The first light of dawn spread across Kyoto, golden rays washing over the broken city. The battle had ended, but its scars remained—collapsed buildings, scorched roads, and the lingering echoes of the war.
Arjun stood at the highest point of the shrine ruins, looking down at it all.
He had won.
But why didn’t it feel like victory?
Takeshi stepped up beside him, silent. His face was unreadable, but his grip on his bow was tight.
Finally, he spoke. “So. You didn’t kill him.”
Arjun exhaled. “No.”
Takeshi scoffed, shaking his head. “He’ll come back.”
Arjun turned, meeting his gaze. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I made a choice.”
Takeshi studied him for a long moment. Then he smirked—not mocking, not bitter. Just… understanding. “Heh. Maybe you are different after all.”
Emi approached next, her shrine maiden robes torn, but her expression soft. “The balance is restored.” She looked at the sky, where the last traces of the Blood Moon had faded. “But the world will remember this night.”
Arjun closed his eyes.
He would, too.
But something inside him whispered—this wasn’t the last time he would be tested.
Because power—true power—always came with a curse.
And he was still learning how to bear it.
The wind carried the scent of ash and incense as Arjun stood alone before the shrine’s remnants.
Kyoto had begun to heal. But he hadn’t.
The weight of the Pashupatastra’s power still burned within him. It hadn’t just been a weapon—it had been a force beyond mortal understanding. And for a brief moment, he had wielded it.
He had felt what it meant to be more than human.
And that terrified him.
A voice, calm yet infinite, echoed behind him.
“You have walked the path of war, Dhanurvaan.”
Arjun turned sharply.
A figure stood in the fading mist.
Not human. Not mortal.
A presence beyond the world.
The form shifted—one moment a monk, the next a warrior, the next a being wreathed in light. And in its gaze, he saw eternity.
Arjun’s breath caught. “Lord Shiva.”
The god did not move. He did not need to.
“You have broken the cycle, but cycles do not end—they transform.”**
Arjun’s fists clenched. “Then what was the point of all this?”
Shiva’s expression did not change. “To see if you could carry the weight of your own choices.”
Arjun exhaled sharply. “And?”
The god studied him, then nodded.
“You are not ready.”
The words hit harder than any battle.
Arjun’s body stiffened, his pride flaring. “I defeated Ryojin. I sealed the Blood Moon. I wielded the Pashupatastra!”
Shiva’s gaze deepened. “And yet you still ask why.”
Silence.
Arjun’s breath slowed.
Shiva continued. “You wielded divine power, but it did not consume you. Few can say the same.”
The god’s form began to fade, dissolving into the mist.
“But power is a burden, Arjun Rao. It is never truly yours. It is only borrowed.”
Arjun’s chest tightened.
As Shiva disappeared, only one final whisper remained.
“And one day, the gods may ask for it back.”
The wind howled through the ruins.
Arjun Rao, the Dhanurvaan, stood alone once more.
And he finally understood the price of what he had become.
The night was silent.
Arjun stood in the heart of Kyoto, alone. The city was healing, but his mind was not.
Shiva’s words echoed through him.
“Power is never truly yours. It is only borrowed.”
His hands twitched, phantom pain rippling through his fingers. He had held the Pashupatastra, a force beyond gods and demons. And yet…
He still felt human.
But then—a shift in the air.
A presence. Familiar. Cold. Deadly.
Arjun turned.
And there, standing under the glow of the restored moon, was Musashi.
His armor was untouched, his blade resting at his side. He had been waiting.
Arjun’s jaw tightened. “I should’ve known.”
Musashi’s expression was unreadable. “You broke the cycle. But you have not broken yourself.”
He drew his katana. The blade gleamed under the pale light, humming with restrained power.
“One last test.”
Arjun exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His fingers twitched toward his bow.
Musashi shook his head. “No Astra. No divine power.”
He raised his sword, his stance flawless. “Fight me as a warrior.”
Arjun’s fingers curled into a fist. Then he reached for his waist—where a single katana rested.
Takeshi’s old sword.
Arjun drew the blade.
The metal sang, cutting through the silence.
For the first time, he wasn’t fighting as a god, or a chosen warrior.
This was a fight between men.
A test to see if Arjun Rao, the Dhanurvaan, was truly worthy of the power he had been given.
Musashi tilted his head slightly. Then he moved.
The final duel began.
Musashi moved first.
A single step.
Then—his blade flashed.
Arjun barely had time to react. He twisted, raising his katana just as steel met steel. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the shrine grounds, the wind howling around them.
Musashi was faster.
His strikes came flawless, relentless, merciless. Each one a killing blow—if Arjun failed to block even once, the duel would end in an instant.
But Arjun did not block.
He flowed.
The teachings of the Himalayan monks, the instincts of Dhanurveda, the adaptability of Kyūdō—he let them merge.
He did not fight Musashi’s attacks. He moved with them.
Their blades clashed, sparks flying, but for the first time—Arjun was not overwhelmed.
This was not a battle for survival.
This was a battle for understanding.
Musashi saw it, too. His attacks shifted—from offense to something else.
A lesson. A refinement. A test of who Arjun was meant to be.
Arjun’s breath steadied. He had always relied on power—his Astra, his divine strength.
But right now?
He had no powers. No astras. No gods watching over him.
Only himself.
And it was enough.
The opening came.
Musashi struck downward—a killing blow.
Arjun sidestepped at the last moment.
He did not counter. He did not try to strike Musashi down.
Instead—he placed his blade gently against Musashi’s throat.
A silent answer.
I have learned.
The wind stilled.
Musashi stepped back. He looked at Arjun for a long moment, his grip on his sword loosening.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
For the first time, Musashi lowered his sword.
The duel was over.
He sheathed his blade, exhaling deeply. “You are no longer just a warrior.”
Arjun remained silent, his katana still in hand.
Musashi turned, gazing at the moonlit shrine. “I have been bound to this world for centuries, waiting for a warrior who understood more than power.”
His form flickered—for the first time, his spirit was fading.
Arjun’s heart pounded. Musashi had been cursed, forced to test warriors across generations.
But now?
He was free.
Musashi turned one last time, nodding in quiet respect. “You have earned your place, Dhanurvaan.”
Then—he was gone.
A final whisper on the wind.
Arjun sheathed his sword, standing beneath the moon.
He had fought warriors, demons, gods.
But this?
This had been the most important battle of all.
The wind carried the last echoes of Musashi’s presence, his spirit finally free. The shrine was silent, bathed in the pale glow of the restored moon.
Arjun sheathed his sword, his heartbeat steady. The journey had changed him. He was no longer the reckless archer who had sought only strength.
He had become something more.
But one last thing remained.
A slow clap echoed through the empty shrine.
Arjun turned—Takeshi Oda stood there, arms crossed, his black gi swaying in the wind.
“Not bad.” His voice was laced with dry amusement. “You finally learned how to fight properly.”
Arjun smirked. “Took me long enough.”
Takeshi exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “One thing left to do, then.”
Arjun raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Takeshi stepped forward, gripping his bow. “We finish what we started.”
Arjun’s smirk faded. He knew what this was.
Not a battle.
Not a war.
A farewell duel.
They had never settled their rivalry. Not in the Kyūdō tournament. Not in the war against Ryojin.
Now—it was time.
Arjun’s fingers twitched toward his own bow. “No astras?”
Takeshi smirked. “No astras.”
They moved at the same time.
Arjun drew first. His arrow whistled through the air, fast, precise.
Takeshi sidestepped at the last moment, loosing his own shot. Arjun twisted, his arrow knocking Takeshi’s off course mid-air.
The duel became a dance—two archers, two warriors, two masters.
No words. No hesitation.
Just skill.
Arjun leapt onto the broken torii gate, firing downward. Takeshi slid beneath, rolling into position, his arrow streaking toward Arjun’s shoulder—just missing.
Arjun grinned. “Sloppy.”
Takeshi exhaled sharply. “Shut up.”
They fired again.
Two arrows, at the same time.
They met mid-air—splitting apart upon impact.
Silence.
Then, slowly, they lowered their bows.
Takeshi smirked. “I’ll give you this one.”
Arjun shook his head. “No. We’ll settle it another time.”
Takeshi nodded. They both knew—this was not the end.
It never would be.
Their rivalry, their respect, their battles—it would last a lifetime.
Arjun turned toward the horizon.
Kyoto was safe. The war was over. The cycle was broken.
But his path wasn’t finished.
Dhanurvaan’s story was just beginning.
He took a breath—and walked forward.
The legend lived on.