Chapter 105: Tournament Commence
The announcement of the Tournament of Power spread across Bharat like wildfire. Messengers on swift horses, decorated elephants carrying scrolls, and heralds shouting in the bustling marketplaces of kingdoms—all carried one message:
"Mahishmati calls! A grand tournament is to be held! All warriors below Maharathi level are invited! The reward is no less than a boon!"
The reactions were as varied as Bharat itself.
In Hastinapur, the news sparked anticipation. The elders, courtiers, and common folk alike whispered eagerly about their princes, they called them. "Our future lions"
The thought of Yudhishthir, Bhima, Arjun, Nakul, Sahadeva, and even Duryodhan and his brothers fighting on such a stage thrilled them.
In Magadh, skepticism reigned. "A boon?" scoffed King Jarasandha, his booming laughter echoing in his court. "This Rudra of Mahishmati must think himself the gods! We shall see what spectacle he offers."
In Panchal, King Drupad's eyes gleamed. "Good," he murmured. "My son will see glory on this stage."
In Gandhar, Shakuni heard the announcement with a sneer. "A spectacle meant to glorify Mahishmati," he muttered. "Let them dance; I will see how long Rudra's wings hold in the storm."
Some kings were shocked, some disdained, some were eager. But none could ignore it.
And in Mahishmati itself, the air was thick with preparation. For one month, day and night, the kingdom pulsed with activity. Carpenters, smiths, and soldiers labored under Rudra's orders. The entire venue, its trials, its defenses—all were designed and supervised by him.
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Rudra's Contemplation
One evening, while planning, Rudra sat in his chamber, scrolls spread across his desk. Maps of the kingdom, lists of participants, outlines of challenges—they were all there. But his mind was elsewhere.
"What should the first test be?" he muttered. "It must not only test strength… it must set the tone. A beginning that reflects the truth of struggle."
He rose unconsciously, his steps carrying him out of the chamber and into the palace garden. The soft fragrance of jasmine and lotus filled the air. Moonlight danced across the leaves. And there, on a slender branch, he noticed it—a cocoon.
He paused. The tiny creature struggled, its fragile body pressing, writhing, forcing against the prison of silk. Minutes passed. The cocoon split. A delicate blue butterfly emerged, wings trembling. It faltered, then steadied, then rose into the night sky with gentle grace.
Rudra watched, a faint smile on his lips.
"Struggle… breaking one's own limits… and then soaring free. That is what it means to grow. Yes… this will be the first test."
He whispered to himself, "Butterfly effect.... I have already made changes to the course of destiny. More warriors, more capable than the original flow of time. Let this first test remind them that every struggle, no matter how small, reshapes the world."
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One Month Later – The Pandav's Chambers
In their quarters, the Pandavas prepared with quiet intensity.
Yudhishthir sat cross-legged, his spear laid before him, lost in thought. His brow was furrowed with worry, his heart heavy.
A familiar voice broke his silence. "Bharatashree," Arjun said warmly, placing a hand on his elder brother's shoulder. "What troubles you?"
Yudhishthir sighed. "I was thinking of Bhima and Nakul, Where are they now? What paths have they taken? Have they lived well? Though they parted ways… they are still our brothers. As the eldest, I have worried for them every night this past year."
Arjun's expression softened. "I too have thought of Bhrata Bhim's fiery spirit and Nakul's grace. But Bhim… he still holds his grudge against Mahishmati. I fear he will not come here."
"Perhaps," Yudhishthir said quietly, "but still I hope for the best" He turned then, eyes sharper. "And you, Arjun? How are you prepared to face me? Do not forget—I am now a disciple of Rudra himself."
Arjun's lips curved into a small smirk. "And do not forget—I am a disciple of Karna, and guided by Krishna. Let us see, brother, when the time comes, whose training bears the greater fruit."
The brothers chuckled softly, their tension eased, even as the storm of the tournament drew nearer.
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The Grand Venue
At last, the day arrived. The city of Mahishmati was overflowing. Millions had come. Warriors, royals, commoners—they flooded every street, filled every inn, and camped across the fields. The air thrummed with drums, chants, and restless anticipation.
But whispers also spread. The training grounds of Mahishmati, though vast, could not possibly hold such numbers.
"Arrogance," some kings sneered. "Rudra promises what he cannot deliver."
Yet when they entered the grounds, their sneers froze. Gasps spread like wildfire.
What stood before them was no ordinary arena. The training ground had been remade by Rudra's maya itself. The walls stretched impossibly high, glowing with inscriptions of protection. The earth expanded outward, as though the land itself bowed to Rudra's will. The sky above shimmered like a dome of crystal, allowing light but shielding from harm.
It was endless. A vast coliseum that seemed capable of holding not thousands, not millions, but all of Bharat if need be.
Even the cynical kings stood silent, awe replacing disdain.
In one corner, Bhishma stood tall, Sanjay beside him. The grandsire's eyes held both wonder and worry. "This is beyond ordinary power," he murmured. "This is… Rudra."
Sanjay glanced at him nervously. "Does this mean the tournament will truly shake Bharat, Pitamah?"
Bhishma's jaw tightened. "Yes. And not just Bharat, The world itself"
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The drums thundered, and silence fell. From the great archway, Rudra entered. Clad in black and silver robes, his aura radiated calm authority. His eyes swept across the millions, piercing, commanding silence without a word.
The royals of Hastinapur—Dhritarashtra, Gandhari, Vidura, Bhishma—watched him keenly. The royals of Magadh, Panchal, Gandhar, and dozens more leaned forward, gauging the man who dared host such a spectacle.
Rudra stopped at the center of the grand stage. His voice carried across the arena, resonating not by volume but by sheer weight of will.
"Warriors of Bharatvarsh," he began, "for one year, I have trained the princes of Hastinapur. They have grown from children into warriors. But this tournament is not just for them. It is for all of you. For every soul who dares to test their strength, their will, their destiny."
The crowd erupted in cheers.
"This arena," Rudra continued, "is not mere stone and earth. It is forged by maya, shaped by my will, to hold all who gather here. It will witness battles of courage and determination. And to those who prove worthy…" his eyes glinted, "a reward greater than gold, land, or jewels. A reward equivalent to a small boon."
Gasps rippled. Kings exchanged glances, greed and awe in their eyes.
Rudra paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, faintly, he smiled.
"And so, let the Tournament of Power begin."
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The crowd roared like thunder, shaking the very air. Somewhere among them, Bhima clenched his fists, his eyes blazing. Nakul, standing silently in the shadows of the gathering, felt his heart stir. Across Bharat, destinies converged, all drawn to Mahishmati, where a single man's will had reshaped the world.
And above them all, a blue butterfly drifted through the air, unnoticed, its wings shimmering in the light.
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