Mahabharat: Shiva's Last Variable

(A/N):

Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.

Guys from this Chapter is volume 5 War with Kamsa starts.

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Kamsa’s laughter cut itself short.

Like a blade deciding it had made enough noise.

His gaze shifted—First to Devaki

"...."

Then to Vasudeva his old friend.

One sacred was scared of him. One cold looks like wanted to tear him apart.

And something inside him... stilled.

Sensing the old time how he loved his sister and his best friend.

But now they were the enemies the bond no matter what couldn’t be fixed.

"...."

He stepped forward intended to speak with Devara who was sitting before the Yajna.

But the path did not remain open.

Bhishma moved first.

"Stop there..."

Descending from the stage like a wall deciding to stand.

Behind him—Crown Dhritarashtra, Mahamantri Vidura, Dronacharya and Ashwatthama.

All their face were cold signalling they were not happy about Kamsa’s arrival.

A line formed before him like a impenetrable wall.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But Unbreakable.

Bhishma’s voice carried weight.

"Don’t take another step forward."

A pause.

"If you have any... amusing ideas—"

His gaze hardened as if he was going to deliver a death sentence.

"You will not pass us."

For a moment—The arena held its breath again.

Then—Kamsa laughed. Not loud like before. Sharper like he was trying to break the awkward situation.

"-Haha!!!"

"...Relax."

He raised a hand slightly.

"I am not here to kill."

A beat.

"...or ruin your celebration."

A faint smirk appeared on his face.

-Smirk!

"At least ...not today."

That at least hung heavier than any threat.

The line did not move. Not yet.

And then—A voice. Calm. From the stage. As if he was nothing to him.

"Let him come."

All eyes turned. Devara.

Still sitting before the sacred fire.

Unmoved. Unshaken. His gaze met his big brother Bhishma’s.

"He came to speak."

A small pause.

"Let him be brother."

Silence followed.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Because this was not recklessness.

This was choice.

Bhishma held his gaze for a moment longer.

Then—Stepped aside.

Not fully. But enough to show he would step in at any moment.

The path opened revealing the way.

Kamsa walked. Each step measured. Each step watched.

Until he stood before the stage.

And before—The man from his dreams.

Devara rose. And beside him—Gandhari stood too.

Not behind him. Beside him. As his Equal.

The fire crackled between them.

The arena fell into a silence so deep—Even thought seemed too loud.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Because now—There were no walls.

No distance. No intermediaries.

Just two figures—Standing at the edge of something inevitable.

Kamsa tilted his head slightly.

"...So."

A faint smile.

"You’re the one."

No title. No greeting. Just recognition.

And the air—Tightened.

Because whatever he had come to say—Would not leave this place unchanged.

The air between them did not crack—It tightened.

Kamsa’s words had barely settled.

When Devara answered with a quiet chuckle.

-Chuckle!

"If you mean your death..."

A slight tilt of his head.

"...then yes."

Silence followed.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Not empty. Sharp like a knife.

Kamsa paused hearing it. Really looked at him this time.

Not as a boy. Not as a prince. As something that refused to bend even in the words battle.

No greeting. No respect. Nothing.

His gaze shifted—To Gandhari

"...You’ve been married for only a moment."

A faint, cruel smile.

"And already ...you are about to lose him. And become a widow"

The words barely finished—Before they were cut.

Gandhari stepped forward narrowing her eyes which blazed like a valcono.

"No."

Her voice didn’t rise. It landed.

"He won’t fall."

A step closer.

"Not to a coward..."

Her eyes hardened as he looked at Kamsa with distain.

"...who kills his own sister’s children just to pretend he has power over death."

The arena froze as the words of the princess Gandhari were sharper than Devara.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Kamsa went silent again.

Because insult—He expected by an angry wife who had just heard a taboo words about her husband’s life at their wedding.

But this—From both of them—Matched.

Equal. Sharp with their words. No her words were even sharper than him.

For a moment—He simply watched them. Thinking they were really the matching couples.

"...."

Then—A low chuckle escaped him.

-Chuckle!

"...Interesting."

His eyes returned to Devara as Kamsa for some reason wanted to argue with the points from his side.

"You don’t understand."

A step forward.

"When someone tells you ...how you will die ...and when it will come..."

His voice dipped as he seems .

"It breaks something inside."

A pause.

"It makes you do things ...you wouldn’t otherwise."

For a flicker—There was something real in his tone.

"...."

Not regret. But memory.

And Devara—Cut through it.

"Then you chose wrong."

Calm. Immediate.

"You didn’t face death."

A step forward not backing out.

"You hid from it."

His eyes didn’t waver as he looked straight at Kamsa.

"And to feel safe..."

A slight pause.

"...you killed children."

The words didn’t echo. They settled.

Heavy. Unavoidable. No matter what’s his reason he should’t have done it.

Kamsa’s smile didn’t disappear.

"...."

But it changed. Less amused seeing Devara was not understanding his point.

Little irritated about himself thinking why did he decided to chat about it to the young man who he was going to kill.

More... focused. Because this—Was not fear.

Not hesitation. Not even anger.

This was something else. Clarity that no one in the world understands him.

Two men stood across from each other.

"...."

"...."

One—Trying to outrun fate.

The other—Already walking toward it.

Behind them—The sacred fire flickered.

Kamsa’s jaw tightened.

His gaze shifted again—To Devaki. To the child in her arms.

To Vasudeva

Something dark flickered behind his eyes.

Not doubt. Not regret. Possession.

His fingers curled slowly.

"...."

Then—He spoke after a brief silence.

"Hand them over."

No roar. No theatrics. Just command. Breaking the truth raw telling him what he is here for.

"If you don’t want unnecessary deaths..."

His gaze swept across the arena.

The royal families. The guests. The people who felt uneasy.

"This is not your war."

A step forward.

"Do not make it yours."

The words weren’t shouted—They pressed.

Because everyone present understood the truth beneath them.

War. Real war.

Not duels. Not skirmishes.

Armies. Blood of those who died.

Cities will be burning of one failed to stop the invasion.

Kamsa’s eyes returned to Devara.

"...."

And this time—The mask slipped. Killing intent spilled from him.

Not hidden. Not restrained.

"If war begins..."

His voice dropped as it become so low even that was heard by others due to pin drop silence.

"Many will die."

A pause.

"And you..."

His grip tightened on his mace.

"...will lose your head."

A step closer.

"I will smash it—"

A faint smile twisted his lips.

"...into paste."

The words landed. Heavy. Ugly. Showing how Cureal one can be.

The arena held its breath again.

Because this was no longer veiled.

"...."

"...."

"...."

This was declaration of war in the disrespect to the prince and his ability.

Bhishma’s grip tightened.

Drona’s eyes sharpened.

Ashwatthama leaned forward slightly.

Not able to continue to hear those words from Kamsa.

Even the fire seemed to flicker differently now.

But Devara—Did not move. Did not react how Kamsa wanted him to react.

Did not flare with anger. He simply looked at Kamsa.

The man who was trying his best to intimidate him using his fancy words.

The threat hung in the air—Heavy. Unanswered.

Kamsa moved.

Even more forward.

His hand lifted—Reaching for Devara’s shoulder.

And then—Hissssss—A blur of black shot out.

The black cobra. Fast. Precise.

Straight for his throat.

But—Kamsa was faster.

His hand snapped forward—Gripping the snake mid-air.

By the neck.

The hiss turned sharper.

Fangs inches from his face. His grip tightened.

"...A pet?"

His eyes flicked to Devara.

"...or a warning?"

The serpent struggled.

Coiling. Striking air. Trying to free itself.

Kamsa’s fingers pressed harder.

"You will regret this."

His voice dropped—Low. Cold.

"You chose to stand against me."

A step closer.

"I will destroy Gandhara."

Another.

"Hastinapura."

His gaze swept the arena.

"Anyone who stands with you."

And then—Something changed.

Because Devara moved making his first move in the whole confrontation.

Not fast. Not aggressive.

Certain.

His hand reached out—And caught Kamsa’s wrist.

Firm. Unshakable.

For the first time—Kamsa felt it.

Strength behind the grip of his.

Not wild. Not forced.

Controlled. Measured. Showing how calm he was no matter how many times he tried to get a reaction out of him.

Devara’s grip tightened just enough—Not to hurt.

But to make a point.

Slowly—He took the black cobra back.

The serpent slipped free—Gliding across his arm.

And coiled around his neck.

Calm again.

Like it belonged there. Like it had always been there.

-Hisssss!

The resemblance was not missed. Since he had played the very god before.

Devara stepped forward. Closing the distance between them.

As his eyes gleamed.

Not aggressively. But completely without fear.

"No matter the challenge..."

His voice was calm.

"...I will return with victory."

A pause.

"Because Dharma stands with me."

The words did not echo. They settled.

Kamsa snorted. A sharp breath of amusement.

-Snort!

"Dharma¹..."

He shook his hand free.

As if brushing something insignificant away.

"Let’s see how long that protects you."

He turned mocking.

No hesitation. No second glance.

"From tomorrow—"

His voice carried across the arena.

"War begins."

As he walked further away.

"Be ready."

And he walked out. His guards followed.

And just like that—The wedding ended...

With a declaration of war.

The fire still burned.

But now—It was no longer just witness to vows.

It had become witness—To the beginning of a battlefield.

The echo of Kamsa’s footsteps had barely begun to fade—

When something cut through the air.

-THUD.

An axe struck the ground.

Right before Kamsa’s next step.

Not thrown wildly. Placed. With intent.

"...."

"...."

"...."

The arena froze. Again.

Kamsa’s foot stopped mid-step.

Slowly—He looked down.

At the weapon. Then—Up.

And saw him.

Lord Parashurama

Standing among the audience no longer.

Revealed.

Beside him—Dharani his wife who returned after long penance.

Calm. Grounded.

He had brought her to show her his disciples.

And near him—Karna

Eyes sharp. Focused.

The weight of his presence—Shifted the entire arena.

Because this was not just a sage.

This was a man who had ended kings. More than once.

Parashurama’s gaze rested on Kamsa.

Unblinking.

"...You speak loudly..."

A step forward.

"...for someone standing on borrowed time."

No anger. Only truth.

Kamsa’s grip tightened on his mace. Which he summoned as soon as axe appeared.

"...."

But he did not lift it.

Because instinct—Even his—Recognized danger.

Lord Parashurama continued.

"I stayed silent."

A glance toward the stage. Toward Devara.

"My disciple’s wedding deserved peace."

His eyes returned to Kamsa.

"But you..."

A pause.

"...chose to bring adharma¹ into it."

The word landed heavier than any insult.

Behind him—Karna stepped slightly forward.

Not speaking. But ready. He was already unhappy with how Kamsa treated his friend.

He was gritting his teeth stayed silent since his guru asked him to.

Dharani remained still.

Yet her presence felt like the earth itself had taken form—Watching. Judging.

Kamsa exhaled sharply.

-Sigh!

"...Another one. Here to preach me about Dharma.¹"

A faint, dangerous smile.

"You gather quite the protection, boy."

His gaze flicked once toward Devara.

But Parashurama cut that line of sight.

"Protection?"

A small scoff.

"No. Witness. Of your death."

Silence deepened.

Because now—This was no longer just between two men.

This was being seen.

By those who understood the weight of it.

Devara remained still.

But his eyes—Met his guru’s and bowed respectfully.

No words passed. None needed.

Because everything had already been said—Long ago.

In training. In trials.

Parashurama lifted his axe slightly as he arrived near Kamsa—Not as a threat.

As a boundary.

"Leave."

One word. Clear. Final.

Kamsa stared for a moment longer.

"...."

Measuring. Weighing. Then—He laughed again. Quieter.

-Haha!!!

"...Enjoy your celebrations."

He stepped around the mark left by the axe.

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(Author note:)

I hope you guys give me your opinion and idea’s.

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