The neem tree behind him had stopped whispering.
Karna no longer heard the laughter of the Pandavas or the silence of rejection. All that remained was Vrushali's voice, carved into memory.
"If one teacher won't teach you… find another."
He had asked the question a hundred times.
Now he had an answer.
The Revelation
It came from a merchant in a dusty roadside inn near Prayag.
Karna had been helping unload sacks of grain in exchange for food. The merchant, a talkative man with a fondness for gossip, had mentioned the Gurukul at Hastinapur.
"Dronacharya is a fine teacher," he said. "But you know who taught him?"
Karna paused.
"Who?"
"Parashurama. The axe-bearer. The destroyer of kings. The one who mastered every weapon."
Karna's breath caught.
"Where is he now?"
The merchant shrugged.
"Last I heard, he was seen near Kashi. But that was weeks ago. He moves like the wind."
Karna didn't wait for the rest.
He packed his bow.
And walked.
The Search Begins
Kashi was far.
The roads were long.
The monsoon had left puddles that swallowed sandals and slowed carts.
Karna walked anyway.
He asked at every village.
"Have you seen a sage with an axe?"
Some laughed.
Some pointed to wandering monks.
Some offered directions that led to empty shrines.
But none had seen Parashurama.
The Shrines and the Silences
He found a temple carved into a cliff.
Inside, a statue of Parashurama stood—fierce, silent, eyes carved with fury.
Karna lit a lamp.
Prayed.
Waited.
No answer.
He found a cave with battle carvings—axes, bows, spears, all etched into stone.
He slept there.
Dreamed of arrows flying like stars.
Woke to silence.
And walked on.
The Toll
Weeks passed.
His feet blistered.
His clothes tore.
His bowstring frayed.
He trained with stones when he had no arrows.
He used vines when he had no string.
He fought the wind when he had no opponent.
He whispered mantras to trees.
He carved targets into the earth.
He imagined the sound of a teacher's voice.
But all he heard was his own breath.
The Question
One night, in a village near Varanasi, he sat by a fire with an old priest.
The priest watched him string his bow.
"You're searching for someone," he said.
Karna nodded.
"Parashurama."
The priest sighed.
"He doesn't stay. He tests those who seek him."
"I'll keep seeking."
"Even if it takes years?"
Karna looked at the flames.
"Even if it takes everything."
Elsewhere: The Storm Decides
Far to the east, in a mango grove near the edge of Magadh, Dhira and his gang were arguing.
They had no map.
No plan.
Only mangoes and momentum.
"We should go north," said the first follower.
"West," said the second. "I heard there's a festival."
"South," said the third. "More mangoes."
"East," said the fourth. "Less bees."
Dhira yawned.
Picked up a stick.
Held it upright.
"Let the stick decide."
He dropped it.
It fell west.
The gang cheered.
"West it is!"
"To Life!"
"To mystery!"
"To madness!"
They packed.
They walked.
Toward Kashi.
Unaware that another storm was already there.
Searching.
Waiting.
Training.