The crowd froze as the loud crack of stone echoed through the arena. Prabal’s mace had struck the base of a massive stone pillar, and it wavered precariously, its weight tilting toward the dais where the royal women sat. Gasps rippled through the audience, everyone frozen as the inevitable seemed seconds away. Their expressions a mix of fear and disbelief.

Time seemed to slow as the pillar leaned further, the shadow of its descent creeping toward the dais. Prabal's eyes widened in horror, his earlier bravado replaced with remorse. Ranak, standing nearby, could only watch in astonishment. No one had enough time to react including Maharaj Jagadeesan, Senapati Jayaditya or Guru Prana.

And then it happened.

With a sharp whistle that pierced the tension, an arrow streaked through the air, striking the pillar with unerring precision. The impact was followed by a deafening explosion of dust and stone fragments as the pillar shattered into harmless rubble far from the dais, its immense weight reduced to nothing but debris.

The arena fell deathly silent, every gaze turning to find the source of the arrow. Slowly, the dust began to settle, revealing a lone figure standing at the entrance of the arena. His bow was still raised, the string humming softly as he relaxed his grip. His piercing gaze swept over the scene, his presence commanding despite his calm demeanor.

"Who is this?"

Rajkumari Aradhya wondered loudly as the fear from moments ago disappeared. The elder royal women exchanged glances, Maharani Nivedita murmuring her gratitude under her breath. Raani Yamini sat back, her sharp eyes narrowing in scrutiny of the newcomers.

"Agamya, the youngest Kaushava!"

It was Maharani Nivedita who replied with a fond smile in face. Agamya's eyes found her at the exact moment and he folded his hands in anjali mudra, incorporating pranipat.

Maharani Nivedita rose from her seat and took a few steps forward before raising her hand in abhayamudra, gesturing reassurance and safety.

Agamya then did the same to Maharaj Jagadeesan, other elders and Guru Prana. Everyone seemed to accept his greetings except his former Guru who remained stoic and unmoving.

Beside him, his elder brother Ranadhrist leaned lazily against the wall, his arms crossed as if the entire spectacle had been of no concern to him. His nonchalant expression was a stark contrast to the tension that had gripped the arena moments ago.

Agamya shrugged, slinging his bow across his back with effortless grace. His eyes flicked to Prabal, who stood frozen in the arena, mace still in hand. As the tension dissipated, he felt both embarrassment and gratitude.

"Bhrata Prabal,"

Agamya called out to him in a sharp, but steady tone, carrying authority despite its softness.

"Perhaps next time, you'll consider the consequences of your strength before unleashing it."

Prabal's face turned earnest as he replied,

"I didn’t mean for any of it to happen."

"Of course you didn’t,"

Ranadhrist interrupted with a snort.

"You never do. That's what makes you so… endearing."

Ranak, ever the quick wit, stepped closer to Agamya.
"Well, brother, you certainly know how to make an entrance."

Agamya’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile.
"And you, bhrata Ranak, know how to stir up trouble."

Ranadhrist pushed off the wall, his smirk widening.
"Trouble or not, at least it’s never boring."

The three brothers exchanged glances, the camaraderie evident despite the tense situation. The arena, still buzzing with the aftershocks of the near disaster, slowly returned to its lively atmosphere as the crowd settled back into their seats.

As the dust finally settled, Guru Prana's sharp gaze fell on Agamya and Ranadhrist. Though he said nothing initially, the disapproval in his eyes was clear. With a stern voice, he finally broke the silence.

"Agamya. Ranadhrist. This arena is not for you. Your paths lie elsewhere, shaped by your own choices and destinies. Do not involve yourselves in what does not concern you."

Guru Prana's declaration attracted the attention of the others. Maharaj Jagadeesan merely glanced at him briefly. However, a frown had appeared on Mahabali Jayaditya's face. He called out to Guru Prana disapprovingly.

"Pranacharya, this event is meant for the Rajkumars of Vajra vangsh. And Agamya and Ranadhrist are part of us only. No one can stop them from proving their strength and prowess in this ground."

"I am not declining that they belong from the sacred bloodline of Vajra, Mahabali. But this ground has been opened for my disciples, so they could show what I have taught them in all these years. And these two are the ones who declined my teachings years ago to pursue a different purpose. I do not accept their participation in this event. I will consider this my insult if they're allowed to show the spectacle of their ambitions."

Mahabali Jayaditya fell silent after that. He didn't want to engage in an argument with the Guru of the Rajkumars publicly. And watching the stubborn set of his jawline, Jayaditya could tell that this is indeed going to be a long argument.

Agamya, ever respectful to him, gave a small nod to Guru Prana and said,

"Forgive me, Gurudev. My intention was only to prevent harm, not to upset you. It does not matter to me if I participate in this event or not. This will not decide my worth, nor change the respect I hold in my heart for the Guru who is the base of my competency."

Ranadhrist remained silent, his eyes briefly meeting Guru Prana's before lowering. He gave a single nod of acknowledgment, his posture as composed as ever.

Guru Prana's gaze remained hard, his voice retained its firmness.
"Then remain spectators, nothing more."

With that, the matter was dismissed, and the focus shifted back to the arena. Guru Prana raised his hand to address the crowd.

"We shall now continue with the kalapradarshan," he announced. "Prabal!"

Rajkumar Prabal stepped forward confidently, his massive mace resting on his shoulder. His movements were steady and deliberate, radiating strength and assurance. The crowd cheered for him, their earlier unease forgotten.

Guru Prana’s voice boomed again.
"Prabal's opponent will be one who has yet to make his mark upon this arena.

The eldest of the Kaushavas,  Ranakrit!"

As the arena buzzed with murmurs over Guru Prana's announcement, the elderly guru's expression tightened briefly, a subtle crack in his usual composure. Though Ranakrit was not his favorite by far among his disciples, even he could not deny the young man's prowess. A warrior honed by fire and shadow, as much a force of nature as he was a Rajkumar.

The name echoed across the arena, but no one moved. The crowd murmured in confusion, craning their necks to see who Guru Prana was referring to.

"Ranakrit!"

Guru Prana called again, his tone sharper this time.

"Step forward!"

All eyes turned to the entryway, yet there was no movement. Whispers filled the air, speculating on the absence of the prince. Even the royal dais seemed puzzled, Maharani Nivedita frowning slightly, while Maharaj Jagadeesan's expression remained inscrutable. Mahabali Jayaditya gave a pointed look to his brother, Durdharsh who in turn was searching the arena for a sign of his dearest nephew.

Prabal stood in the arena, his mace balanced across his broad shoulders. He cracked his neck with a faint grin, unfazed by the delay.

"Let him take his time Gurudev," he remarked dryly. "I'm not going anywhere today."

As the moments stretched, the tension was broken by a sudden hush. A faint tremor began to hum through the ground, and all eyes turned toward the shadows near the grand entryway.

Then, with measured, deliberate steps, Rajkumar Ranakrit emerged.

He was clad in dark armor trimmed with blackened steel, its design simple yet commanding. Wearing dark crimson colored dhoti with a silver border, he stepped through the threshold of the Rangbhumi. A white cloth was wrapped on his face, shielding his features, leaving only a pair of burning eyes to be seen. The extra cloth trailed behind him, its edges flowing and the fabric catching faint glimmers of sunlight. The mace he held, was a weapon born of nightmares, a brutal instrument of destruction that seemed almost alive in its ominous design. The dark, menacing weapon with a spiked, demon-engraved head and a crimson gem at its core, seemed to pulse like a living heart, exuding pure dread.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that silenced the crowd. It was the air around him. Ranakrit carried himself with a gravity that made every step feel heavier, as though the earth itself acknowledged his presence. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over the arena, taking in every detail with the precision of a hawk.

As he passed Dharmesth, who stood near the arena's edge, the eldest Rajkumar gave him a pointed look.

"Your battles are always loud, Ranakrit,"

Dharmesth said quietly, his tone calm but laced with something that hung in the air like an unspoken warning.

"Let’s hope they don’t drown out what truly matters."

Ranakrit slowed, turning his head slightly toward Dharmesth.

"I fight only for what matters,"

He replied, his voice steady and cold. "Whether it’s loud or silent, that’s for others to decide."

The exchange was brief, but it left an unmistakable tension that rippled through those close enough to hear. Ranakrit continued forward, his footsteps echoing in the stillness until he stood before Guru Prana and Prabal.

"This isn't good. Why is Gurudev putting these two in a contest? What is he thinking?"

Rajkumar Vivardhan wondered aloud with a slight frown. Ranak, Agamya and Ranadhrist were beside him. All of them looked ahead as Ranakrit and Prabal stood facing each other. It was Ranadhrist who answered his brother's question though.

"Gurudev is saving his best for the last. These two are going to scare the shit out of the subjects. And whoever wins, will be the villan regardless. Isn't that the perfect time for his favorite student to enter the scene like a shining knight?"

Just as Ranadhrist finished speaking in a lazy drawl, a strong wind swept over and the cloth covering Ranakrit's face fell away. The crowd exhaled as one, a mix of awe and unease washing over them. Ranakrit was a cruelly handsome man with chiseled features, his sharp jawline and piercing eyes exude an aura of cold dominance. His smirk, both enticing and menacing, hints at a heart hardened by ambition and a mind steeped in dark secrets.

Guru Prana's gaze rested on Ranakrit for a moment longer than usual, his lips tightening before he addressed him.

"Ranakrit, the best among Kaushavas," he said, his tone carefully measured. "Step forward and face your opponent. Show us your worth."

Ranakrit inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, then turned to Prabal, his grip on the mace tightening just enough to catch the other Rajkumar's attention.

Prabal grinned broadly, hefting his own mace.

"Took you long enough, Ranakrit. Let’s see if that grand entrance of yours lives up to the fight."

Without a word, Ranakrit stepped into the arena, his movements precise and deliberate. The crowd, still reeling from his arrival, waited in hushed anticipation as the two warriors squared off, the fight about to begin.

The clash between Prabal and Ranakrit began with a thunderous roar as their maces collided, sending shockwaves through the arena. Each strike was a brutal display of power, the metal heads of their weapons tearing through the air and sparking when they met. Prabal relied on raw strength, his attacks unrelenting and forceful, while Ranakrit countered with calculated precision, dodging and parrying with ease.

As the fight raged on, Ranakrit suddenly stepped back and tossed aside his mace. With his mace clanging to the ground, he grabbed a staff from a nearby rack. The crowd gasped, puzzled by the shift.

"What’s this? Are you giving up?" Prabal sneered, hefting his mace for another strike.

Ranakrit didn’t respond. Instead, he twirled the bamboo in a blur of movement, its whistle cutting through the noise. The staff became an extension of his body as he shifted into a stance, the fluid elegance of his  captivating the audience.

"Jyesth is really using Silambam techniques against a mace fighter?"
Rajkumar Agamya asked in awe.

"Well, he's Jyesth! The most unpredictable man on earth!" Vivardhan said smirking mirthfully.

"That's fine. But he's doing it against bhrata Prabal! Look at that elephant's face!" Ranak commented, matching his brother's smirk.

Prabal charged, his mace swinging wide, but Ranakrit sidestepped effortlessly, the staff striking the marmam (pressure points) on Prabal’s wrist and thigh in quick succession. The blows were precise, each one disrupting Prabal’s balance and weakening his grip.

A faint glimmer of pride flickered across Guru Prana’s otherwise stern face. Rajkumar Prabal, blessed with the strength of ten thousand elephants by his spiritual father, Vayu Dev, was a warrior who relied heavily on his unparalleled physical might. Yet this gift had made him less inclined to hone his skills or delve into refined techniques. For Prabal, brute strength was his greatest ally, and the rigorous discipline of martial arts held little appeal.

In contrast, Ranakrit approached combat with a hunger for mastery. He sought to learn and perfect diverse fighting techniques, understanding that skill often outweighed sheer power. The path of martial arts demanded immense patience, self-control, and a finely-tuned body. It required sacrifices, sparing meals, grueling training, and a mental fortitude that Prabal, with his love for indulgence and lack of restraint, could not muster.

Ranakrit, however, embraced these challenges with determination, shaping himself into a warrior whose precision and adaptability made him a force to reckon with. It was this contrast, the clash of raw power against cultivated skill, that made their duel so compelling.

Prabal roared, spinning to deliver a crushing blow, but Ranakrit ducked low, his staff sweeping across Prabal’s ankles and sending him stumbling. The crowd gasped as Ranakrit vaulted over his opponent with ease, landing lightly and spinning the staff once more.

With each exchange, Ranakrit’s agility and technique began to overpower Prabal’s brute strength. A strike to the ooru marmam on Prabal’s leg left him limping, and a sharp jab to the nabhi marmam near his solar plexus forced him to drop his mace, gasping for air.

The final blow came as Ranakrit spun the staff in a wide arc, delivering a powerful strike to Prabal’s shoulder. The larger warrior fell to one knee, defeated but not broken. He roared in aggression and jerking his body violently stood up again. Ranakrit stood still watching him. With one hand behind his back, his other hand kept rotating the staff in an infinity arc.

Prabal's roar echoed across the arena, shaking the crowd from their awe. His massive frame surged forward, and with a powerful swing, he struck Ranakrit's spinning staff with his bare hands, shattering it into splinters. The sound of breaking bamboo reverberated like a war drum, and the pieces scattered across the ground.

The crowd gasped, some rising from their seats, as the two warriors now faced each other with nothing but their fists. Prabal charged like an enraged bull, his massive fists crashing toward Ranakrit with the force of a battering ram.

Ranakrit sidestepped just in time, his movements sharp and calculated. His fist darted out, landing a solid blow to Prabal’s ribs. Prabal grunted but barely flinched, swinging back with a hammering punch aimed at Ranakrit’s head. Ranakrit ducked, retaliating with a quick uppercut that snapped Prabal’s head back momentarily.

The fight escalated, the two warriors exchanging blow after blow. Prabal’s strikes were like thunderclaps, each one threatening to overwhelm, but Ranakrit used his agility to weave and counter. He landed sharp jabs to Prabal's vulnerable marmam points, his collarbone, his wrist, his thigh, but Prabal, fueled by raw power and rage, pressed on, his endurance unmatched.

At one point, Prabal caught Ranakrit’s arm mid-swing, yanking him forward with terrifying strength. He raised his fist for a crushing blow, but Ranakrit twisted out of his grip, using the momentum to land a devastating elbow strike to Prabal’s jaw.

The impact staggered Prabal, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. But instead of faltering, he laughed. A deep, guttural sound. As if reveling in the challenge. He lunged again, this time slamming his shoulder into Ranakrit, sending him skidding across the arena floor.

Mahavaidya Durdharsh felt the rising palatable tension in the air. He glanced at his brother, commander in chief of Amvastapuram's army, Mahabali Jayaditya to find him frowning at the scene with disapproval. His eyes found his second eldest brother, Maharaj Jagadeesan, looking at his two nephews fighting brutally like they were enemies in a battle field rather than cousins.

In the arena, Ranakrit rolled to his feet, breathing hard but unshaken. The dust swirled around him as he squared his stance, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to Prabal’s unrelenting fury. Prabal came at him again, fists swinging like wrecking balls. Ranakrit ducked under a wide hook and countered with a series of rapid strikes to Prabal’s chest and abdomen, each blow landing with precision and force.

Om the pavilion all the Kaushavas, were feeling anxious too. Rajkumar Nirmay and Sarvaay glanced at each other worriedly. Rajkumar Dharmesth's calm eyes swept over the crowd assessing. However, Rajkumar Durdharsh had stepped beside Guru Prana by then. The learned Brahman seemed concerned too.

"Stop them. They're scaring the subjects. They are here to witness the unity and strength of the Rajkumars. Not the hostility."
Mahavaidya Durdharsh told Guru Prana sternly.

Finally, Ranakrit saw his opening. As Prabal raised both arms for a double-fisted strike, Ranakrit stepped in close, driving his knee into Prabal’s stomach with brutal force. The air rushed out of Prabal in a pained gasp, and before he could recover, Ranakrit delivered a spinning backfist to his temple.

"Ranakrit! Prabal! Stop right now!" Guru Prana's loud voice rang out.

Prabal staggered, his legs trembling as he struggled to stay upright. Ranakrit stopped himself from leaping up to deliver the blow that would crush his ribs. Prabal glared at him angrily. He was ready to retaliate too. But the order from Pranacharya stopped both from continuing the fight.

On the royal dais where the women sat, Maharani Nivedita gave a sideway glance to Raani Yamini who was frowning in concern. Prabal was his brother's strength. And just right now, that strength had gotten shaken in front of all. This wasn't good. Her sharp eyes fixated on Ranakrit. The boy turned man who had become a mortal enemy of her sons from the day he stepped in Amvastapuram. Raani Yamini had not forgotten what he had done years ago. How he had tried to kill her son even then. Nor would she ever forget!

The arena fell silent as the dust settled. Ranakrit stood tall, his chest heaving, his eyes still locked on Prabal. The crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and astonished murmurs.

"Ranakrit, Prabal, this is a draw. No one wins." Guru Prana announced. And then he called out to the one whom he had been waiting to show off. He proudly announced,

"Now, the one entering the arena is the one who has been the most devoted and talented student of mine. Who is unmatched in his courage and competency! My pride, my deciple,

Rajkumar Abhayam!"

***