The Battlefield of Kurushetra
The sun lashed the sky like a merciless god, its fire pouring down upon Kurukshetra as if the heavens themselves wished to test the resolve of men. The earth beneath trembled—not from movement, but from anticipation. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling like restless spirits that already knew blood would soon soak the soil they drifted upon.
On both sides of the vast battlefield, two colossal army camps stretched toward the horizon. Banners of royal houses fluttered against the burning wind, their symbols proud yet heavy with fate. War elephants stood chained and restless, their eyes dark with instinctive dread. Horses stamped the ground, sensing death before it arrived. Warriors sharpened their weapons in silence—no songs, no laughter—only the scrape of steel and the low murmurs of men who knew tomorrow would decide the fate of an age.
At the edge of one camp, half-consumed by time and shadow, stood an ancient temple—its stone pillars cracked, its carvings worn smooth by centuries of forgotten prayers. This temple had once echoed with hymns to the gods, but now it watched silently, burdened with the knowledge that even divinity would soon turn away from the cries of men.
Within the broken sanctum stood Sahadeva, youngest son of Pandu.
He was alone.
The heat did not touch him, nor did the noise of the camps disturb his focus. Before him rested an ancient mirror, taller than a man, framed in dark metal etched with symbols older than kingdoms. It was no ordinary glass. Its surface shimmered like still water under moonlight, reflecting not the present—but what must come.
Sahadeva's face was calm, but his eyes carried the weight of unbearable truth.
Behind him, unseen but ever-present, stood the fate of the world.
Not far away, in the heart of the Pandava camp, Yudhishthira, son of Dharma, prepared himself to lead a war that would shatter bloodlines and end an era. Though crowned king by destiny, his soul trembled under the burden of righteousness. He would fight not for conquest, but for balance—yet balance demanded sacrifice.
Sahadeva alone knew the cost.
The mirror stirred.
The battlefield vanished from its surface, replaced by visions that struck like thunder.
He saw the end of Dwapar Yug.
And then—
Kaliyug began.
The mirror burned with images of a broken future.
Cities rose higher than mountains, yet their foundations were rotten with greed. Kings no longer ruled by wisdom, but by deception and fear. The powerful crushed the weak without remorse, calling it order. Wine flowed endlessly through streets soaked in moral decay, while gambling halls replaced temples. Lust wore the face of pleasure, and violence masqueraded as justice.
Women cried behind closed doors, their dignity traded like coin. Children screamed in the shadows, their innocence slaughtered before it could bloom. The cries of the helpless rose toward the heavens—but the gods did not answer.
Sahadeva's breath faltered.
He saw the six great poisons of the soul—once emotions, now horrors given flesh.
Anger emerged first: a towering demonic form wreathed in fire, its roar igniting wars and blood feuds.
Lust slithered next, beautiful and terrifying, binding minds and bodies in chains unseen.
Greed followed, bloated and endless, devouring wealth, land, and lives without ever being satisfied.
Jealousy stalked silently, poisoning brother against brother, nation against nation.
Laziness spread like a disease, turning once-great civilizations into hollow ruins.
And Attachment, the most dangerous of all, bound souls so tightly to illusion that they forgot truth entirely.
These were no longer mere feelings.
They were generals.
And humanity became their army.
Men and women walked with empty eyes, driven not by conscience but by desire. Kings bowed not to Dharma, but to profit. Entire races—birds, animals, forests, rivers—suffered under the weight of human corruption. Trees were butchered. Rivers choked. The earth itself screamed.
Sahadeva saw lions hunted for sport, birds falling from poisoned skies, oceans blackened by ambition. Every living being cried out, begging for salvation that never came.
Then—
The mirror darkened.
A presence stirred.
From the depths of chaos, something ancient began to awaken.
Kali Purush.
His form was incomplete at first—only a shadow, vast and formless. But as the world drowned in sin, his body grew. He absorbed the hatred of wars, the lust of men, the greed of rulers, the despair of the innocent. Every immoral act fed him.
Bone formed from betrayal.
Flesh grew from cruelty.
Eyes opened, burning with mockery of Dharma itself.
This was no mere demon.
He was the embodiment of Kaliyug.
His army was not forged in hellfire—but born from humanity itself. Men enslaved by desire, women broken by fear, rulers drunk on power—all marched unknowingly beneath his banner.
The mirror showed the final vision.
The world under calamity.
Sky red with smoke.
Earth cracked and bleeding.
Truth hunted like a criminal.
Virtue laughed at as weakness.
Sahadeva staggered back.
The mirror fell silent.
Sweat traced his brow, though the air had grown cold. He knew this future could not be spoken aloud. His curse—and his burden—was knowledge without voice. If he revealed what he had seen before its destined time, destruction would come even faster.
Outside, conch shells echoed faintly across the camps.
The war was about to begin.
Sahadeva turned away from the mirror, his hands trembling.
This battle would decide not just victory or defeat—
But whether the world would fall quietly into darkness…
or struggle, bloodied and broken, against the coming of Kaliyug.
The ancient temple stood witness as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over Kurukshetra.
Shadows that would soon cover the world.