Later that day, the grand throne hall of Hastinapura filled once again.
Karna sat calmly in the honored guest seat, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. Even without the divine radiance, his presence carried a quiet weight, like a mountain that did not need to announce itself.
Bhishma sat with his usual composure, though his eyes were sharper than usual.
Dronacharya took his place beside the elders, still calm, still dignified, though the events of the tournament had clearly left a bitter taste behind. On the throne sat Dhritarashtra, his face tilted slightly upward as though listening to the very air, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest in a rhythm that betrayed impatience.
Below, the princes gathered.
On one side stood Duryodhana with several of his brothers, about a dozen Kauravas behind him like a wall. Shakuni stood near his nephew's shoulder.
On the other side stood the five Pandavas, calm on the surface, but tense underneath.
Shakuni stepped forward first, hands clasped politely, voice smooth as honey.
"Maharaj," he said, "due to unavoidable circumstances, no result came out of the tournament. However, Maharaj has already witnessed the might of the princes. I suggest you choose one of the four princes as your heir and announce him as Crown Prince."
The moment the words left Shakuni's mouth, the Pandavas' expressions darkened.
Yudhishthira's jaw tightened slightly, though he remained outwardly composed. Arjuna's eyes narrowed, still carrying the sting of humiliation from earlier. Bhima's fists clenched so hard the veins stood out on his arms, and his gaze shifted instinctively toward Karna.
The anger in his eyes was raw.
"It was all because of this man," Bhima thought. "If he hadn't interfered… if he hadn't humiliated Arjuna… if he hadn't stopped the match…"
Bhima's glare sharpened like a spear.
Karna, however, did not react. He did not look offended. He did not look pleased either. He simply sat, observing, as though he had nothing to do with the matter. They were his brothers. Karna knew that, but he didn't have an ounce of affection in his eyes, and of course, neither there is dislike.
Before Dhritarashtra could respond, Vidura then stepped forward to counter Shakuni.
"If Maharaj can simply choose the prince who impressed him the best," Vidura said, "then the tournament itself loses its purpose, Gandhar Naresh."
Shakuni's smile did not fade at that, but his eyes flickered slightly.
Meanwhile, Vidura continued, "As you yourself mentioned once, when we choose a Crown Prince, we cannot have our citizens split into factions, each supporting their own prince. That applies not only to the public, but also to ministers and soldiers."
Dhritarashtra's face tightened at his half-brother's words. The displeasure was obvious, though he restrained himself from snapping. Instead, he shifted slightly on the throne, and his blind eyes turned toward Bhishma's direction as though seeking refuge in the authority of the grandsire.
"Uncle," Dhritarashtra asked, "what do you think?"
Bhishma rose slowly.
The moment he stood, the hall fell silent. Even Duryodhana stopped shifting in place. Bhima's breathing slowed. Shakuni's smile became still. Everyone knew that when Bhishma spoke, the words were not merely opinion. They carried the weight of Hastinapura's very foundation.
Bhishma's voice was steady, but there was disappointment in it, sharp enough to cut.
"Maharaj," he said, "regardless of how it happened, today Prince Duryodhana and Prince Bhima forgot about the public and displayed unsightly behavior."
His gaze swept across the princes with a hint of displeasure rather than his usual affection.
"They nearly damaged Hastinapura's reputation," Bhishma continued. "In my view, neither of them is ready to shoulder the weight of being Crown Prince."
Duryodhana's face instantly twisted with anger. He took a step forward, his pride flaring like dry grass.
"Granduncle!" he raised his voice. "That is unfair to me!"
The hall tensed again.
"At least I was still undefeated," Duryodhana continued, his voice loud and sharp. "Brother Yudhishthira didn't even win. Arjuna was soundly defeated by Karna in front of the public, even though he was the one who challenged him, like he wanted to prove he was the greatest disciple of Gurudev!"
The words struck like stones.
The Pandavas stiffened. Arjuna's expression hardened, humiliation and anger mixing dangerously.
Bhima's lips curled, and he looked ready to lunge forward. Only Yudhishthira's hand shot out, gripping Bhima's wrist tightly, holding him back with quiet authority.
Bhima trembled with restrained fury, but he did not break free.
Duryodhana's voice then grew bolder, carried by his own confidence. "To make any of those losers the Crown Prince right now would be insulting to our throne!"
"Calm down, Duryodhana," Bhishma raised his hand. "I have not finished speaking."
Before Duryodhana could respond, Shakuni quickly stepped closer, grabbing his nephew's arm. He leaned in and whispered harshly, his smile still fixed for the court to see.
"Duryodhana, what are you doing?" Shakuni hissed under his breath. "Karna is watching. Are you trying to sabotage a friendship with him before it even begins? Stay calm. You need to be the victim of injustice, not an aggressor."
Duryodhana's chest rose sharply. His anger did not vanish, but he swallowed it, forcing his mouth shut. His eyes flickered toward Karna briefly, and that alone was enough to remind him of what kind of man was sitting in the guest seat.
Shakuni then straightened and spoke smoothly with his practiced smile, addressing Bhishma. "Mahamahim, forgive my nephew. Sometimes men lose their cool when they feel injustice has been done to them. He merely wished to voice his opinion."
Bhishma gave a slow nod, accepting the words without fully believing them. His gaze returned to the assembly.
"I somewhat agree with Prince Duryodhana," Bhishma said, "just based on the tournament's results alone, we cannot appoint Prince Yudhishthira or Prince Arjuna either."
The Pandavas' expressions tightened again, but Bhishma did not stop.
"Originally," Bhishma continued, "this tournament was designed to display the princes' might to the public. That purpose has already been fulfilled."
His eyes moved across the hall, lingering on Dhritarashtra, then on the princes.
"As for selecting the Crown Prince," Bhishma said, voice firm, "we must form a committee. That committee will discuss the matter carefully and make preparations for the final decision."
The moment Bhishma's words settled into the hall, the air became strangely still.
It was not the calm of peace, but the calm of a bowstring pulled too tight.
Everyone knew the committee was merely a delay, not a solution. The throne could not remain undecided forever, and Hastinapura could not afford to keep its princes burning with rivalry without giving that fire a direction.
Then Guru Dronacharya rose from his seat.
His movements were slow, deliberate, but there was something sharp in the way his eyes narrowed, as if he had already been waiting for this moment long before the tournament even began. The hall instinctively quieted further. Even Shakuni's smile became restrained.
"Maharaj," Drona said, voice steady, "I have the solution to ease your burden."
Dhritarashtra's brows lifted slightly. "What is it, Acharya?"
Drona folded his hands behind his back and looked across the princes gathered below. His gaze lingered on Arjuna, on Duryodhana, on Bhima, and finally on Yudhishthira. Then he spoke, calm but heavy.
"My disciples have yet to give me guru dakshina," he said. "Whoever completes the task and gives me that Guru Dakshina that I desire… shall be Crown Prince."
The hall stirred at his words.
Some nobles exchanged glances. Some ministers leaned forward, curious. After all, normally, guru dakshina is given in gold, not tasks...
Meanwhile, Dhritarashtra's expression softened slightly, almost relieved as he knew that, at the very least, Duryodhana still had an opportunity to become the Crown Prince.
"And what is this task, Acharya?" he asked.
Drona's eyes hardened. "I want the King of Panchala," he said slowly, each word falling like a stone into water, "at my feet."
For a moment, no one spoke.
The silence was so deep that even the crackle of oil lamps sounded loud. The words felt absurd, like a demand made in madness. Panchala was no small kingdom. Drupada was no weak ruler. To bring him to Hastinapura in chains was not a task.
It was a war.
Even Karna's eyes narrowed. He had been sitting quietly as a guest. But at Drona's demand, even he frowned, surprised.
Dhritarashtra's face twisted in shock.
"What?" the king shouted. "Acharya, what are you saying?"