Re: I Become Karna In Mahabharata

(Timeskip 3 Years)

Tak!

Swish!

Tak!

Swish!

Tak!

"Er... B-Boss, your aim… is a bit off. Target is here, not… uh… wherever that went."

Raghav's voice trembled just slightly, a mix of terror and loyalty that only a six-year-old Crayon Cartel second-in-command could pull off.

I glared at the wooden post in front of me — my so-called "target." It stood unbothered, unscarred, and frankly a little smug. The stick I'd thrown was embedded in the ground several feet away, as if I were trying to assassinate a suspicious-looking patch of grass.

"Silence, Lieutenant Raghav," I declared, adjusting my red dhoti with regal defiance. "That was a warning shot. Strategic intimidation."

He blinked. "You… threatened the ground?"

"It knows what it did."

Raghav nodded solemnly. "Yes Boss. Of course, Boss. Earth crimes must not go unpunished."

He might be a snarky little goblin, but at least he was loyal. Mostly. When snacks weren't involved.

Anyway — back to the real point. I was five now. FIVE.

That mythical age when you're too big to poop your pants in public, but still small enough to be considered "cute" while committing crimes like throwing rocks at mango trees and pretending it was archery practice.

More importantly…

One more year to SIX.

And six meant:

Module System Unlock.

Divine Glitches.

And, most importantly—plot.

But right now? I had other priorities.

Like preparing for the big move.

Because guess what?

HASTINAPUR.

We're going.

To. The. Capital.

That's right. The oxen are oiled, the cart is loaded, and Radha's been packing mango pickle jars like she's preparing for a yagna-sponsored apocalypse.

The official reason?

Adhiratha got promoted. Apparently, all that grunting, scowling, and tsundere loyalty paid off. The royal stables of Hastinapur were in need of a trusted charioteer for some noble duties. A "transfer," they said.

Unofficial reason?

Fate. Is. Cooking. Something.

And I — baby-faced cow-blessed chaos seed that I am — am right back in the pressure cooker.

<><><><><><><>><><><><>

[Back at the Hut — One Day Before Departure]

Radha was in full maa-mode. Wrapping up food in banana leaves, triple-folding dhotis, tucking hair oil into bundles like someone might wage a war without coconut fragrance if she forgot.

"Beta, don't forget your ghee," she muttered under her breath, as if ghee was the difference between life and death.

Meanwhile, Adhiratha was fixing the cart wheel with all the tenderness of a man pretending he wasn't actually excited about moving closer to politics, palaces, and Pandava parenting foreshadowing.

"New horses better not be soft," he muttered, tightening a bolt that didn't need tightening. "Capital breeds weak hooves. All oats, no loyalty."

"Yes, Baba," I said sweetly. "I'm sure you'll teach them emotional discipline through grunting."

He paused. Looked at me. Grunted softly.

Tsundere confirmation received.

And Surabhi?

She is my ride.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

You see, while normal five-year-olds get dragged along in boring ox carts or balanced awkwardly between two sacks of grain, I—Karna, heir to divine drama and toddler tragedy—ride into destiny on the back of a holy cow.

Surabhi, unbothered, undefeated, with a gait that said "I fart in the general direction of fate," walked ahead of the caravan like a bovine herald of divine nonsense.

The villagers gathered to see us off, tossing flowers, rice grains, and mild envy.

One aunty even wept. "Radha! Don't forget us when your son becomes some big-city noble with soft feet!"

Another whispered, "I heard city children don't even touch cow dung during Diwali."

Radha clutched me tighter. "My Karna will always touch cow dung. Right, beta?"

"…Sure, Maa," I said, trying not to cry for entirely different reasons.

Adhiratha nodded stoically, giving everyone a humble salute that somehow screamed "I have witnessed five wars and will judge your haircut silently."

Raghav saluted too.

"I'll guard the village till you return, Boss," he sniffled. "Tell those Hastinapur kids they can't out-sanskrit the Crayon Cartel!"

"Hold the fort, Lieutenant. And remember—if they challenge you, slap them with a mango leaf and quote the Rigveda."

"YES, SIR!"

Radha gave him two extra laddoos for bravery.

Surabhi mooed once. Loud. Decisive.

We were off.

<><><><><><><>><><><><>

[Scene Shift — The Road to Hastinapur]

The path was long, bumpy, and filled with dramatic camera angles (in my mind).

Though we lived at the literal outskirts of Hastinapur, with only the forest dividing our village from the city walls, the time to cross the whole forest takes an entire day.

Now, imagine just how vast the forest could be. This being a strategic move is more likely than a mere coincidence.

Because forests near capitals? They aren't just trees and squirrels. They're politically sensitive buffer zones. Hunting grounds for royals. Meditation spots for suspiciously wise sages. And, occasionally, crime scenes for plot-critical backstories.

But on a serious note, this forest also works as the second last line of defence against invaders.

Because the last line of defence is "Vow incarnate" himself.

Who else?

But our very own Mahamahim Bhishma — Ganga's MVP and Hastinapur's permanent security deposit of righteousness.

Somewhere past these trees, that man could probably smell treason through bark. Or hear the whispers of dharma imbalance via falling leaves. I wouldn't be surprised if he patrolled this very forest barefoot in full armour just to let invading squirrels know: not today.

And before anyone asks, I haven't forgotten that cliffhanger he left behind at the time of his visit.

Like who leave right after saying "He..."

Bro, didn't even complete the sentence.

I'm still fussy about that.

I mean, seriously. Who drops a "He…" with centuries of gravitas in their voice and then just ghostwalks out of the scene like some philosophical Batman?

Was he about to say "He is the hope of Hastinapur"?"He must be protected"?"He forgot to burp after drinking holy water"?

We'll never know.

Because Bhishma, bless his vow-choked soul, treats emotional closure like it's a limited-edition offering from the gods — and I was clearly not on the guest list.

Anyway.

Back to the road.

We were making slow but steady progress through the forest. The kind of progress that involves Radha occasionally bursting into emotional bhajans and Adhiratha angrily muttering about potholes made by "useless forest spirits who can't even pave a decent path."

Meanwhile, I was perched atop Surabhi like a pint-sized war general on a divine tank. If this cow ever decided to start a holy war, I'd have front-row seats and a poop-resistant saddle.

The trees grew denser as we moved in. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the canopy like dramatic lighting meant to foreshadow plot relevance. Birds chirped overhead in that suspiciously narrative way, and somewhere in the distance, a peacock screamed like it had just read its own Wikipedia page.

I tugged gently on Surabhi's ear. "Hey. Anything I should be worried about in these woods?"

She mooed once.

A deep, warning moo.

"...That's not helpful."

She mooed again.

Louder.

I turned just in time to see Adhiratha halt the ox cart, one hand up, eyes scanning the tree line.

"What is it?" Radha asked, clutching her bag of pickle jars like they were sacred scrolls.

Adhiratha didn't respond immediately. His eyes narrowed. "Something's off."

Cue tension.

Surabhi took two slow steps forward. Her nostrils flared.

I squinted. The forest felt… thick. Heavier. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

And then—

Snap.

A twig. Somewhere up ahead. Loud. Deliberate.

Not animal.

Human.

I instinctively grabbed Surabhi's neck fluff. "Okay, team," I whispered. "New plan. Don't die."

Radha stepped closer to me.

Adhiratha crouched slightly — hand near his waist, where he kept a small blade wrapped in linen, not that it would help much against anything stronger than mango thieves.

And that's when the voice came.

Smooth. Calm. Too calm.

"Greetings, travellers. Heading to Hastinapur?"

Out from the trees stepped a figure in ochre robes. Long hair tied back. Staff in hand. Beard that screamed I have at least three mysterious prophecies and one tragic backstory.

A sage.

Or something pretending to be one.

Adhiratha bowed stiffly. "We are humble folk. No trouble here."

The man smiled. Too toothy. Too knowing. "Of course. Of course. Just offering guidance."

His eyes landed on me.

And stayed there.

Longer than they should've.

Radha clutched me tighter.

Surabhi took a defensive step, positioning herself between us and him. Her ears twitched. Her tail went still.

That's when I noticed something that made my internal alarm bell ring like a drunk temple priest during festival week:

He had no shadow.

I repeat.

No. Freaking. Shadow.

The sun was there. The light was right. Even the oxen had crisp little silhouettes.

But him?

Nothing.

Just leaf-strewn earth and a growing sense of plot-based doom.

"Lovely child," the not-sage said, smiling wider. "So bright. So... golden."

Adhiratha stepped forward. "We must be going now. Forgive us, Mahatma."

"What's the hurry? Come, offer your prayers to me. Kekekekeke~"

Oh. Hell. No.

"Kekekeke" is never a laugh. It's an omen.

That's not laughter — that's an anime villain warming up before an exposition dump.

Adhiratha stiffened, one hand inching closer to his hidden blade, the other subtly motioning Radha to get behind the cart. Surabhi's nostrils flared like she was deciding whether this man should be vaporized or just trampled. Radha's grip on me tightened so hard, my ribs sent a formal complaint to HR.

"Forgive us, Mahatma," Adhiratha said, tone colder now, more clipped. "We are expected in Hastinapur by nightfall. Our blessings we carry within."

The man smiled wider.

Too wide.

His teeth looked just a little… off. Too even. Too perfect. Like someone had designed them from memory, not biology.

"Oh, but surely," he said smoothly, "you wouldn't pass a forest sage without offering thanks to the spirits that guard your path? To walk this road safely, one must pay respects. Or… consequences."

There it was.

The shift.

The 'nice hermit' mask slipping, just a fraction, revealing something ancient and unpleasant underneath.

And that's when my toddler-sense went fully red alert.

The System didn't unlock yet.

But something inside me — deeper, older — hummed.

Buzzed in warning.

And then—

Surabhi stomped.

The ground trembled.

She stepped forward — eyes glowing faintly, the sun catching her horns just right to make her look like the bovine avatar of judgment day.

"Moooo."

Not a regular moo.

This one had weight.

This moo came with divine passive-aggression and the unmistakable tone of "I know what you are."

The man paused. His smile faltered for the briefest second.

His eyes flicked between her… and me.

"Oh?" he murmured. "The cow speaks."

Correction: She judges.

Another step. Surabhi's tail whipped side to side like a cat who was two seconds away from scratching your soul out.

"I insist," the man said again, but his voice had shifted — less friendly, more ancient. "Offer this child as a—"

He didn't get to finish.

Because Surabhi moved.

And when Surabhi moves, I mean time hiccups, birds stop mid-air, and gravity writes a letter of apology.

She charged—not a panicked animal sprint, but a deliberate, holy missile of divine bovine justice.

BOOM.

The forest floor cracked under her hooves.

Leaves flew. Trees swayed like they suddenly remembered they weren't gods and should probably bow.

The not-sage's fake-smile snapped clean off.

He raised his staff, chanting something in a tongue that sounded like Sanskrit tried to eat itself. The air shimmered. The shadows thickened.

But still… no shadow of his own.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

"Maa!" I shouted.

Radha turned to bolt with me in her arms. Adhiratha moved like a warrior reborn—blade drawn, shielding her as Surabhi collided with the not-sage in a divine moo-powered tackle.

CRACK!

The impact echoed.

The staff splintered. The man—or whatever he was—staggered back, golden dust spilling from where flesh should have been.

He hissed. HISSED. Like a snake whose tax documents were just audited.

"You dare interrupt a ritual, you filthy livestock?"

"Mooooooo."

That moo?

Was not forgiveness.

That moo came from the part of the cosmos older than words. It was the divine bovine equivalent of "Try me, you Vedic failure."

I'm seriously doubting my identity as the Main Character.