The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of earth and dew. He knelt for a moment, closing his eyes, and in the quiet, the vision came to him — the day he would turn twenty-five, the day he would meet Arjuna for the first time in Hastinapur, at the Rangbhumi. The mythologies had always spoken of it, and though it lay far in the future, he felt the weight of that encounter pressing on his shoulders, whispering of responsibilities he had yet to bear.
Yet the present tugged at him just as fiercely. His parents had shaped him, guided him, sacrificed for him. They deserved his devotion now, in these formative days, when every lesson he absorbed could honor them and prepare him for the future.
He opened his eyes. The memories of both Karna and himself coexisted effortlessly — not two bodies, not two lives, but one consciousness, sharpened and doubled by experience. It was as though the instincts of both whispered in his blood, guiding him toward purpose.
"Today, we begin," said the sage Vishwamitra, his voice steady, his eyes sharp.
He rose, and the weapons were laid before him: the bow, its string taut and humming with potential, and the sword, its blade gleaming with promise. He decided then — he would master both. In any situation, he would rely on no one but himself.
He drew the bowstring, feeling every muscle in his arms tighten, every tendon sing with strain. The arrow cut the air, striking true. Then he lifted the sword, swinging with controlled force, each movement a conversation between body and weapon. Pain and fatigue settled into his limbs, but he welcomed them; every ache was proof of growth, every failure a lesson carved into his flesh.
Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, casting long shadows across the training ground. Vishwamitra observed silently, occasionally correcting a stance, sharpening a grip, testing a reflex. He worked tirelessly, bow and sword alternately, until the lines between thought and action blurred, until he felt both Karna and himself moving as one — a single, unstoppable force.
Though the Rangbhumi and the meeting with Arjuna were still years away, he knew that this day, this training, was where his destiny quietly took shape. Sweat ran down his face, arms ached, and his heart pounded with purpose. Every arrow loosed, every swing executed, was a promise: that when the time came, he would stand ready.
And so, under the sage's unwavering gaze, the true journey began — a journey of discipline, of dual memory, and of a destiny being forged one strike, one arrow, one breath at a time.