The heavens trembled, the forest quaking beneath a sky fractured by rage, as if the celestial dome itself bowed before the storm. Ancient trees, their roots sunken into the mortal soil for epochs, groaned under a wind that roared like a legion of vengeful spirits, leaves shredded into a whirlwind of emerald razors. The air thickened, heavy with the reek of blood yet unspilled and the weight of divine fury, the mortal realm shuddering beneath a power that defied its frail laws. Bhishma rode forth, a titan of slaughter astride his war-steed, his tattered cloak a banner of ruin snapping in the tempest he summoned with a mere flicker of his will.
In his iron grasp gleamed a bow of midnight wood, its string humming with the resonance of a heavenly chord, crafted from the bones of fallen titans and strung with the Ganga's own sinews. His blood surged, a molten river of wrath coursing through his veins, each pulse a thunderclap that shattered the stillness of the mundane world. His eyes blazed with the radiance of a thousand suns, slicing through the gloom, locked upon the trail of his prey—a path of crushed earth and sundered branches, the fleeting mark of a cowardly immortal fleeing a debt carved in crimson.
With a thought, the wind became his blade, a raging beast of unseen force that tore through the forest like the judgment of the heavens. Trees exploded, their trunks bursting into jagged splinters with deafening roars, roots ripped from the earth to spiral in his wake like the wreckage of a shattered kingdom. Sap sprayed, a bitter rain soaking the ground, a tribute to the vow he'd etched into his soul—Chitrangada's lifeblood repaid in rivers, Satyavati's tears drowned in slaughter, Kshema's extinguished flame rekindled in the fires of retribution.
Bhishma tracked the Gandharva through the shadowed wilds, his steed's hooves hammering the earth into a mire of ruin, his intent a killing frost that chilled the air to the bone. The scent of sweat and steel hung heavy, a prelude to the carnage to come, the prey too proud to mask its arrogance. His lips twisted into a sneer of boundless rage, his voice a rumble that shook the void. "Flee, vermin—I'll rip your head from your shoulders and cast it into the abyss!"
The ambush erupted, a desperate ploy from the shadows. Gandharva scouts—golden-clad wretches, their forms shimmering with faint celestial light—leaped from the undergrowth, their bows drawn taut, arrows streaking forth like venomous fangs. A dozen shafts soared, their tips aglow with otherworldly radiance, a hail meant to pierce his heart and halt his hunt.
Bhishma's roar split the heavens. "Mere insects dare defy me?" His will flared, the wind exploding into a vortex of annihilation, a coiling beast that devoured the arrows mid-flight, shattering them into dust. The storm turned savage, crashing into the scouts with the force of a collapsing mountain. One screamed, his chest caving inward as the gale smashed him into a tree, ribs splintering into shards, blood erupting in a scarlet mist that painted the bark. Another flailed, arms clawing at the air, before the wind tore his head clean off, a geyser of gore soaking the leaves as his corpse crumpled.
The broken arrows littered the ground, a testament to their folly. Bhishma dismounted, his steed rearing as he advanced, bow raised, an arrow nocked with the speed of a striking serpent. The string sang a dirge of doom, and the shaft flew—a bolt of black lightning that punched through a scout's throat, steel bursting through in a spray of crimson, his gurgling death a hymn to Bhishma's wrath.
The survivors fled, their celestial grace shattered, but the wind hunted them without mercy. It seized one mid-stride, hurling him into the canopy—his skull cracked against a branch, brain matter oozing down in a grotesque cascade, his scream silenced in an instant. Another stumbled, clawing at the dirt, only for Bhishma's next arrow to find his spine—steel tore through, erupting from his chest in a shower of blood and bone, pinning him to the earth as his limbs spasmed in death's final dance.
Bodies piled like offerings at a butcher's altar, golden armor shattered, guts spilling onto the soil in steaming heaps, the stench of blood and bile a perfume to Bhishma's rage. He pressed forward, a sovereign of slaughter wading through the wreckage, his cloak soaked in the life of the fallen, his bow a reaper's scythe. The wind lashed at his hair, his face, his very soul, but he reveled in its ferocity—a storm to mirror the inferno blazing within his heart.
The Gandharva camp loomed ahead, a hollow carved into the mortal realm, its edges framed by twisted trees and flickering flames. Silver tents fluttered, frail against the gale, warriors scurrying like ants before a deluge. Bhishma halted, his shadow a titan stretching across the carnage, a god of death beneath a sky black with his fury.
"Face me, coward!" His voice was a heavenly edict, a bellow that sundered the air, the earth trembling as if the very ground bowed before him. The wind roared in answer, a beast's cry that uprooted trees at the camp's edge, hurling them into the fray. A tent collapsed, crushing a warrior beneath its weight—his spine snapped like dry twigs, blood gushing from his mouth as his scream drowned in the wreckage, his golden armor crumpling into a twisted heap.
The Gandharvas rallied, their golden ranks surging forth, spears and bows raised in futile defiance. A volley of arrows soared, a shimmering swarm meant to pierce the heavens themselves. Bhishma's hand swept forth, his will erupting in a vortex of annihilation—the arrows disintegrated, dust in the wind, and the storm struck back. A dozen warriors flew, chests imploding, ribs shattering into jagged shards, blood misting the air in a red veil that stained the earth below.
He advanced, bow singing a symphony of slaughter. An arrow pierced an eye, bursting through the skull in a spray of gore, brain and blood splattering the golden ranks as the body toppled like a broken puppet. Another struck a chest, steel ripping through armor and flesh, heart exploding in a wet burst of crimson that soaked the ground. A third found a throat, blood fountaining as the wretch collapsed, choking on his own ruin, golden helm rolling into the dirt.
Then came the generals—three towering figures clad in radiant gold, their presence a flicker of celestial might, stepping forth to challenge the storm. The first, a broad-shouldered brute named Vayushka, wielded a massive glaive, its blade shimmering with ethereal light. The second, a lithe woman called Sindhura, spun twin swords, her silver hair whipping in the gale. The third, a grizzled veteran named Kharvata, hefted a spear longer than a man, its tip crackling with power.
"Stand aside, mortal dog!" Vayushka bellowed, charging with his glaive raised, the air trembling before its edge. Bhishma sneered, loosing an arrow that struck the brute's shoulder—steel punched through, shattering bone, blood spraying as the arm dangled uselessly. Vayushka roared, swinging with his remaining strength, but Bhishma sidestepped, driving his bow's edge into the general's knee. Bone crunched, the leg folding inward, and Vayushka crashed down, screaming as Bhishma's next arrow pierced his chest, ribs splaying open, heart bursting in a torrent of red ruin.
Sindhura darted in, swords flashing like twin crescent moons, aiming for Bhishma's throat. The wind howled, slamming her mid-leap—her blades clattered uselessly as she hit the ground, rolling in the dirt. She sprang up, snarling, "Mercy, great one!" Bhishma's laugh was a thunderclap of scorn. "Mercy is for the weak." An arrow flew, splitting her skull, brain matter exploding outward, her silver hair matted with gore as she crumpled, lifeless.
Kharvata lunged, spear thrusting with the force of a falling star. Bhishma twisted, the tip grazing his arm—blood welled, a thin scarlet line—but he roared, seizing the shaft and snapping it like a twig. "Spare me!" Kharvata begged, dropping to his knees, hands clasped. Bhishma's boot smashed into his face, teeth shattering, blood gushing as the general sprawled backward. An arrow followed, piercing his gut—intestines spilled, steaming and slick, as Kharvata wailed, clawing at his ruin before Bhishma fired again, the shaft blasting through his skull, silencing him in a spray of crimson and bone.
The camp was a hellscape, bodies heaped in grotesque mounds, limbs torn asunder, entrails steaming on the earth in pools of blood and bile. Bhishma waded through the massacre, boots crunching skulls into paste, cloak dripping with the ichor of the fallen. A warrior lunged from the side, spear flashing—Bhishma twisted, snapping the shaft with a flick of his wrist, then drove the jagged end through the foe's jaw, steel erupting from the skull in a geyser of blood and teeth, the body slumping like a sack of meat.
The wind howled louder, a banshee's wail of divine fury, shredding tents into ribbons, flinging warriors skyward like broken dolls. One smashed into a trunk, spine folding inward, blood pouring from a ruptured maw as his golden armor crumpled into a twisted ruin. Another spiraled upward, limbs snapping like dry branches, before crashing down—skull pulped into the dirt, a smear of gore staining the earth, his pleas for mercy lost in the gale.
Bhishma's wrath was a calamity of the heavens, his bow a decree of extinction. Arrows flew in a relentless barrage—each a death sentence, each kill a tribute to Chitrangada's soul. A Gandharva charged, sword slashing—Bhishma's arrow split his chest, ribs splaying open like a grotesque flower, heart bursting in a spray of red ruin that soaked the ground. Another thrust a spear, grazing his side—blood trickled, a fleeting mark—but Bhishma roared, smashing his fist into the foe's face, nose and jaw crumpling into a bloody mash, then loosed an arrow point-blank, skull exploding in a torrent of gore that painted the air red.
"Mercy!" a warrior shrieked, dropping his bow, hands raised as he crawled through the muck. Bhishma's gaze was ice, his voice a growl of thunder. "You beg now, when Chitrangada's blood stains your kin?" An arrow flew, piercing the wretch's chest—lungs collapsed, blood bubbling from his mouth as he spasmed, choking on his plea, his golden armor dented and useless.
Another knelt, sobbing, "Spare us, mighty one!" Bhishma's wind answered, lifting the coward into the air—his scream cut short as the gale slammed him into a tree, spine shattering, guts spilling in a steaming heap as his broken body slid down, a mangled ruin.
The camp lay in ashes, fires snuffed by the storm, warriors reduced to meat and wreckage. Bhishma stood amidst the slaughter, chest heaving, blood dripping from his bow, his hands, his very essence. The wind circled him, a vortex of divine rage, the Ganga's voice a thunderous chant in his soul—More. More.
A figure emerged from the chaos, graceful and unyielding, golden armor pristine amidst the carnage. The Gandharva King stepped forth, silver hair flowing like a celestial river, spear aglow with the light of an eternal realm, its tip still stained with Chitrangada's blood. His smirk was a blade of arrogance, his eyes shimmering with immortal disdain, untouched by the ruin at his feet.
"So the mortal hound comes howling," he sneered, voice a melody of contempt that cut through the storm. "A tempest for a dead whelp—how pitiful."
Bhishma's gaze locked on him, a sovereign's stare, his bow raised, an arrow nocked, its tip trembling with the weight of his fury. Blood streaked his face, a mask of war forged in the slaughter, his aura a tide of killing intent that shook the earth. "Your laughter ends in your grave," he growled, voice a thunderbolt of doom, each word a seal upon the Gandharva's fate.
The King twirled his spear, its light flaring like a star defying the abyss. "You think to slay an immortal? I've danced with death for millennia—your pup was but a speck beneath my heel."
Bhishma's snarl shook the void, the wind surging, tearing the earth into fissures of ruin, trees toppling in its wake. "Chitrangada's blood stains your hands."
The Gandharva's smirk widened, spear poised, the duel a breath away. The forest quaked, the wind a roaring beast, the ground slick with blood and death—scouts, generals, warriors, all reduced to gore beneath Bhishma's wrath. He advanced, bow drawn, his fury a law no immortal could defy.
"No mercy left," he growled, the words a heavenly decree, a vow etched in the blood of a thousand corpses.