The sun had climbed high, casting long shadows across the blood-soaked plains. But in this quiet, outer region of the battlefield, time itself seemed to have slowed.
Karna knelt beside his chariot; his hands coated in wet earth. He gripped the wheel, braced himself, and pulled again with a growl of effort. The wheel refused to move.
He tried once more—leaning in, pressing his full weight into it. The mud resisted, swallowing the spokes deeper. His shoulders trembled, not from exhaustion, but from something far worse.
Helplessness.
Again and again, he tried, teeth gritted, muscles straining. Each attempt weaker than the last. There was no divine strength left to summon, no technique to recall, no mantras to whisper.
It was as if the earth itself had decided he must not rise again.
He paused, breath heaving. His heart pounded—not from exertion, but from a dawning realization.
His power was gone.
Not just his celestial weapons. Not just his memory.
His very essence—the heroic might that had made him stand equal to gods—was slipping away.
He looked down at his fingers, trembling in the mud, and for the first time, they looked… human.
Mortal.
Behind him, footsteps echoed.
Krishna stepped down from the chariot, his expression calm, almost compassionate. His gaze was on Karna, but his words were meant for another.
"Arjuna," Krishna said softly, "now is the time."
Arjuna stood tall, the Gandiva bow still in his grip. But he did not raise it.
His eyes locked on Karna—mud-stained, disarmed, struggling like any man might, trapped not by steel or spell, but by destiny itself. There was no glory in this.
Arjuna's jaw clenched.
He didn't speak. Not yet. But his silence was heavy with conflict.
Krishna turned toward him, sensing the hesitation.
"This is your moment," he said. "Strike now. End it."
Arjuna's grip tightened on the bowstring, but he shook his head ever so slightly. "He's unarmed," he said, his voice low. "Helpless."
Krishna's gaze did not waver. "And so was Abhimanyu."
That single name cut through the air like a blade.
Arjuna's breath caught.
Still, he hesitated. His warrior's pride rebelled.
"He cannot defend himself," Arjuna said. "To kill a warrior without a weapon… without a chance… It is not the dharma I follow."
Krishna approached him, voice calm but laced with deep resonance, as if the very cosmos spoke through him.
"Dharma is not always honor, Arjuna. Sometimes, it is necessity. What you see before you is not a man—it is fate bound in flesh. Karna is not merely your rival—he is a pillar holding up the house of injustice. He must fall, for the world to breathe again."
Arjuna looked away, jaw set tight.
"He is vulnerable now. But think—how many were vulnerable when they fell beneath his arrows? Draupadi… shamed. Abhimanyu… slaughtered. This war… ignited. And yet, still you hesitate?"
Arjuna's silence deepened.
Krishna stepped closer. "You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. If you let this moment pass, what comes next will not be righteousness—it will be ruin."
Krishna stood beneath the pale afternoon sun, his expression unreadable. He looked neither triumphant nor sorrowful. Just... knowing. As though he was gazing beyond the battlefield—beyond time itself.
He turned to Arjuna, voice low but resonant, like the hum of the universe itself.
"Do you know what fate truly is, Arjuna?"
Arjuna, still holding Gandiva, didn't answer.
Krishna didn't wait for one.
"Fate is not chaos. It is not chance. It is order in disguise. A wheel turning with perfect rhythm, whether we see it or not. And we—we are not the wheel. We are the spokes. Bound to its turn, whether we rise or fall."
His voice softened. "What is happening now is not a matter of choice. It is alignment. A culmination of karma—his, yours, mine, the world's."
Arjuna's lips parted, but no words came. His heart was thunder in his chest.
Krishna took a step closer. "You hesitate because you are noble. Because you are righteous. Because you are bound by the code of a warrior."
Then his gaze narrowed, and his voice grew heavier.
"But Arjuna—dharma is not always noble. Dharma is not a shining sword. Sometimes, it is a bloodstained blade. Sometimes, it demands what we detest… so that the world might survive."
He gestured toward Karna, who was still knee-deep in mud, desperately trying to free his chariot wheel.
"He is not helpless by accident. This is not coincidence. It is the will of the universe finally cornering the man who eluded it for too long. Every wrong turn, every silence when he should've spoken, every truth denied—this moment is the answer to it all."
Arjuna's eyes flickered. There was no hatred in them. Only conflict.
Krishna went on, more quietly now. "He is not your enemy, Arjuna. He is your mirror. Born for greatness, crushed by circumstances. But where you chose truth, he chose loyalty. And now… here you stand, not as two warriors, but as two paths."
Arjuna's shoulders sagged slightly.
And from the mud, Karna finally spoke.
"Beautiful words, Krishna," he said, breathless but clear. "You always had a talent for wrapping betrayal in philosophy."
Krishna turned toward him, but said nothing.
Karna stood slowly, mud clinging to his limbs like chains. His armor cracked, his body bleeding—but his spine straight.
"You want him to kill me?" Karna asked. "Then do it. But don't pretend this is some divine reckoning. Don't pretend this is justice."
He looked at Arjuna—directly, fiercely.
"You hesitate because you know what this is. A man with no weapon. No chariot. No means to defend himself. You know the code, Arjuna. A true warrior does not strike another when he is down."
Arjuna flinched.
Karna's voice burned now—not with fear, but with fury.
"Where was your dharma when you dragged me into this war with half-truths and veiled identities? Where was it when I stood mocked in public, reminded again and again of a birth I did not choose?"
He took a slow breath. "You speak of dharma, Krishna. But where was yours when I was abandoned? When I was scorned by those who called themselves noble, simply because I did not belong to a royal womb?"
Krishna's expression did not change. But there was a flicker—of regret, or memory, no one could tell.
"I gave everything to Duryodhana," Karna continued. "Not because I believed in his cause. But because he gave me dignity when the world would not. He gave me a name when others gave me shame."
He stepped forward, dragging his boot from the mud.
"And yet I fought with honor. I never attacked without warning. I never struck from behind. I never begged for life… even now."
His eyes—those sun-born eyes—blazed with pride.
"So go ahead. Kill me. But do not pretend it is right. Just accept that this is war. That you are doing what must be done. And that it is ugly."
Arjuna's lips parted to speak—but no words formed. The air was thick with truth.
Then, quietly, Arjuna said, "You speak of honor. But where was it when Abhimanyu stood surrounded… alone?"
Karna's breath caught.
"He was only sixteen," Arjuna went on. "He knew he would die. And yet he fought—not with pleas, but with fire. He stood in the chakravyuha alone, knowing he would not return. But still, he did not break. And what did you do, Karna?"
Karna was silent.
"You were there," Arjuna said. "You could have stopped them. You could have spoken. But you did not."
A long silence passed between them.
Then Karna spoke, softer now. "He was brave beyond his years. No one denies that. But he was in the way of something larger. Just like I am now."
Arjuna's fingers tightened around Gandiva. The silence between the three of them grew unbearable.
Krishna, watching it all, closed his eyes for a moment. The breeze caught the edge of his robe and carried it like a whisper across the barren field.
Fate had drawn its final circle.
Then it happened.
The wind ceased.
The cries of war choked mid-echo.
Arrows froze in the air. Blood hung still. Dust stopped falling.
The entire world halted as if time itself had been held by the throat.
But two souls moved freely—untouched, unshackled.
Krishna.
And Karna.
At first, Karna blinked, confused.
The tremors of the battlefield were gone. The sound of horse hooves, of clashing swords, of men shouting and dying—gone. Even the sun seemed suspended in the sky like a lamp hung in frozen air.
He turned toward Krishna, the only other being not caught in this impossible stillness.
Krishna stood calmly, that familiar smile playing at his lips—soft, knowing, neither cruel nor kind. A smile Karna had seen too many times. In sabhas. In wars. In moments where others despaired.
Why is it, Karna wondered, that no matter the storm, Krishna always smiled?
Not mockingly. Not coldly.
But as if he carried the weight of all sorrow and still chose to be gentle.
But the thought passed as quickly as it came.
"What is this?" Karna asked, his voice strangely clear in the stillness, echoing not in air, but in the space between souls. "Why has the world… stopped?"
Krishna did not answer.
Instead, he tilted his head, eyes still on Karna, and asked, as though he hadn't heard Karna's question at all—
"So you believe you are right… in supporting Duryodhana, no matter how many chances you were given to walk away?"
Karna froze—not from the halted time, but from the weight of the question.
He looked away, his jaw tense. "He was the only one who stood by me when the world spat on my name."
Krishna took a slow step forward.
"That is not what I asked."
Karna's hands curled into fists. "Then what is it you want, Krishna? For me to say I was wrong? That I should have fought for the Pandavas—the same ones who mocked me for years? Who denied me my place because I was not born in the halls of royalty?"
Krishna's voice remained calm. "You were given chances, Karna. Again and again. You could have chosen differently."
"I did choose," Karna snapped. "I chose loyalty. Gratitude. I chose the man who gave me dignity when no one else would."
"You chose blind loyalty," Krishna replied gently, "even when your soul knew better. Even when your heart ached with truth."
Karna's breath grew heavy.
"You knew Draupadi was wronged… yet you stood in silence. You knew Abhimanyu's death was unjust… and you raised your bow anyway. You were given the truth of your birth, a place among the Pandavas, a place beside Arjuna—and still, you turned away."
Karna looked up, defiant. "Because it was too late. I had made my vows. I had given my word. Do you expect me to betray the only man who believed in me?"
"No," Krishna said, softly now. "But I expect you to understand that even loyalty, when given to adharma, becomes a sin."
Silence. A deep, soul-splitting silence.
Karna clenched his teeth. "So what now? Will you lecture me as the world ends? Will you tell me I deserve to die?"
Krishna shook his head. "No, Karna. I won't tell you what you deserve. That is for time to decide. But I will say this—you were never meant to be this. You were meant for something far greater."
Karna's eyes shone with a sudden glimmer—not of tears, but of something heavier. Regret? Sorrow? Or perhaps… recognition.
"And yet," Krishna continued, "your story does not end here."
Karna frowned. "What do you mean?"
But Krishna only smiled.
A soft wind stirred.
The birds resumed their call. Arrows finished their arc through the sky. Blood fell to soil. Time exhaled—and the world began moving again.
Karna blinked. The battlefield returned.
Arjuna stood where he had, bow drawn but motionless, unaware that the cosmos had just paused to hold a conversation between destiny and defiance.
And in that single instant, Karna felt it—something shift inside him.
A knowing.
That whatever came next… this was not the end.