The battlefield was quiet now. Smoke coiled like wounded serpents into the sky, the stench of iron and charred earth burning Aadi's throat. Broken weapons lay half-buried in the soil, their edges stained by the lives they had claimed. For a rare moment, no gods thundered from the clouds, no demons surged from shadows.
And yet, Aadi was not alone.
A figure sat upon a cracked stone in the midst of the ruin, robes simple but unblemished by war's filth. His beard was streaked with white, his posture straight yet weary. His eyes carried neither fire nor fury, but an endless patience that unnerved Aadi more than any storm.
"You must be tired," the man said softly, as though greeting a child.
Aadi narrowed his gaze. "Who are you?"
The stranger's lips curved into a faint, melancholy smile. "I am Kripacharya. Teacher of kings, of warriors, of those who believed knowledge would save them. And yet, here I am—still watching, still teaching, long after my students have turned to dust."
The name rang familiar, carried from tales of the Mahabharata. Aadi's pulse quickened. "You were granted immortality."
Kripacharya nodded. "Blessing, curse—such words matter little when centuries pass like days. I have watched war after war, child. Kurukshetra was not the first battlefield, nor the last. The faces change, the banners change, but the blood is always the same shade."
He stood, brushing ash from his robe. "Weapons are forged. Heroes are trained. And yet, in the end, no one truly learns."
Aadi felt anger boil in his chest. "Then what is the point? Why do you still teach if nothing changes?"
Kripacharya's eyes darkened, yet his voice never rose. "Because men still hope. They cling to the illusion that the next war will be the last. They believe the next hero will succeed where others failed. But cycles repeat because mortals choose to walk the same paths. Not because gods demand it. Not because demons tempt them. But because men refuse to choose differently."
The words struck Aadi harder than Rahu's taunts or Parashurama's rage. For the first time, he saw himself reflected not as savior or pawn, but as one more thread in a pattern that stretched beyond memory.
Kripacharya stepped closer, placing a hand heavy with eternity on Aadi's shoulder. "You want to save your brother. You want to save your people. But know this: if you wield your choices like a weapon, you will carve only another war into the cycle. To break the wheel, you must not fight harder—you must choose differently."
Aadi's throat tightened. His mind whirled with images: Arul gasping in pain, Kairava burning in the iron veins, Rahu's laughter under the eclipse, the gods sharpening their light-forged blades.
"Then what should I choose?" he whispered.
Kripacharya's face softened with infinite sadness. "That is the lesson even I cannot teach. For if I could, the cycle would have broken long ago."
The winds rose, carrying the scent of distant thunder. When Aadi blinked, the Teacher Without End was gone, leaving only his words lingering in the ruin.
And for the first time, Aadi feared not just the gods, not just the demons—but his own choices.