Chapter 1: The Fall of Karna
"Run! Run for your life! That warrior—he's like the god of death himself—attacking us!"
"Drop your weapons! Just flee! Don't even think of standing—his astras are deadly!"
"What kind of divine weapon is this? Why is it raining down arrows and darts without end?"
"Don't think! Just run! Even Prince Arjun himself is retreating. What are you waiting for? Move!"
The battlefield was filled with wailing, cries of pain, and terrified soldiers. Two great armies clashed, each brimming with fearless warriors, men who had faced death without hesitation.
But an anomaly had occurred. For the first time in sixteen days of war, one army began retreating. Not tactically—blatantly, indiscriminately, even fearlessly brave soldiers were running for their lives.
This was not cowardice. Until today, despite countless casualties, both armies had fought without giving an inch. But today, a single man in a golden chariot changed everything.
He fired a weapon that no one had ever seen before. The sky lit up, the air stilled, and the earth seemed to tremble. When it struck, thousands perished instantly. And yet, this was only the beginning. The weapon did not fall—it hovered, raining divine and mortal weapons upon the battlefield like a relentless storm.
The soldiers panicked. Even the bravest warriors were forced to flee. Those who tried to stand their ground faltered when they saw Arjun, their mightiest warrior, retreating under the onslaught.
The man in the chariot, calm and composed, spoke to his driver: "Shalya, take me to Arjun. Today, I either kill him or die trying."
Sunlight revealed his form: sharp, divine, as if sculpted by Vishwakarma himself. His lotus-like eyes, fair skin, and flowing dark hair gave him an ethereal presence. He wore golden armor and a crown, and in his hands rested the bow Vijaya, a gift from his guru, a weapon that promised victory to whoever wielded it.
He had never used it before, but he felt that this day could be his last. Every ounce of skill, every drop of courage, would be tested.
"Shalya! Speed up! Today, victory or death!"
Even amidst millions, his presence drew all eyes. Soldiers, inspired, rallied:
"Look at him! See his valour! He alone forced their army to retreat. Attack!"
"Yes, Yuvraj! Attack! Show them our might and avenge the fourteenth day!"
Arjun, son of Indra, grimaced. He held his Gandiva, the divine bow, but even he felt the weight of the moment. The man before him was no ordinary warrior.
"This is impossible," Arjun thought. "No bow, no weapon—how can he be this strong?"
Krishna, Arjun's charioteer, observed calmly. "Patience, Partha. Let him fight. There is a reason the fates have led us here."
The two warriors faced each other. Arjun unleashed his divine weapons; the man in the golden chariot countered effortlessly. Each shot illuminated the sky, the clash shaking heaven and earth.
Arrows met with arrows. Divine astras lit the battlefield, flattening forests, rivers, and mountains alike. Even the gods trembled at the power displayed.
Despite a cursed moment—his chariot wheel stuck in the mud and memory of his weapons temporarily gone—the chariot warrior fought with ordinary arrows, matching Arjun strike for strike.
Finally, the moment came. Arjuna's guard faltered, and the chariot warrior struck with precision. A single arrow severed Arjuna's head from his body—or so it seemed in the chaos. (In the Mahabharata, Arjuna does not die; you may adjust if you want a more fictionalized, high-stakes approach.)
The battlefield fell silent. Darkness covered the sky, mourning the loss. Soldiers wept. Even the earth seemed to tremble in sorrow. Krishna blew his shankha, signaling the end of the day's battle.
As night fell, silent and heavy, the man in the golden chariot gave his final alms. Though he had won the day, his heart carried the weight of destiny and loss. The Pandavas emerged victorious, but the cost was immeasurable.
This was the Kurukshetra War—a clash of gods, men, and fate, and the day the son of a charioteer, Karna, met his destiny.