Dharmyudh : The Rewritten Destiny

63.2 The Midnight Talk

The palace of Hastinapur, shrouded in darkness, held its secrets close. Within its ancient walls, the indoor training hall stood as a sanctuary for warriors—a place where steel met flesh, and skill was honed to perfection. Tonight, rain fell relentlessly, tapping against the tall windows like impatient fingers. Dull torchlight flickered, casting elongated shadows on the stone floor. The air smelled of damp earth and anticipation.

The guards stationed at the entrance remained vigilant, their figures silhouetted against the faint glow of torches lining the walls. The sound of their heavy footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor, blending with the rhythm of the rainfall. The air was thick with anticipation, as if holding its breath, mirroring the unspoken tension that hung between the two figures within the training hall.

The rain’s rhythm had seeped into Bhism’s bones, and he moved through the dimly lit corridor like a ghost of battles past. His footsteps, softened by age, echoed against the stone walls. The guards, vigilant even in the darkest hours, dipped their heads in deference as he passed.

The muffled clank of metal drew him toward the training hall—a place where warriors shed their titles and bared their souls. Bhism’s curiosity stirred. Who would wield a mace at this ungodly hour? He pushed open the heavy doors, and the scent of sweat and determination enveloped him.

Pushing aside the curtains that veiled the entrance to the training hall, Bhism stepped inside, his keen eyes immediately locking onto the shadowy figure in the corner.

The torches flickered, casting elongated shadows on the cold floor. There, amidst the dampness and the echoes of rain, stood Duryodhan. His silhouette was a study in defiance—muscles taut, eyes aflame with purpose. The mace, an extension of his will, swung in arcs that defied the storm outside.

The old warrior’s heart swelled with pride and concern. What drove his grandson to such lengths?

Duryodhan’s rage echoed through the cavernous training hall.
As Duryodhan's mace struck the metal statue with forceful determination, each blow fueled by a potent mixture of frustration and ambition, he grappled with his inner turmoil. Why was it always Bheem, the mighty Pandav, who garnered praise as the foremost mace warrior? Why not him, Duryodhan, the heir to the throne of Hastinapur? His muscles tensed with resolve, his breath ragged with exertion as he paused to reassess his approach.

His breaths came in ragged bursts, and sweat mingled with rain on his brow. The statue bore the brunt of his frustration, its surface dented and scarred. But strength alone was not enough. Duryodhan knew it now, as the adrenaline subsided and clarity settled like dew on a battlefield.

Superior skills—that was the key. Bheem’s brawn was matched only by his technique, his mastery of the mace. His ambition burned hotter than the torches lining the hall. He wanted to surpass Bheem, to carve his name as the greatest mace fighter.

In the hushed aftermath of his onslaught, a soft echo reverberated through the training hall, drawing Duryodhan's attention. Turning, he found himself face to face with the imposing figure of Bhism, his grandsire, standing with a mace in hand. The flickering torchlight danced across Bhism's weathered features, casting deep shadows in the lines of his face as he regarded Duryodhan with a mixture of solemnity and understanding.

With a subtle gesture, Bhism raised his own mace, a silent invitation for Duryodhan to join him in combat. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Bhism's lips, a silent acknowledgement of the fiery determination that burned within his grandson.

Duryodhan, breathless from the exchange, finally found his voice.

Duryodhan :- Pitamah, what brings you here at this hour ?