Chapter Text
Karna’s POV:
I’ve heard enough. The words of Guru Drona sting my pride. To call Arjuna the greatest archer when I stand here, capable of the same feats, feels like an insult I can no longer ignore. I have trained under Parashuram, the greatest of sages. My skill is equal, if not superior. It’s time to prove it.
Karna steps forward, the crowd's murmurs growing louder. I face Guru Drona, my voice steady but tinged with an edge of defiance.
Karna:
“Guru Dron, I have heard your words, and while I respect you, I cannot let this pass. Arjuna is indeed a great archer, but to call him the greatest is incorrect. I, too, am a disciple of the great Parashuram, and my skill with the bow is no less than Arjuna’s. I challenge him, right here, in the presence of all, to prove whose arrows fly truer.”
There it is. The challenge is out in the open. I wait for a response, feeling the eyes of the arena upon me. But Guru Dron's voice, calm and authoritative, cuts through my resolve.
Drona (raising his hand):
“Karna, you are the son of a noble charioteer. This is not a matter of personal pride. The competition in this arena is for the royal princes, not for those of lesser birth. It is not fitting for you to challenge Arjuna in this way.”
The sting of his words is sharper than any arrow. He still sees me as less than them. He still sees me as nothing but the son of a charioteer. But then—Arjuna speaks. His voice is not filled with arrogance, as I expected, but with understanding. It surprises me. For the first time, I look at him differently.
Arjuna (calmly):
“Guru Drona, I understand your concern, but I must disagree. The competition between the royal princes has already ended, and this challenge—this match—could simply be seen as a friendly contest between two archers, who are both passionate about their craft. Why should we let birth or status stand in the way of skill and respect for one another? Let us settle this with honor.”
I stare at him, struck. He doesn’t see me as inferior. He doesn’t look down on me for my birth, for my station. His words carry humility—something I didn’t expect from the royal prince. A prince with the world at his feet, and yet he offers respect, not superiority.
I pause. This is not a rivalry of arrogance, but of warriors. Of equals. I can feel something shift inside me. It’s strange, this respect that’s blooming for someone I once viewed as a rival. A bitter rivalry built on pride and pride alone.
Karna (softly, with a tinge of respect):
“Arjuna... I expected you to be haughty, spoiled by the admiration of all who surround you. But instead, you speak with the humility of a true warrior. I was wrong to judge you so harshly. I would be honored to face you, not as rivals, but as two equals. Let our bows speak for themselves.”
The match begins, and the world fades. The sun is high above, and the arrows fly like thunder between us. He’s good, no—better than good. His skill is almost unmatched. But I’m no slouch myself. With every strike, I match him. There is no winner here, only warriors testing each other’s strength.
As the sun sets, I lower my bow. The contest is too close to call, but that doesn't matter anymore. It’s not about who is better. It's about the respect between us now. The respect that wasn’t there before. Arjuna lowers his bow too, and then—he extends his hand.
I look at it, my heart beating loudly in my chest. It’s not something I’ve ever expected from someone of his birth. His hand is extended in friendship, not competition. This moment feels... monumental. For the first time, I don’t feel the sting of my origin. I don’t feel that same sharp knife of anger in my chest. I feel something else—something that has long been absent. I grip his hand firmly.
Karna (with quiet gratitude):
“I never thought I would see the day when I could call a prince my friend. But today, I do. And for that, I will be forever grateful.”