Mahabharat: Shiva's Last Variable

(A/N):

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That night, the allied encampment was far quieter than it had been since the war began.

The laughter that had occasionally drifted through the tents had disappeared, replaced by the low chants of priests performing the final rites for the fallen.

Funeral pyres burned one after another across the edge of the camp, their flames rising into the dark sky like countless stars returning to the heavens.

The scent of sandalwood, ghee, and sacred herbs mixed with the lingering smell of blood and iron that the battlefield had left behind.

Away from the camp...

Far from the noise of commanders discussing strategies...

Far from the wounded soldiers resting after another brutal day...

Devaratha sat alone upon a large weathered rock overlooking the silent plains of Malikavana.

His armour had already been removed.

Amba Tejas rested beside him, their blades reflecting the moonlight.

His body was tired.

Not because of injuries.

Parvati Kavach had faithfully protected him from every fatal strike.

But every kick, every punch and every impact delivered by Pushpasura carried enough force to shake his body to its core.

Although the divine armour absorbed the destructive power, it could not erase the dull ache left behind by the sheer momentum of those attacks.

For the first time since the duel had begun...

He had truly been pushed onto the defensive.

He replayed every exchange inside his mind.

Every movement. Every mistake.

Every heartbeat during which Pushpasura’s strange slowing ability had affected him.

"...So that’s what it feels like,"

He murmured to himself.

"The moment is barely noticeable... yet on a battlefield, even the smallest delay becomes a mountain."

The night breeze gently rustled his long hair.

Just then...

Footsteps approached from behind.

They were calm. Steady.

Neither hurried nor concealed.

Devaratha smiled faintly without turning around.

"There is no point pretending I didn’t notice your arrival, Guru."

A familiar voice answered him.

"I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t."

Bhagavan Parashurama stepped beside the rock and looked out across the sleeping battlefield.

For several long moments, neither Guru nor disciple spoke.

Sometimes...

Silence between two people who understood one another carried far more meaning than words ever could.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Parashurama slowly folded his arms.

His ancient eyes travelled across the battlefield where thousands had fought only hours earlier.

Finally, he broke the silence.

"You have been thinking about today’s battle."

It wasn’t a question. It was an observation.

Devaratha nodded slowly.

-Nod!

"I’ve been trying to understand it."

Parashurama’s gaze never left the horizon.

"For twenty-four days... You controlled the duel. By what I can piece through the words around."

"It wasn’t always obvious to those watching, but you were the one deciding its pace."

"You chose when to attack. You chose when to defend."

"You forced Pushpasura to reveal one ability after another."

His voice remained calm, carrying the quiet certainty that only centuries of experience could provide.

"But today... The battlefield changed."

"He forced you to react. He dictated the rhythm."

"And for the first time... You were unable to answer with attacks of your own."

Devaratha lowered his head.

He couldn’t deny it.

Every word his Guru spoke was true.

Parashurama looked at him.

"There is no shame in admitting it."

"A warrior who lies to himself loses long before he loses to his enemy."

A faint smile appeared on Devaratha’s face.

"You always know exactly where to strike, Guru."

"This wound hurts far more than Pushpasura’s kick."

Parashurama chuckled softly.

-Chuckle!

"Good. That means your pride is still alive."

"Now make sure it doesn’t become your weakness."

The two shared a brief smile before silence settled between them once again.

After a while, Parashurama continued.

"Pushpasura will not stop growing stronger."

"Tomorrow he will be stronger than he was today."

"The day after tomorrow... He will be stronger still."

"His physical strength. His demonic Yogic energy."

"His strange abilities."

"They will all continue to evolve."

He looked directly into Devaratha’s eyes.

"The burden upon your shoulders will only become heavier from this point onward. There will be days when surviving until sunset will be your greatest achievement."

"There will be days when every muscle in your body will beg you to stop."

"There will even be moments when defeat will whisper into your ears that surrender would be easier."

His voice became quieter.

"That road... is one that no Guru can walk for his disciple."

"I can guide you. I can advise you."

"But I cannot carry you. You must walk it yourself."

Devaratha remained silent for a long time.

"...."

The firelight from the distant funeral pyres reflected in his eyes.

Then he slowly stood up from the rock.

He picked up Amba Tejas and rested both swords upon his shoulders.

His gaze turned towards the Rakshasa camp glowing faintly in the distance.

"When this war began..."

"I knew defeating Pushpasura would never be easy."

"I knew every sunrise would demand something greater from me than the day before."

He smiled.

"But I also knew... that if Dharma had chosen me to stand here... then it must believe I am capable of enduring it."

He turned towards Parashurama.

"I won’t retreat."

"I won’t allow despair to enter my heart."

"If Pushpasura wishes to strike me a thousand times... then let him."

"If he wishes to push me backwards for seventy-five more days... then I shall keep taking one step forward every sunrise."

His eyes gradually became sharper.

"I will endure every attack."

"I will remember every movement."

"I will learn from every mistake."

"And when the hundred-and first day arrives..."

A quiet determination filled his voice.

"I will make him repay every single blow he believes I have forgotten."

Parashurama looked at his disciple for several moments.

There was no excitement in Devaratha’s words.

No arrogance. No reckless confidence.

Only conviction.

The kind that could not be shaken by pain.

A faint smile slowly appeared on the immortal sage’s face.

He stepped closer and gently placed his hand upon Devaratha’s head, just as he had done countless times inside the Gurukul after a difficult lesson.

"You have grown."

"When you first came to me... I still remember that day."

"Now... You have matured and seek understanding."

"That is the difference between a talented warrior... and a true master."

Devaratha closed his eyes for a brief moment, accepting his Guru’s blessing.

Parashurama then withdrew his hand.

"There is something I wish you to do tomorrow."

Devaratha immediately became attentive.

"Your command, Guru."

Parashurama’s eyes carried an unusual glint.

"When the battle begins... Challenge Pushpasura."

"Not with swords. Not with spears. Not with bows."

He paused.

"Challenge him to wrestling."

For the first time that night...

Devaratha looked genuinely surprised.

"Wrestling?"

Parashurama nodded hearing his confused tone.

-Nod!

"Yes."

"You have crossed weapons with him for twenty-five days."

"You have tested his swordsmanship."

"You have tested his spear."

"You have tested his archery."

"You have studied the way he uses his roots."

"You have watched his regeneration."

"You have analysed his strange abilities."

"But there is still one part of Pushpasura you have not truly understood."

Devaratha listened carefully.

Parashurama continued.

"When two warriors wrestle... There is nowhere to hide."

"No distance. No weapon."

"No elaborate technique to create space."

"Only two bodies."

"Two minds. And instinct."

He slowly clenched his own hand.

"A wrestler cannot think several moves ahead."

"He must feel every shift in balance."

"Every movement of breath. Every transfer of weight."

"He must understand his opponent through touch rather than sight."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Pushpasura believes his greatest advantage is his overwhelming physical strength."

"He has become proud of it."

"And pride..."

"...has a habit of making even the strongest warrior careless."

The corners of his lips lifted into the faintest smile.

"I have a feeling..."

"...that if you meet him in wrestling..."

"...he will reveal something he has unknowingly kept hidden behind his weapons."

Devaratha remained deep in thought.

His Guru had never once given meaningless advice.

Every lesson in the Gurukul had carried a purpose.

Every seemingly impossible exercise had eventually revealed its reason.

If Parashurama believed wrestling was the next step...

Then there was undoubtedly something waiting for him there.

Finally...

Devaratha bowed deeply.

"As you command, Guru."

"When the sun rises... I shall challenge Pushpasura."

Parashurama nodded with quiet satisfaction.

The two stood side by side beneath the moonlit sky, watching the battlefield that would once again awaken with blood and steel at dawn.

Neither of them spoke again.

They didn’t need to.

The lesson had already been given.

Now...

It was time for the disciple to turn it into victory.

Meanwhile...

Deep within the Rakshasa encampment...

The atmosphere was vastly different from that of the allied camp.

There were no priests chanting prayers for the departed.

No families gathered around wounded warriors.

Instead, massive bonfires illuminated rows of dark tents while Rakshasas dragged away the bodies of their fallen comrades with little ceremony.

Weapons were repaired, armour was replaced, and commanders barked orders at exhausted soldiers preparing for yet another sunrise of bloodshed.

At the centre of the encampment stood Pushpasura’s command pavilion.

The enormous tent was fashioned from the hides of monstrous beasts, its pillars decorated with the skulls of powerful enemies defeated over the centuries.

Inside...

Pushpasura sat upon his throne-like seat, his gigantic sword resting beside him.

The wounds Devaratha had inflicted throughout the previous twenty-five days had long since regenerated, leaving no trace behind.

Around him stood the remaining Rakshasa Generals.

The number itself was a painful reminder of the war’s progression.

Several familiar faces were gone forever.

Some had fallen to Devaratha.

Many had been cut down by Bhagavan Parashurama.

Others had met their end beneath Karna’s divine arrows.

The silence inside the pavilion was eventually broken by one of the surviving generals.

He stepped forward before lowering his head.

"My King..."

"Our losses continue to increase."

Pushpasura remained silent.

Another general spoke.

"The western division has lost nearly a third of its warriors."

"The eastern wing has completely changed."

"Ever since that human archer joined Prince Shakuni..."

"Our advances there have come to a standstill."

A third commander clenched his fists.

"And that sage..."

His voice carried unmistakable fear.

"That axe-wielding sage..."

"He alone has slaughtered thousands."

"He walks through our formations as though they do not exist."

Several generals lowered their heads.

Even mentioning Parashurama left an uncomfortable weight inside the tent.

Finally...

One commander spoke the question that had been lingering in everyone’s mind.

"My King..."

He hesitated.

"If the mortal king truly stands before you every single day..."

"Then why... is he still alive?"

The pavilion became completely silent.

The general quickly continued.

"You have grown stronger every sunrise."

"Yet the war has already reached its twenty-fifth day."

"Why has Devaratha not fallen?"

Pushpasura slowly lifted his head.

His crimson eyes settled upon the general.

The commander instinctively took half a step backwards.

Not because Pushpasura looked angry.

But because his expression... Was strangely calm.

After several long moments... Pushpasura let out a quiet snort.

"You fools."

Every general looked up in confusion.

"You speak of him..."

"...as though defeating him were as simple as crushing an insect."

His voice was heavy with disdain.

"Have you truly watched our battles? Or have you merely stared without seeing?"

The commanders exchanged uncertain glances.

Pushpasura slowly rose from his seat.

"You continue calling him... ’A mere mortal.’"

He laughed once.

A short, humourless laugh.

"If he were merely mortal... none of you would still be standing here discussing him."

The generals froze.

"...."

"...."

"...."

One of them cautiously said,

"But... My King... For days you have called him weak."

"You mocked him. You cursed him. You swore you would tear him apart."

"So why... are you defending him now?"

The words escaped before the general realised what he had said.

The entire pavilion fell silent.

Pushpasura himself became still.

Defending... Devaratha?

For a fleeting moment...

He hadn’t even realised what he had been doing.

His hatred for Devaratha had never diminished.

If anything...

It had only grown stronger with every passing day.

He wanted to crush him.

To erase him completely.

To make him disappear from existence.

Yet...

Whenever someone else spoke of Devaratha with contempt...

Something inside him instinctively rejected it.

His thoughts drifted back over the last twenty-five days.

The arrows. The spears. The swords.

The endless exchanges.

The countless times Devaratha had forced him backwards.

The calm in his eyes.

The way he analysed every technique instead of panicking.

The way he continued standing no matter how many times he was struck.

Without realising it...

Pushpasura had begun measuring the entire battlefield using only one standard.

Devaratha.

Everyone else...

Seemed insignificant by comparison.

He slowly closed his eyes.

"...Tch."

A faint click of his tongue echoed through the pavilion.

Only now did he understand.

Somewhere during these twenty-five days...

Without his permission... Without his awareness...

Respect had taken root.

Not friendship. Never friendship.

Certainly not admiration.

He still despised Devaratha with every fibre of his being.

He wanted nothing more than to be the one who ended his life.

But respect... Respect was something earned.

And Devaratha had earned it through blood.

Through endurance.

Through refusing to fall despite everything that had been thrown at him.

Pushpasura opened his eyes once more.

They burned with the same hatred as always.

"I hate him."

His voice was firm.

"I will continue to hate him until the day one of us dies."

He slowly looked around the pavilion.

"But hear me well... No one in this camp... will ever again call Devaratha weak."

The generals stared at him in stunned silence.

Pushpasura’s expression darkened.

"When you insult him... you insult me."

His words confused them even further.

Seeing their expressions, Pushpasura continued.

"For twenty-five days... I have fought him. For twenty-five days... I have failed to kill him."

"If you call such a warrior insignificant... then what does that make me?"

No one answered. No one dared.

Pushpasura’s voice became quieter.

"The man standing before me every sunrise... is no ordinary king."

"He is the only warrior who has forced me to grow stronger every single day."

"He is the only enemy who continues standing after receiving everything I possess."

His lips slowly curled into a dangerous smile.

"That... is precisely why I must be the one to kill him."

He picked up his enormous sword.

The blade rested comfortably upon his shoulder.

"When Devaratha finally falls... It will not be because he was weak."

"It will be because... I became stronger."

The generals silently lowered their heads.

For the first time since the war had begun...

They understood why their king’s obsession with Devaratha had only deepened.

Hatred had brought Pushpasura into the battle.

But battle itself had forged something neither of them had intended.

Between two enemies who wished for nothing more than the other’s death...

A warrior’s respect had quietly taken root, buried beneath layers of blood, steel, and unrelenting hatred.

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(Author note:)

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