The arrow streaked through the air like a comet, its silver shaft humming with divine resonance. It struck the oak with such force that the tree shuddered, bark splintering outward in a burst of wooden shards. The forest held its breath. Even the wind, which had whispered through the leaves moments before, seemed to falter.

  Parashurama did not react, not immediately. His eyes, sharp as honed steel, flickered toward the broken target, then back to Devavrata.

  A grunt. A slow exhale through his nose. Then, he stepped forward, his axe glinting in the dappled sunlight.

  "You have strength," he admitted, voice rough as grinding stone. "But strength is a blade with no edge if it is not tested."

  Devavrata did not lower his bow. His pulse was steady, his breathing controlled, yet he could feel the weight of Parashurama’s presence pressing against him, a tempest on the verge of breaking.

  The sage lifted his axe and pointed toward the ruined target.

  "That was a demonstration." His lips curled, barely a smirk, more like the trace of amusement carved into stone. "Now, let’s see if you can fight."

  Without warning, he moved.

  Parashurama’s body blurred, a warrior’s speed honed beyond mortal limits. The air cracked as he surged forward, closing the distance in a single breath. His axe swung in a downward arc, a strike that had sundered kingdoms, split mountains, and buried dynasties.

  Devavrata barely had time to react.

  He twisted his body, rolling to the side as the axe slammed into the ground, splitting the earth where he had stood. Dust and shards of stone exploded outward. A lesser man would have been crushed.

  But Devavrata was not a lesser man.

  He landed on one knee, bow already drawn. An arrow loosed before thought could even form. The projectile shot forward, aimed true, toward Parashurama’s shoulder, where armor was absent.

  The sage did not move.

  He lifted two fingers.

  Snap!

  The arrow shattered between them, splinters scattering harmlessly.

  Devavrata’s breath did not hitch. He had expected this.

  Parashurama’s laughter was a deep, bone-rattling thing, neither mocking nor approving, merely amused by the audacity of a mortal attempting to wound him.

  "Good. You have instincts." His eyes narrowed, and for the first time, something flickered within them, a glimmer of true interest. "But instincts alone do not make a warrior."

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  Devavrata rose, his stance firm. "Then teach me."

  Parashurama studied him, his expression unreadable.

  Then, he turned, gesturing toward the depths of the forest.

  "Follow."

  No further words. No ceremony. Only a single command.

  Devavrata obeyed.

  The days that followed were grueling. No lectures, no gentle guidance, only war.

  Parashurama did not believe in explanation, only in survival.

  "If you cannot learn through action, then you are unworthy of learning at all."

  The first test was endurance.

  Devavrata was made to stand atop a single post for hours while the wind and rain lashed at him. His bow was drawn, an arrow nocked, but he could not fire. He could only hold, until his arms burned, until his fingers trembled, until his breath came in ragged gasps. If he faltered, he would be struck.

  Parashurama did not use words to correct mistakes. He used his axe.

  Blunt strikes, aimed to bruise, to break if weakness showed. Devavrata learned quickly, to withstand, to breathe, to endure.

  The second test was speed.

  "Draw before your opponent even thinks to kill you."

  Devavrata was made to shoot arrows at moving targets, at falling leaves, at birds mid-flight, at the shadows that danced between the trees. But the true challenge was the rain.

  "The moment you hesitate, you die."

  For three nights, Parashurama struck arrows from the air before they could reach their mark. Not one found its target.

  Until the fourth.

  Devavrata adapted. He abandoned hesitation.

  His fingers blurred, his body moved not with thought but with instinct sharpened to a blade’s edge.

  The next arrow struck true.

  Parashurama did not praise him. He merely nodded.

  Yet Devavrata was not the only disciple.

  Among the students who trained beneath Parashurama’s brutal hand was one whose presence burned like a slow-growing ember, Kshema.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, his face sharp as the edge of his own sword, Kshema was a noble’s son, forged in war, raised on victories. Yet unlike Devavrata, his strength came not from divinity but from sheer will and blood-earned skill.

  And he did not welcome the river’s son.

  "Divinity is a crutch," Kshema sneered one evening as they gathered by the fires. His bow, mortal, yet finely crafted, rested against his shoulder. "I wonder if it will hold up when steel meets sweat."

  Devavrata met his gaze, calm as the still waters before a storm. "Worth is proven in deeds, not words."

  The fire crackled between them. A silent challenge.

  Parashurama watched, but said nothing.

  The following day, the trial was set.

  A duel, not for victory, but for truth.

  "Only one will stand by the end," the sage declared. "And only the worthy will move forward."

  Devavrata stepped into the ring. His bow sang in his grip.

  Kshema stepped forward. His blade whispered of blood yet to be spilled.

  The forest, the wind, the very earth itself, they all watched.

  The battle began.

  Arrows blurred. Steel clashed.

  Devavrata moved with grace, his bow an extension of his body. He dodged, twisted, loosed arrows with terrifying precision. Kshema was fast, but Devavrata was faster.

  But Kshema did not falter. His blade flashed like lightning, knocking arrows aside, his footwork steady, relentless. He fought not as a noble, but as a warrior forged in hardship.

  A battle of wills.

  A duel of skill.

  Until the final moment.

  Kshema lunged, his sword a silver arc. A fatal strike.

  But Devavrata had already moved.

  An arrow loosed in a heartbeat.

  It did not strike flesh. It did not need to.

  It struck the blade mid-swing, shattering the momentum, a declaration of victory, carved in the air itself.

  Silence fell.

  Kshema’s chest rose and fell. His grip on the hilt of his broken attack did not waver. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

  And bowed.

  Parashurama’s laughter rolled through the clearing, low and approving.

  "Good."

  Devavrata lowered his bow.

  "Your training has truly begun."