In another corner of the Kaurava camp, far removed from discipline, silence, or contemplation, luxury screamed.
Silk curtains fluttered under torchlight. Golden pillars reflected fire in obscene brilliance. Perfumed smoke coiled through the air, heavy with wine, flesh, and arrogance. Music throbbed—fast, intoxicating—while beautiful courtesans danced, their anklets ringing like chains disguised as melody.
Goblets overflowed.
Laughter echoed.
This was not a camp preparing for war.
This was a court celebrating delusion.
At the center of this lavish chaos sat a man built like a living fortress.
Duryodhana.
Crown prince of Hastinapur.
His body was massive, rigid as iron, shoulders wide like mountain ridges. Muscles bulged beneath royal garments, and yet it was not his strength that suffocated the room—
It was the darkness in his eyes.
Eyes that burned with entitlement. Eyes that mistook power for destiny.
Beside him lounged another—
A mirror twisted by cruelty.
Dushasana.
Same blood. Same arrogance. Same hunger. But where Duryodhana's evil was loud and proud, Dushasana's was intimate, sneering, eager to stain everything it touched.
Across the table sat a third figure.
One-eyed. Lean. Crooked like a serpent resting before its strike.
Shakuni.
His fingers moved endlessly, spinning a bone dice across the table. Click. Roll. Catch. Again. Again.
A game without end.
A kingdom without conscience.
Suddenly—
CRASH!
Duryodhana smashed his goblet against the table. Wine splashed like blood across silk and gold.
The dancers froze.
"Get out!" Duryodhana roared.
The girls fled in terror, anklets clattering, music dying mid-note.
Silence fell—thick and violent.
"Those scum Pandavas!" Duryodhana snarled. "I exposed them during exile! They should have returned to the forest for thirteen more years!"
His chest heaved.
"And yet," he spat, "they dare to demand war!"
Dushasana laughed darkly.
"Brother," he said, "we should have killed them when they were our slaves. When Draupadi cried and none could stop us."
Shakuni's dice rolled again.
"Relax, my sons," he said smoothly. "Why waste anger on the already defeated?"
He leaned forward.
"We are stronger. Vastly stronger."
He raised one finger.
"We have Bhishma—the invincible."
Another finger.
"We have Dronacharya—the greatest teacher ever born."
Another.
"We have Kripacharya—deathless and wise."
Then his eye gleamed.
"And we have Angraj Karna."
Shakuni smiled thinly.
"These three are disciples of Parashurama himself. Their boons are unmatched. Even the gods would hesitate to face them."
Duryodhana's lips curled.
"Victory is certain."
"I wouldn't be so loud."
The voice came like sunlight cutting through smoke.
The torches flickered.
A radiant presence entered the tent.
The air itself seemed to straighten.
A man stepped forward—his aura blazing like the midday sun. His eyes shone sapphire-bright, sharp and calm. His body was sculpted like iron given purpose, and upon his chest rested a golden armor, fused to his flesh, glowing with divine light. Twin earrings shimmered against his skin—kundalas, not ornaments but celestial artifacts.
Even standing still, he felt unstoppable.
Karna.
The room bowed instinctively.
Duryodhana rose instantly, a rare genuine smile breaking through his arrogance.
"My brother!" he exclaimed, embracing him fiercely. "You should be resting! Tomorrow the rules of war will be set. After that—history begins."
Karna smiled faintly.
"I cannot sleep," he said. "Thoughts keep me awake."
Duryodhana laughed. "You are the key to this war. My faith rests in you. Soon, Arjuna will fall."
Karna's smile faded slightly.
"I am both excited… and afraid," he said honestly.
Duryodhana blinked. "Afraid?"
Karna nodded.
"Excited," he said, "because I will finally face my greatest rival."
His jaw tightened.
"Afraid," he continued, "because I may not be able to restrain myself—and strike him before the war even begins."
Duryodhana laughed loudly. "Good! I trust you will kill him."
Karna's voice dropped, heavy and sincere.
"You do not know Arjuna as I do."
The laughter died.
"He is the greatest archer of this age," Karna said. "Son of Indra, bearer of Pashupatastra, slayer of the Nivatakavacha demons."
Karna's eyes narrowed.
"Even Mahadeva praised him."
Silence.
"He is not easily trifled with."
Duryodhana exhaled slowly, then smiled.
"And you are no ordinary man either."
He gestured at Karna's armor.
"You were trained by Parashurama. You conquered the kings of the earth. You wear divine armor no weapon can pierce."
Shakuni spoke softly.
"Karna defeating Arjuna is not impossible," he said. "But it will not be easy."
Then his tone changed.
"What concerns me most," Shakuni said, "is Krishna."
Duryodhana burst into laughter.
"The cowherd boy?" he scoffed. "Some call him Narayana, but he promised not to lift a weapon."
He sneered.
"How can an unarmed man disturb this war?"
Shakuni opened his mouth—
But another voice cut through.
Cold. Firm. Unafraid.
"The one you mock as a cowherd," the voice said, "is the same man who came to this court and shattered your arrogance."
A figure stepped into the tent.
Tall. Imposing. Controlled.
Vikarna.
Unlike his brothers, his eyes carried weight—not malice. His presence silenced the room.
"When you tried to arrest Krishna," Vikarna continued, "he showed you your future."
The torches dimmed.
"He did not lift a weapon," Vikarna said. "Yet he broke your pride."
He looked at Duryodhana directly.
"You laughed then."
His voice lowered.
"You will not laugh after this war."
Silence gripped the tent.
Karna looked thoughtful.
Shakuni's dice stopped spinning.
For the first time that night—
Fear crept in.
Outside, unseen, Krishna watched the same moon rise over both camps.
One side prepared with discipline.
The other with delusion.
The war had not yet begun.
But Kali smiled, for blindness was winning.