The moon cast a silvery glow over Varanasaharya, illuminating the thatched huts nestled among the trees. The air was chill, and the soft rustling of leaves accompanied the rhythmic chorus of nocturnal creatures. The students, weary from a day of rigorous training, lay wrapped in their coarse blankets, their dreams filled with images of valor and glory.

Yet, amidst this tranquil ambiance, a series of rhythmic thuds echoed through the air, accompanied by the resonant twang of bowstrings being pulled taut, resonating like distant thunder. The source was hidden and none stirred from their slumber, their bodies too weary from the day's relentless practice. They attributed the unnatural sounds to an unseasonal rainstorm, dismissing the uncanny symphony as nature's whim.

The thuds and twangs persisted, a haunting lullaby that, paradoxically, lulled the residents deeper into the embrace of sleep. Even the pet dogs, normally alert, lay curled up, lulled by the rhythm.

Inside a modest hut, Dronacharya lay beside his wife, Kripi, who, though asleep, wore a serene expression. The soft flicker of a dying oil lamp cast dancing shadows on the mud walls.

As the thuds grew more frequent and persistent, jolting Dron from his dreams. The sound reverberated through the air, an echo that clawed at the edges of his consciousness. He sat up, the woven mat beneath him scratching against his skin, and strained to listen. His keen senses, honed by years of discipline and training, discerned the truth: this was no rain.

Dronacharya's heart raced with curiosity and concern, as he swung his feet off the cot and padded barefoot across the cool earth. The air was crisp, the moon casting a silvery glow over the landscape, untouched by rain or storm. He stepped outside, the fog swirling around him like a ghostly veil. His instincts kicked in as he recognized this wasn't thunder but the sound of bowstrings being drawn. The twangs sliced through the night like a bolt of lightning, sharp and quick, a sound that demanded attention.

Instinctively, he reached for his bow, a weapon of both defense and discipline, as he blinked away the remnants of sleep. He slipped his feet into worn footwear, his heart quickening with concern. The twangs continued, now more frantic, as if something vital was at stake. The night air was cool against his skin as he strode forth quietly outside, the earth soft beneath his bare feet. The moon hung high, illuminating the ashram as he scanned the surroundings, senses heightened.

He followed the sound, curiosity and concern piqued within him. Each step took him closer to the archery grounds, where the twangs grew louder, resonating with determination. Approaching, he observed the dimly lit area. Then, in the shadows, he saw him-a solitary figure, poised like a statue against the inky blackness.

Arjun.

The young prince's form was a silhouette against the pale sky, bowstring taut, arrows flying with a whisper that cut through the silence. Twang. Thud. Twang. Thud. Each shot resonated, a heartbeat echoing the fervor of dedication and resolve. The target boards, shrouded in darkness and fog, bore witness to his perseverance-some arrows missed the mark, yet most struck true, each bull's-eye gleaming like a promise fulfilled.

Dronacharya's breath caught in his throat. Fatigue etched on Arjun's brow, yet he persisted, the weight of exhaustion overshadowed by an unquenchable fire within. The air crackled with Arjun's fervor, an intensity that seemed to merge the realms of mortal and divine. A shiver ran down Dron's spine, his body hair standing on end-here was the embodiment of true mastery, the spirit of Kshatriya ignited in the glow of ambition.

The conflict that had once clouded his heart began to dissipate like mist in the morning sun. His desire for Ashwathama's supremacy had threatened to eclipse the brilliance of this young warrior. In this fleeting moment, it became abundantly clear-ignoring such extraordinary talent would be a grave injustice, both to Arjun and to the very essence of his teachings.

No student of his, not even his own son, had ever demonstrated such relentless pursuit of knowledge. Here was Arjun, drenched in sweat yet undeterred, battling the very essence of exhaustion for the sake of mastery. It was a sight that transcended mere ambition; it was a testament to spirit, a hunger for mastery that transcended sleep itself, one of the most basic needs of body. The boy was ready to endure the torment of exhaustion, a warrior willing to conquer even his own body in pursuit of excellence.

To ignore this brilliance would be to snuff out a flame destined to illuminate the world. To allow his skill to wither, would not just be folly; it would be a sin.

Dron's bow slipped from his fingers, the thud resounding like a silent proclamation of surrender. Arjun, startled, turned-his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and determination.

"Acharya-" But before he could utter a greeting, Dronacharya crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat.

Without a word, Dron enveloped Arjun in a fierce embrace, a fusion of teacher and student, father and son. The warmth of Dron's body surrounded Arjun, momentarily shielding him from the chill of the night. Arjun froze, bow still taut in his hand, surprise flickered across his tired features. Time hung still as the warmth of his mentor enveloped him, and for a fleeting moment, the world faded away.

Dron pulled back, searching Arjun's gaze with intensity. How could he withhold the legacy of knowledge from one so deserving ? The very idea that anyone else could match Arjun's potential now seemed absurd.

"O Kunti-nandan Arjun, tumse shresht iss vishwa mei koi dhanurdhar nahi hoga. Aur yeh mai sunishchit karunga. Yeh vachan hai mera." Dronacharya vowed, his voice steady yet filled with emotion

As the weight of his words settled upon Arjun, an electric thrill coursed through him. To be told he would be the best was an exhilarating thought, one he had never dared to entertain. To him, striving to be better than himself had always been the ultimate goal. The notion of being hailed as the finest archer in the entire world was intoxicating, a fleeting dream that suddenly felt within reach.

Trust in Dronacharya flowed through him; he felt the surge of hope and possibility that he had never dared to embrace fully. He envisioned himself not just as a learner but as the pinnacle of archery, the culmination of his guru's wisdom.

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A/N

*Nazar utaring* 😍

Ab Dron shall become the DRONACHARYA we all respect 🔥