karna finally stepped out, the courtyard lay wrapped in deep twilight.
The fire near the tulsi plant burned low, sending thin threads of smoke upward
Most of the disciples had already settled on mats near the outer wall, wrapped in thin blankets against the night chill.
The soldiers of Kashi stood watch at the edges of the yard, spears upright, eyes scanning the dark trees beyond the gate.
Karna found a quiet spot near the low mud wall, away from the main fire.
He spread his small blanket on the ground, placed the clay urn beside his head like a pillow, and sat cross-legged.
His palms rested lightly on his knees.
He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow. The sounds of the Ashram softened—the crackle of the fire, the distant call of a night bird, the low murmur of disciples reciting evening prayers.
For the first time in many days, the restlessness in his chest eased a little, as though the sage's words had opened a small window in a long-closed room.
He had not been sitting long when soft footsteps approached.
"Vasusena Mahodaya."
Karna opened his eyes. Mrinalini stood a few paces away, her blue saree catching the faint firelight. She had changed into simpler clothes, but the ruby in her hair still gleamed. She kept a respectful distance, hands folded loosely in front of her.
"Princess," he said, voice quiet.
She hesitated, then spoke. "We have been here since morning, yet Maharshi Nirvikapla only told us to stay until tomorrow. He did not speak with us beyond that. But you were inside with him for a long time. Who are you, really?"
Karna looked up at her. The firelight played across her face, showing curiosity and something else—something searching.
"As I said, Princess," he answered calmly, "I am Vasusena. A traveler on the way to Kashi for the asthi-visarjan of my loved one. At this moment, there is nothing else to say about me."
Mrinalini studied him.
Her gaze drifted—first to the golden earrings that caught the fire's glow, then to the faint surya tilak on his forehead, then lower to the dagger hanging at his waist, half-hidden beneath the fold of his cloth.
She lingered there a moment longer than she meant to.
The more she looked, the more a strange familiarity tugged at her memory. The face. The earrings.
Something about the way he held himself. And something about him that is just pulling her.
Meanwhile, Karna noticed the direction of her gaze. He spoke again, tone gentle but firm. "I am not an ascetic, Princess. And it is inappropriate for you to stare at a stranger, who is still connected to the materialistic world, in such a way."
Mrinalini's cheeks warmed. She stepped back quickly, lowering her eyes.
"I apologize," she said in a hurry. "I merely felt that you looked familiar."
Karna's shoulders stiffened for a breath, but his face remained calm. "This is my first time entering the Kashi kingdom," he replied. "I came from the south."
She nodded slowly. "I see."
For a moment, neither spoke. The fire popped, sending a small shower of sparks upward.
After several breaths of silence, she turned and walked back toward her tent, the hem of her saree brushing the ground. Karna watched her go until she disappeared inside. Then he closed his eyes again and returned to his meditation.
The night deepened. The disciples slept on their mats, blankets pulled high. The soldiers kept watch in shifts, leaning on their spears. The fire burned down to embers, giving off a steady, comforting heat.
Karna lay on his blanket, one arm under his head, the urn close beside him. Sleep came slowly, but at last it came.
Then, in the deepest part of the night, he stirred.
His eyes opened. Something had brushed against his senses—something wrong. He lay still, listening. The Ashram was quiet. The disciples breathed evenly in sleep. The soldiers stood at their posts, alert but calm. The fire had sunk to red coals. The horses in the small enclosure shifted once, then settled.
Karna closed his eyes again.
Moments later, the horses snorted sharply. One whinnied, high and frightened. The cows tied near the back wall began to low in distress, pulling at their ropes. The sounds grew louder—hooves stamping, panicked cries.
Karna sat up at once.
Around him, the disciples woke, startled. The soldiers gripped their spears tighter, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the gate.
Karna rose to his feet. He looked toward the trees at the edge of the Ashram. The night was still, but the air felt heavier now, like the moment before a storm breaks.
He touched the dagger at his waist. His other hand rested near the urn.
The cows bawled again, louder. A horse reared, snapping its rope. The disciples stood, murmuring prayers. The soldiers formed a loose circle around the royal tent.
Karna spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"Something is coming."
Before anyone could speak, shadows poured through the gate—quick, silent, blades already drawn.
Bandits.
They came in a rush, at least twenty, faces masked in dark cloth, moving with the practiced steps of men who had done this before.
Some rushed straight for the soldiers near the tent, swords flashing in the ember light.
Others spread out, slashing at the thatched roofs, kicking over water pots, setting small fires that licked up the dry grass.
Mrinalini burst out of her tent, shawl slipping from her shoulders, Indraverma right behind her with his short sword raised. She stopped short at the sight of the chaos—disciples scrambling back, one young boy stumbling as a bandit swung at him, the fire spreading fast along the courtyard wall.
The disciple cried out. The bandit's sword came down.
Karna moved.
He crossed the yard in three long strides, dagger already in his hand.
The blade met the descending sword with a sharp clang, stopping it inches from the boy's head. The bandit froze, eyes wide behind the mask.
Karna pushed—hard. The man staggered back. Before he could recover, Karna swung low. The dagger flashed toward the bandit's throat.
But before he could end the bandit's life, another blade came from the side from nowhere—swift, silent—piercing the bandit's neck from behind. The man dropped without a sound, blood pooling dark on the earth.
Karna spun, searching the shadows. No one stood close enough to have thrown it. The soldiers were still locked in their own fights.
However, He had no time to wonder.
More bandits closed in—ten, twelve—surrounding the royal tent and the main hut.
They moved like soldiers, not common thieves: tight formation, coordinated strikes, no wasted motion. The disciples huddled near the fire, helpless. The cows had broken free and stampeded toward the gate, adding to the confusion.
Karna took a deep breath.
He sheathed the dagger.
The bandits paused, sensing the shift. One of them—the leader, taller, mask embroidered with red thread—laughed low.
"Are you giving up? Good… I will give you a quick death."
But in the next moment, the bandit's eyes widened as Karna raised his right hand and Vijayadhanush materialized between his fingers—golden, humming faintly, string taut as soon as he touched it.
In the matter of a single breath, he conjured an arrow and loosed it straight upward.
The arrow streaked into the night sky, trailing golden light.
Then it burst.
A dozen—no, two dozen—arrows rained down, each one precise, each one deadly.
They struck only the masked men, piercing hearts, throats, and shoulders.
Not one touched a disciple, soldier, or royal.
The bandits dropped where they stood, masks falling away, bodies crumpling into the dirt. The leader staggered, an arrow through his chest, eyes wide with disbelief. He fell last, face down, near the tulsi plant.
Silence crashed in, at once.
The fire crackled. The cows had stopped running. The disciples stared, mouths open. The soldiers lowered their spears slowly, as though afraid to break the moment.
Mrinalini stood frozen near the tent, Indraverma's sword still raised beside her. She looked at the fallen bandits, then at the tall figure in the center of the yard.
The golden earrings caught the dying firelight. The faint Surya tilak on his forehead glowed softly, as though lit from within. The bow in his hand shimmered once, then vanished.
She whispered, almost to herself.
"The golden earrings… the divine bow… the surya tilak…"
Her breath caught in realization.
"He is Suryaputra Karna. The King of Dakshina Kalinga. The one I saw in the paintings Princess Dhavani kept hidden in her chamber."