The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and burning wood. Karna knelt before Parashurama, the revered guru whose very name sent shivers through the hearts of warriors. The sage's eyes were sharp, his presence commanding. Karna had come to this secluded ashram, lying about his birth, claiming to be a Brahmin, anything to learn the art of war.
"Archery is not just skill, boy," Parashurama's voice was like a blade slicing through the silence. "It is patience, discipline, and understanding. Are you prepared for what lies ahead?"
Karna bowed deeply. "I am, Guru."
The sage's gaze bore into him before he nodded. He tossed a long, unstrung bow at Karna.
Thwap.
It landed with a dull sound against his palm.
"String it."
Karna clenched his jaw. He had never seen a bow like this before, it was heavier than any he had held, its wood as dense as stone. He braced it against the ground, pulling the thick string over its curve. Creak. The wood groaned, resisting his effort. His arms shook. Sweat beaded on his forehead. But he gritted his teeth and pulled harder. Snap! The string latched into place.
Parashurama watched without emotion. "Adequate. Now, strike the target."
Karna turned. A wooden pole stood several yards away, barely visible in the morning mist. He inhaled deeply, drawing the bowstring back. Twang!
Thud. The arrow struck—off-center.
Parashurama's expression darkened. "Again."
Karna obeyed.
Twang. Thud.
The arrow missed the center. Again. And again.
Parashurama's voice was firm, unwavering. "You are not just shooting an arrow, you are listening to the wind, feeling the heartbeat of the earth. Close your eyes."
Karna hesitated but obeyed. The world around him sharpened, the rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the rhythm of his own heartbeat. He let the arrow fly.
Twang!
Thwack.
Bullseye.
A small nod of approval. "Better."
---
Days turned into weeks. Karna trained relentlessly, pushing himself beyond exhaustion.
One morning, Parashurama led him to a vast river. "A warrior must be silent in his movements," the sage instructed. "Step into the water without making a ripple."
Karna frowned but stepped forward. Plop. The water trembled. He tried again. Plop. Another failure.
Parashurama shook his head. "Try until you succeed."
For hours, Karna stepped into the river, adjusting his stance, his breath. The sun dipped lower. His legs ached. But at last, he placed his foot forward, and the water remained undisturbed. He turned to his guru, pride swelling in his chest.
Parashurama simply moved on. "Now, catch a fish with your bare hands."
Karna stared at the swirling water, the silver shapes darting beneath the surface. He lunged. Splash! The fish escaped. Again. Splash! Another miss. Frustration burned in his veins.
Parashurama remained silent, watching. Karna calmed himself, slowed his breathing, and then...Snap. His fingers closed around a fish, pulling it from the water.
A rare smile flickered on the guru's lips. "Now you are learning."
---
Karna's training grew harsher.
He spent days blindfolded, forced to strike moving targets by sound alone. He balanced on poles while dodging arrows, his reflexes honed to near perfection. He practiced mantras until his voice was hoarse, mastering divine astras.
One night, exhausted, he lay beneath a tree, staring at the sky. The pain, the endless struggle, was it worth it? Then he remembered the jeers of the world, the scorn on Drona's face when he had rejected him. Karna clenched his fists.
He would prove them all wrong.
Parashurama's voice broke through the night. "A warrior's strength is not in his hands, but in his resolve. Sleep well, Karna. Tomorrow, we begin the true test."
And Karna knew—the hardest trials were yet to come.