Mahabharat: Shiva's Last Variable

(A/N):

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

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The strike meant for King Subala—Never landed.

Because something heavier arrived first.

-WHOOOOOM!—

A mace tore through the air—And slammed into the Rakshasa mid-lunge.

The impact dragged it backward across the battlefield—Feet carving through soil by the force behind it—

Wings snapping wide to stabilize himself.

The mace hit the ground with a heavy thud.

-THUD.

And beside it—A figure landed.

Which was none other than Dhritarashtra

Not as a crown prince. But as a warrior.

His arrival was not loud.

But its effect—Immediate.

The broken flank steadied by the sudden arrival.

King Subala exhaled sharply.

"...Crown Prince—?!"

Even in battle—Surprise slipped through.

Dhritarashtra said nothing.

"...."

His hand reached down—Gripping the mace.

Lifting it like it belonged there.

Across from him—The Rakshasa straightened by the earlier surprised attack.

Its arms trembled as it still not recovered from it.

Just slightly.

From that single strike. Its grin widened.

-Grin!

"...Interesting."

It rolled its shoulders—Bones cracking softly. Then spoke with a confidence and excited tone.

-Crack!

"I am Vaitraka."

A slow tilt of the head as it announced proudly.

"Kamsa’s sky reaper."

Rakshasa

The name settled like a curse.

Then—Without warning—It moved entering the battle.

Twin blades flashed.

Fast. Too fast. For a normal human to react.

Dhritarashtra swung reacting immediately—The mace cutting through air—Heavy. Crushing. Carrying the power with in.

But Vaitraka slipped.

Not dodging. Sliding with his agility.

Like a shadow refusing to stay caught.

Steel rang through the air as the mace and swords got connected back to back.

-Clang! -Clang!

-Clang!...

Sparks flew with each contact of mace and swords.

Close combat become Brutal.

Between the rakshasa and Dhritarashtra.

The Rakshasa twisted—Blade striking from impossible angles in the mid air.

Dhritarashtra blocked each time just a moment before the rakshasa’s attack could connect—Again. And again.

But each strike forced weight into his arms.

Each miss—Left a small opening.

Vaitraka laughed mid-fight.

"You’re strong..."

A blade scraped across the mace.

-Screech!!!

"But too slow."

It vanished to the side—Reappeared behind—Blades crossing toward his back—

-CLANG.

The mace intercepted. Barely.

Dhritarashtra adjusted his stance.

Not chasing. Waiting for the next attack reading the attack patterns.

Because brute force alone—Would not catch this enemy.

And Vaitraka—Kept moving keeping himself difficult to reach.

Circling. Attacking. Retreating in succession.

A phantom with blades.

King Subala stepped back slightly.

Regaining breath steading himself.

Watching the battle seeing how he could help in the fight.

Because now—This was no longer his fight.

This was a clash of styles.

Weight versus speed. Force versus fluidity.

The battle was getting into a critical moment.

Vaitraka vanished again at the right moment using agility.

A flicker.

A whisper of steel.

Behind—Dhritarashtra

Twin blades arced toward his back—

Silent. Certain. This time his attack is about to connect.

And then—Something unexpected happened.

Dhritarashtra didn’t block. He didn’t turn slowly. He committed.

In a sudden motion—He stepped forward—Dropping the mace.

And spun like she is been waiting for this moment.

Closing the distance instead of escaping it.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Before Vaitraka could react—He was caught completely off guard by the sudden suicidal charge at him.

He was not prepared for it.

Dhritarashtra took the Rakshasa in an embrace.

No—A trap which got its prey willingly enter it.

Arms locked around the Rakshasa’s torso.

Tight. Unyielding. Showing his full strength in that hug.

Vaitraka froze feeling the sudden dizzy.

For a split second—Confusion on his face.

Then—Pain seared through all over his body.

A scream tore out of him. Raw. Ugly.

"-AHHHHHH!!!"

He struggled very hard to break free.

Twisted. Clawed.

But the grip—Did not loosen.

It tightened. And tightened again.

Bones protested to withstand the pressure all over the body.

Then—Crack!!!

A sound that did not belong in battle—But ended them.

Another crack followed.

-Crack!!!

And another.

His wings spasmed. Blades fell from his hands.

His strength—Slipped.

Blood seeped through his skin.

Uneven.

Like something inside him—Was breaking in all directions at once.

His scream faltered. Then—Stopped.

The body went limp.

"...."

The struggle—Gone.

Silence—Just for a moment—In that small space of battlefield.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Dhritarashtra held him a second longer.

Ensuring.

Then—Released.

The corpse fell to the ground. Heavy. Final.

Nearby—King Subala watched him drop the Rakshasa.

Not in shock. In understanding.

Because that—Was not finesse.

Not technique. That was force of pure strength.

Unavoidable. Decisive.

Dhritarashtra stepped back.

Picked up his mace again.

As if nothing had happened.

But the battlefield had seen.

The Rakshasa who flew—Who slipped like a ghost—Had been caught.

And crushed.

And with that—The broken flank—Began to hold again.

On another edge of the battlefield—There was no hesitation in the another of the pincer.

No adjustment. No negotiation.

There was only Bhishma.

Bhishma stood like a pillar carved from inevitability.

His chariot did not rush.

It advanced through the.

Because the battlefield moved around him.

His bow bent—And stayed bent.

The string sang.

Not once. Not twice. Continuously.

Arrows didn’t fly. They rained.

Rakshasas surged forward—Roaring at him—Clawing trying to land a hit—Charging in wild fury.

And were cut down mid-charge.

An arrow pierced a throat.

Another split a skull.

Three more followed before the body even hit the ground.

A larger Rakshasa leapt—Massive—Claws wide—Bhishma didn’t step back.

Three arrows were released by Bhishma. Which landed on Eyes. Heart. And Neck.

It collapsed like a felled tree.

No pause. No acknowledgment. By Bhishma as he moved forward.

Only the next target.

Around him—Soldiers of Kamsa began to slow.

Not because they lacked strength.

But because they recognized something.

This was not a man to overwhelm.

This was a storm—That did not tire.

Each movement precise. Each arrow chosen.

No wasted motion. No wasted life.

Even the Rakshasas—Creatures of chaos—Hesitated.

And that hesitation—Was death.

One tried to flank—Bhishma shifted slightly—Without even turning fully—And loosed an arrow behind him.

The creature fell before completing its step.

His presence—Did not just kill.

It controlled.

Because wherever he stood—That section of the battlefield—Became impossible to cross.

Behind him—The formation held strong.

Unbroken.

Because Bhishma was not just fighting.

He was anchoring.

And in a war where formations decided survival—He had become the point—That could not be moved.

Meanwhile on Drona’s side...

On another front, the battlefield took on a different rhythm.

Not of thunder. Not of storm.

A blades were tearing through the Kamsa’s army.

Drona and Ashwatthama

Did not roar like Bhishma. Did not rush wildly like Devara.

They advanced. Clean.

Where Bhishma was overwhelming force—These two were precision.

Drona moved first.

His bow didn’t rain arrows—It placed them through their ranks.

Each shot removed a key threat.

Commanders. Signal bearers. Heavy units.

The structure of Kamsa’s army—Quietly weakened.

Before it even realized.

Beside him—Ashwatthama was the opposite.

Where Drona created openings—Ashwatthama exploded through them.

He was guiding his son through the selected openings he were creating.

Sword flashing around as Ashwatthama harvested the lives.

Body moving forward without pause.

A Rakshasa lunged—Ashwatthama stepped inside its reach—Blade cutting upward—Clean.

Another charged—He didn’t dodge—He broke through it.

Blood marked his path.

But unlike chaos—There was direction.

Because Drona guided.

A slight shift of hand. A subtle movement.

And Ashwatthama adjusted instantly.

Like a blade following its wielder’s intent.

Together—They didn’t just fight.

They cut a path.

Straight toward the center.

Enemy ranks closed behind them—Too slow.

Because the damage was already done.

Lines broken by their unorthodax attack as the father and son were shifting their position back and forth.

Commands disrupted. Units scattered.

To those watching—It didn’t look like two men advancing leading a army.

It looked like—A single sharp edge—Moving through flesh and formation alike.

No hesitation. No diversion.

Only one goal in their mind.

Reach the heart of the enemies rank. And split it open.

As the serpent tightened from all sides—This front—Became its fang.

Meanwhile on Karna’s side...

Karna advanced—Not as fast as the others.

But not because he couldn’t. Because he didn’t need to.

Around him—A golden sheen flickered.

Surya Kavach

The armor did not merely protect.

It denied harm. Arrows struck—And slid away.

Blades hit—And failed to bite.

Rakshasas lunged—Claws scraping uselessly against radiant protection.

Karna didn’t flinch.

Didn’t step back.

He stood—As if the battlefield itself had agreed not to touch him.

In his hands—The Vijaya Bow.

A gift from Parashurama

The string pulled. And released.

Each arrow—Heavy. Not in weight.

In intent.

They didn’t scatter like rain. They struck like falling suns.

One arrow pierced through two soldiers.

Another tore through a Rakshasa’s chest and pinned it to the ground.

A group charged together—One shot.

Three fell. Not by chance.

By calculation.

Karna’s advance was slower—But unstoppable.

Where others cut paths—He erased resistance.

Calm. Measured. Comfortable.

Because nothing on that battlefield—Could reach him.

And he knew it.

A Rakshasa commander roared and charged straight at him—Massive. Furious.

Karna didn’t move. Didn’t dodge.

He released a single arrow.

The creature collapsed mid-run. Momentum gone.

Silence followed in that small space.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Because fighting Karna—Felt like fighting inevitability.

Behind him—His pincer advanced steadily.

No urgency. No panic.

Because while others raced to reach the center—Karna ensured—There would be nothing left behind to threaten them.

Meanwhile on Kamsa’s side...

At the heart of the battlefield—Something far heavier than strategy unfolded.

It was no longer about formations. It was about force.

Kamsa stood amidst his gaja army—A moving fortress of tusks, armor, and thunder.

Then—He leapt. From his elephant.

And brought his mace down.

-BOOM.

The impact shattered an enemy elephant’s skull.

Bone cracked. Armor split.

The massive creature was lifted—Then thrown back—Crashing into the ground like a collapsing tower.

Silence followed for a fraction of a second.

Then—Chaos returned.

Kamsa didn’t stop. He moved forward.

Each swing—Devastation.

Elephants fell. Soldiers scattered.

Whether they belonged to Hastinapura—Or Gandhara—It did not matter.

Anything in his path—Was crushed.

A Rakshasa roared beside him—Only to be silenced by a backhand swing that caved its chest inward.

Another elephant charged—Kamsa stepped into it—And struck upward—The beast collapsed mid-charge.

Dust rose. Blood followed. Leaving behind only the trails of bloods.

Fear spread.

Not just among men—But even among Rakshasas.

Because this—Was not disciplined strength.

This was overwhelming brutality.

His presence tore through the battlefield like a storm that didn’t care what it destroyed.

Where Devara was precision—Where Bhishma was control—Where Drona was calculation—

Kamsa was destruction.

Unfiltered. Unrestrained. Showing he was single handedly dealing the enemies line.

And at the center of the war—He stood—Like a force that refused to be contained.

The serpent tightened around him—Yes.

But the closer it came—The more dangerous its prey became.

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(Author note:)

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

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