The wind howled through the Himalayan peaks, biting at Arjun’s skin as he climbed the icy path.
Each step was heavier than the last. His body was bruised. His pride shattered.
He had lost.
Not to a demon. Not to an Asura.
But to a man.
Musashi had humiliated him, cutting through his attacks like they were nothing. Power wasn’t enough. Speed wasn’t enough.
So now, he had come here.
To the birthplace of the oldest warriors. To the mountains where Shiva himself meditated.
To the last place on Earth where he could become something greater.
Emi followed a few steps behind him, wrapped in a thick white shawl. “Are you sure about this?”
Arjun didn’t look back. “I don’t have a choice.”
She exhaled. “The monks here don’t take outsiders.”
Arjun’s grip tightened around his cloak. “I’m not an outsider.”
Ahead, perched at the edge of a jagged cliff, stood an ancient monastery, its golden roof barely visible through the snowfall. The last known temple of the Rishis who once trained warriors in Dhanurveda.
The moment he stepped onto the temple grounds, a bell tolled.
Figures emerged from the shadows.
Monks—but not ordinary ones.
They wore dark blue robes, their eyes calm yet unreadable. Each one carried weapons—bows, spears, swords.
These were not men of peace. They were warriors.
The oldest among them stepped forward. His long white beard barely moved in the wind, but his gaze was sharp as a blade.
“Why have you come here, Arjun Rao?”
Arjun met his gaze without hesitation.
“To learn what I was never taught.”
The old monk studied him for a long moment. Then he exhaled.
“Then prepare yourself. Your trials begin now.”
The moment he spoke, three monks rushed forward—without warning, without hesitation.
Arjun barely had time to react before the first strike came.
This wasn’t an invitation.
This was a test.
And he couldn’t afford to fail.
The first blow came like a whisper of death.
A monk spun toward Arjun, his staff cutting through the air—silent, precise, lethal.
Arjun barely dodged, ducking low as the wooden weapon grazed the side of his head. Before he could recover, the second monk was already moving, his bare fists striking like iron hammers.
Arjun blocked with his forearm—pain jolted through his bones. Too strong. Too fast.
These monks weren’t testing him. They were breaking him.
He leapt back, summoning the Chakra Dhanush in a flash of golden energy.
But the old monk—their master—raised a single hand.
“No weapons.”
The energy bow flickered. Vanished.
Arjun froze. He hadn’t willed it to disappear.
The old monk’s voice was calm, but firm. “You rely too much on your Astra. It is not your power. It is a gift.”
Another attack—this time from behind.
Arjun twisted, blocking the incoming strike with his forearm. The pain was sharp, but he gritted his teeth.
They were forcing him to fight differently.
No bow. No katana. Just himself.
The monks kept coming. Their movements were fluid, relentless. Every strike was aimed to break balance, to disrupt rhythm.
Arjun had spent years training in Kyūdō. He had mastered Dhanurveda. But this was something else.
They were teaching him to become a warrior before becoming a weapon.
And then—the elements changed.
The temperature dropped.
The wind howled louder, carrying flakes of ice that cut against his skin like glass. His breath came out in white clouds.
One of the monks stomped the ground.
Ice spread beneath Arjun’s feet—slick, treacherous.
Another whispered a chant.
Fire erupted from his palms, twisting in controlled streams.
Arjun’s heart pounded.
They weren’t just monks. They were masters of Agni and Varuna—the elements of Fire and Ice.
And they were forcing him to master both.
One moment, the ground was frozen, making him lose balance. The next, flames danced around him, forcing him to move.
Every dodge, every strike, he was adapting.
Faster. More fluid. Less hesitation.
His body screamed in protest, but his mind sharpened.
He was not just an archer.
He was not just a swordsman.
He was a warrior of Dharma.
And he was learning.
At last, the monks stopped. The old master nodded.
“You have begun to understand.”
Arjun dropped to one knee, his breath ragged, his body drenched in sweat and frost.
But inside?
He was stronger than he had ever been.
And he was not done yet.
The temple was silent.
Arjun sat cross-legged in the center of a sacred chamber, its walls covered in Vedic inscriptions and ancient carvings of divine battles. The air smelled of incense and sandalwood, but there was something else—a presence, unseen yet overwhelming.
The old monk stood before him, his gaze deep and unreadable. “Close your eyes.”
Arjun hesitated, his muscles still aching from the brutal training. But he obeyed.
The moment his eyelids shut—the world fell away.
Darkness.
No ground beneath him. No sky above. Just an endless void, stretching beyond time.
Then, the flames appeared.
Not ordinary fire—blue and gold, shifting like living energy. It didn’t burn. It didn’t consume.
It commanded.
A deep voice echoed through the void, vibrating through his soul.
“Arjuna.”
Arjun’s breath caught. Not his name. The name of the legendary warrior.
The flames shifted—and a figure emerged.
He was vast, yet formless. A being wreathed in serpents, moonlight, and cosmic energy. His presence was heavier than a thousand mountains, yet his gaze was calm, filled with infinity itself.
Lord Shiva.
Arjun tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His entire body trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer magnitude of the presence before him.
Shiva’s voice was not loud, yet it drowned out everything else.
“You walk the path of destruction and salvation.”
Arjun swallowed hard. “Am I… worthy?”
Shiva’s eyes burned with galaxies. “Do you seek worthiness? Or do you seek power?”
Arjun flinched. The question cut through him like a blade. Did he even know the answer?
Shiva stepped forward, his form shifting between man, storm, and eternity.
“The Pashupatastra is not a weapon. It is a force beyond creation.”
Arjun’s fists clenched. “Then why was I chosen?”
The flames around Shiva swirled violently.
“Because war does not wait for those who hesitate.”
The void trembled. The energy around him grew heavier.
Then, Shiva raised his hand.
A symbol of infinite destruction and infinite creation.
The Pashupatastra.
The moment Arjun laid eyes on it—his mind shattered.
He gasped, jerking awake.
He was back in the temple. The monks stood around him, their faces solemn. The air was still charged with divine energy.
Arjun staggered to his feet.
He had seen it.
The Pashupatastra.
And he knew, without a doubt—if he used it before he was ready, it would consume him.
The old monk exhaled. “You have glimpsed the power you seek.”
Arjun’s fingers curled into fists. He wasn’t ready yet.
But soon?
He would be.
Arjun’s body still trembled from the vision.
The Pashupatastra. A force so overwhelming that even seeing it had nearly shattered his mind.
But now, he had no choice. He had to master it.
The old monk studied him, his ancient eyes holding no pity. “You have seen the truth. Now you must wield it.”
Arjun exhaled sharply. “How?”
The monk gestured to a secluded training ground carved into the mountain’s edge. A stone platform stretched toward a sheer cliff, surrounded by howling winds and endless sky.
And at the center of it—a massive boulder, inscribed with divine mantras.
“Strike it.” The monk’s voice was final.
Arjun frowned. “With what?”
The monk tapped his chest. “With will.”
Arjun’s fists clenched. He stepped forward, summoning the Chakra Dhanush. The golden bow blazed into existence, humming with celestial energy.
He drew the string. Fire crackled along his fingertips—Agni Astra.
He fired.
The flaming arrow slammed into the boulder. The explosion sent a shockwave through the valley—snow, dust, and shattered stone flying in every direction.
But when the dust cleared—the boulder was untouched.
Arjun’s jaw tightened.
Again.
This time, he summoned Vayu Astra—the wind itself bending to his will. The arrow streaked toward the boulder like a hurricane.
It didn’t even leave a scratch.
Arjun gritted his teeth. His arms burned, his energy was depleting. What was he doing wrong?
The monk’s voice was calm. “You are fighting against it.”
Arjun turned, frustration flaring. “What the hell does that mean?”
The monk’s gaze did not waver. “Power is not something you control. It is something you become.”
Arjun froze.
Something clicked.
Power is something you become.
He closed his eyes. The wind howled around him. His mind steadied.
And in that moment—he let go.
No force. No control. No fear.
Just acceptance.
The bow in his hands changed.
The golden glow deepened, turning into something else—something ancient.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer holding the Chakra Dhanush.
He was holding something greater.
A bow made of pure cosmic energy, swirling with the primal force of creation and destruction.
Pashupatastra.
The monks stepped back, eyes wide. Even Emi, who had seen his power before, gasped.
Arjun pulled the string back. No arrow formed. There was no need.
He released.
The moment he did—the world shook.
A shockwave erupted from the bow, splitting the skies, carving through the mountain.
The inscribed boulder—the immovable divine stone—was reduced to dust.
Silence.
The monks bowed their heads in awe.
Arjun staggered, his breath ragged. The bow flickered, then disappeared.
The old monk exhaled. “You have taken the first step.”
Arjun knew what he meant.
This was only the beginning.
But now?
He was one step closer to being ready.
The descent from the Himalayan monastery was silent.
Arjun walked ahead, his steps steady, but his mind was still adjusting to what had happened. The Pashupatastra had manifested—for a brief moment, he had held its power. And in that moment, he had felt everything.
Creation. Destruction. Balance.
He had become the weapon.
And that terrified him.
“You’re quiet.” Emi’s voice broke through the wind.
Arjun didn’t look at her. “I was quiet before.”
She scoffed. “No. Before, you were reckless.”
He exhaled sharply. She wasn’t wrong.
The old him? He would’ve seen the Pashupatastra as just another weapon. Another tool to win.
But now, he knew better.
They reached the temple’s base, where a small private jet waited on the ice-covered runway. The monks had arranged everything. The war in Japan was escalating.
Takeshi had sent a message earlier—Ryojin Sugimura was making his move.
Ravana’s cult was no longer hiding.
Arjun took one last glance back at the snow-capped mountains.
Once, he had come here broken. Defeated.
Now?
He was returning as something else. Not just an archer. Not just a warrior.
He had taken his first step toward becoming a legend.
Tokyo was waiting.
And so was the final war.