The lake was still.
Its surface reflected the sky so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where earth ended and heaven began.
Duryodhana stood knee-deep in its waters, mace resting against his shoulder, eyes hollow yet alert. His body was bruised, his spirit frayed—but something stubborn still anchored him to breath.
Not ambition.
Defiance.
---
Bhima approached alone.
No roar.
No taunt.
Just footsteps crunching against the earth that had swallowed thousands.
"So," Bhima said, stopping at the water's edge. "This is where you chose to end."
Duryodhana smirked weakly. "I did not choose the end," he replied. "It found me."
Bhima's grip tightened on his mace. "You had many chances."
Duryodhana laughed, bitter and tired. "So did fate."
---
They circled one another.
No armies watched.
No gods interfered.
Only Krishna stood at a distance—silent, eyes sharp.
And farther still, unseen, Rudra observed without presence.
This was not his to judge.
---
The duel began.
Maces collided with thunderous force, sending shockwaves across the lake. Water erupted into the air as if fleeing the violence.
Bhima struck with fury restrained by memory—every insult, every humiliation, every poisoned meal.
Duryodhana defended with skill honed by desperation.
They were evenly matched in strength.
But not in direction.
---
"You could have stopped," Bhima shouted between blows.
"And lived as what?" Duryodhana snapped back. "A man who admitted he was wrong?"
Bhima's next strike nearly shattered Duryodhana's guard.
"Yes," Bhima said. "That would have been enough."
---
Duryodhana staggered.
His leg faltered.
Bhima saw it.
So did Krishna.
So did the world.
A moment stretched.
The old story whispered its familiar path.
---
Krishna lifted his hand—
And then lowered it.
No signal.
No reminder.
Only a look toward Bhima.
A look that said: *choose*.
---
Bhima hesitated.
Just long enough.
Then he shifted his strike—not to crush unlawfully, not to repeat a sin—but to end what could no longer stand.
The mace came down.
Bone cracked.
Duryodhana screamed.
The sound echoed across the lake, raw and final.
He collapsed, body broken, breath shallow.
---
Bhima stepped back, chest heaving.
It was done.
Not perfectly.
But honestly.
Krishna closed his eyes.
"That," he murmured, "is as close as this world could come."
---
Duryodhana lay on the ground, staring at the sky.
So blue.
"So," he whispered, "this is defeat."
Bhima said nothing.
Duryodhana laughed weakly. "Strange. I thought it would feel louder."
He coughed.
Blood stained his lips.
"I wanted to win," he said. "That's all."
Bhima's voice was low. "You wanted to be right."
Duryodhana's eyes softened.
"Yes," he admitted. "That too."
---
Far away, Rudra felt the final thread snap.
Not violently.
Gently.
"It's finished," Anaya said beside him.
"Yes," Rudra replied. "Now it can become a lesson."
The system remained silent.
There was nothing left to record.
---
As night fell, Bhima turned away.
Krishna followed.
No victory procession came.
No celebration.
Only exhaustion.
---
Duryodhana breathed one last time beneath the open sky.
Not cursed.
Not forgiven.
Just ended.
---
The Mahabharata did not conclude with divine thunder.
It ended with broken men, earned silence, and truths that no longer needed witnesses.
And somewhere beyond time, Rudra stepped fully out of history—
Leaving behind a world forced to live without him.
-- chapter 67 ended --