The once serene garden had transformed into a nightmarish tableau of despair.

The soil, soaked in blood, seemed to drink in the chaos, and twisted symbols, drawn in what appeared to be a mixture of mud and something darker, glistened beneath the moonlight.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and a palpable tension that weighed heavily on the chest, making it hard to breathe.

Ayushman stood amidst the horror, a malevolent smirk curling his lips as he stretched lazily, as if the carnage was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

His eyes flickered with sadistic glee as he surveyed the scene.

“I would love to stay and play with you all, but I have far more important matters to attend to.” His voice echoed through the garden, drawing shivers from every soul present.

He then turned, his smile growing wider. “Draupadi! Come on, dear. We have a show to put on.”

The name sent shockwaves through the Kuruvanshis.

Kunti, who had been sobbing silently in a corner, lifted her tear-stained face, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Draupadi?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ayushman grinned, relishing the confusion and pain on their faces.

“Oh, Duryodhan, you never told them? How cruel. Didn’t you think they deserved to know?” He placed a mockingly thoughtful hand on his chin. “Draupadi is alive, you see. Very much alive.”

The statement was met with stunned silence. Kunti’s heart skipped a beat, her mind racing. “Alive? No… It can’t be.”

The mocking tone in Ayushman’s voice deepened. “Oh yes, dear matashree, alive and well. Or should I say, mostly well? I was the one who orchestrated that attack all those years ago. Made you all think she had perished. Wiped her from your memories, hid her right under your noses, with your enemies no less. But,” he chuckled darkly, “the bitch escaped and came running back to you.”

Dhara’s voice trembled as she asked, “Draupadi… was with us?”

Ayushman’s gaze snapped to her, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “Dhriti, don’t you remember? You should.” His words hit like a hammer, and a wave of horror rippled through the Kuruvanshis.

“My daughter…” Kunti gasped, choking on her own words, her voice breaking as she spoke. “Draupadi is alive?”

Her heart surged with a wild mix of emotions—hope, joy, and the crushing weight of years of grief and guilt.

“Draupadi!” Ayushman’s roar echoed through the night, and from the shadows, a figure emerged.

Draupadi stepped forward, her head bowed, her face obscured by the heavy veil of her matted hair. Her once regal form was now frail, the weight of her suffering evident in every labored step she took. Her clothes, once vibrant, were now tattered and stained with grime and blood.

The Kuruvanshis gasped collectively, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Kunti’s heart shattered anew, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Draupadi, the daughter she had mourned for years, was standing before her. But this wasn’t the Draupadi she remembered. This was a shadow of the fierce and proud woman who had once stood tall, unbroken by the cruelties of fate.

Duryodhan’s eyes locked on Draupadi, his face a mixture of horror and fury. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat filled with regret and an overwhelming sense of failure. He had failed to protect her, and now, she was caught in the cruel web spun by Ayushman.

Ayushman’s voice dripped with mockery as he gestured grandly toward Draupadi. “My next step toward power. Draupadi, welcome to your destiny!”

Draupadi didn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, the weight of her torment visible in her every movement. She was no longer the vibrant woman they had known; her spirit had been ground into the dirt, leaving behind only a hollow shell. Her silence spoke volumes.

The Kuruvanshis were speechless, their minds reeling with the truth that had been so violently revealed. Kunti’s trembling voice finally broke the silence. “Where have you been, my daughter?”

But Draupadi didn’t answer.

Her lips trembled, her eyes glazed over, as if she were not fully there. It was as if the pain of her captivity had stolen not only her freedom but her very will to live.

Ayushman had made Draupadi appear as she was, to make the Kuruvanshis hurt more.

"You really are wicked." He whispered to himself. As he watched as each Kuruvanshis break, a grin curving up on his lips.

The air was thick with tension, each breath drawn felt like inhaling shards of glass.

The Kuruvanshis stood still, frozen by the devastating appearance of Draupadi, while Ayushman, his smirk ever-present, relished the sight of their unraveling despair.

“Did you know?” Ayushman’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, cold and arrogant.

“You were never really my target.” His words were met with confused glances, a flicker of hope sparking in some of their eyes as if perhaps their suffering had been a mere mistake.

He stepped forward, his boots squelching in the bloodied soil.

“You’re not important. You never were. You see, all I wanted was power. True, unmatched power.” He paused, watching as his words sank in, as the bewildered expressions on their faces grew darker.

“For years, I searched for a way to obtain that power. And then I learned the truth—the key to my ascension required two women, born in the correct alignment of the stars. Two sacrifices, on the darkest night.”

A chill swept through the gathered group as Ayushman’s gaze darkened, his eyes gleaming with malevolence.

He lifted a hand casually, waving it through the air as if swatting away their very existence.

“For years, I searched. Scoured the world for the right women. And then... one day, I found her.” He paused for dramatic effect, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he turned his gaze to the Kuruvanshis, his lips curling into a wicked grin.

“Do you know who she was?”Silence gripped them, no one daring to answer. Ayushman’s smile widened as he pointed a long, bony finger towards Pauravi, who lay on the ground, a broken mess.

Agony seared Duryodhan's heart, he hated seeing her so broken. He wanted nothing more than to kill Ayushman.

Destroy the bastard.

Duryodhan’s heart lurched in his chest. His pulse quickened, the blood rushing in his ears as the realization of Ayushman’s words took hold.

“Yes,” Ayushman sneered, locking eyes with Duryodhan.

“It was her. Pauravi. My perfect sacrifice.” His voice was laced with venom.

“But you,” he spat, his tone turning vicious, “you just had to fall in love with her, didn’t you?”

Duryodhan’s fists clenched, his jaw tightening as Ayushman continued, each word like a nail driven into his chest.

Dark spots danced in his vision, his blood soaked in the ground.

“You think I helped you free Pauravi out of the kindness of my heart? No!”

Ayushman’s voice rose, filled with an eerie fervor. “I freed her because I needed her. She was the key. And you, you had to interfere.”

Ayushman’s face twisted in disgust as he glared at Duryodhan.

“You ruined everything!” His voice cracked with fury, the force of his words hanging heavily in the air.

“And then…” Ayushman’s gaze shifted, his expression turning cruel as he pointed toward Draupadi.

“Then I found her. The second woman. Draupadi. But she was strong. Too strong. I had to break her first. Through that night, through the horrors I unleashed, I took away her strength, her will. She was perfect, molded exactly how I needed her. And yet, again, the Kuruvanshis interfered.”

His voice thundered with rage as he kicked Duryodhan square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Kicking him over and over the dagger, but the oldest Kuruvanshis clenched his jaw, not voicing his agony once.

He didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction. He could hear his family sob and beg him to stop.

But what worried him was the silence of Draupadi. She was too quiet like a stone.

“Your fucking brothers had to marry her!” Ayushman’s foot landed heavily on Duryodhan’s chest, pinning him to the blood-soaked earth.

He glared by Ayushman breathing heavily. Just a few more moments. He told himself.

“Why?” Ayushman bellowed, his voice echoing into the night. “Why do you always interfere?”

He sounded menacing. His once bright eyes shined with insanity. Wrath marred his once handsome features, contorting them into something ugly.

Duryodhan winced, his breaths coming in shallow gasps beneath the weight of Ayushman’s foot.

Around him, his brothers and family could only watch in horror, the sense of helplessness crushing them.

“You Kuruvanshis,” Ayushman spat, his lips curling in disdain. “You have to make everything about yourselves, don’t you?”

A growl of fury rose from the side as Bhism, his ancient form trembling with righteous anger, barked, “You’re insane!”

Ayushman paused, his head snapping toward Bhism.

Then, with mock tenderness, he placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of exaggerated hurt. “Oh, dear old Bhism,” he crooned, his tone sickly sweet, “at least I am not as despised as each one of you is.”

With a snap of his fingers, the ground beneath them trembled.

Dark energy swirled around him, thick and suffocating, and from the void materialized a grand throne.

It was unlike anything the Kuruvanshis had ever seen—an edifice carved from the darkest obsidian, towering and menacing.

Spikes of twisted metal jutted from its base, curling upward like the tendrils of some nightmarish creature.

Shadows clung to it, shifting and pulsing as if alive, and veins of crimson light pulsed along its surface, casting a ghostly glow.

The throne was adorned with intricate carvings, depictions of suffering and torment etched into the stone.

Above the seat, a pair of gnarled horns twisted upward, framing the place where Ayushman would sit like a crown of darkness.

It was both beautiful and horrifying, an object of power that radiated malice.

Ayushman settled into it with ease, lounging back, his posture casual.

He crossed one leg over the other, resting his arms on the armrests, as his dead soldiers closed in around Duryodhan, surrounding him like vultures circling their prey.

“What do you mean?” Dhritarashtra’s voice, hoarse with frustration, rang out. “Who has betrayed us, except you?”

Ayushman’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “Who has betrayed you?” he echoed mockingly.

He raised a hand, waving it theatrically as he answered, “Who hasn’t?”

He looked around the group, his gaze lingering on each face, savoring their confusion.

“Shall I list them for you?” he sneered, lifting his hand slowly, fingers outstretched. “One by one?”

With great satisfaction, Ayushman began to recite names, his voice dripping with triumph. Each name sent ripples of shock and disbelief through the Kuruvanshis, their world crumbling with every word he spoke.

The garden, once the stage for fierce battles, was now cloaked in the sinister veil of Ayushman’s twisted game.

Shadows danced along the blood-soaked earth, and the cold, sharp sting of betrayal hung heavy in the air.

The Kuruvanshis stood frozen in horror, trapped in Ayushman’s web, each revelation pulling them deeper into despair.

Ayushman lounged back in his dark throne, his voice dripping with mockery as he continued.

“Maharaj Pandu’s oldest, dearest friend, the king of Viratgadh, and his son Druveda to begin with. Though it may or may not have been my plan,” he sneered, his voice smooth and poisonous.

“But you see, they already believe the Pandavas are responsible for their daughter’s death. That hatred... is useful.”

His words hit like hammer blows, but the silence that followed was unbearable. Ayushman, sensing their discomfort, smiled wickedly and waved a hand in the air as if plucking names from the wind.

“Oh, but there’s more. Far more. Who else, I wonder, could backstab you?”

The smirk on his face grew as he sang mockingly, his voice lilting with a false sweetness.

“Oh yes! How could I forget? Your dearest Tapasya. She hated each one of you to your very core. You, Kuruvanshis, truly have a talent for making enemies out of the ones who once loved you.”

He taunted them, his eyes darting between their stunned faces. The weight of betrayal settled heavily on their shoulders, cutting deeper than any physical wound.

For years, they had believed in their unity, their bonds of family and friendship, only to have it torn apart before their eyes.

Kunti, her face pale, looked at Ayushman with a mix of disbelief and anguish.

The thought that those they had trusted could turn on them so easily gnawed at her soul. "Tapasya... no, that can't be," she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Oh, but it is,” Ayushman said with a vicious grin, his gaze locking onto hers. “Isn't it amusing, Matashree? Your sons, your family, they’re not as loved as you believed. You may be strong on the battlefield, but in the hearts of those you hold dear? Utterly despised.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, suffocating them all.

The pain on the faces of the Kuruvanshis was evident—each name Ayushman spat was a dagger, each revelation a fatal blow.

“And now,” Ayushman’s grin widened, his voice growing louder, “let’s not forget the man who helped me orchestrate all of this. Ah yes, my trusted ally. Where are you, partner?”

His voice took on a singsong quality as he gazed around dramatically, pretending to search the darkness that surrounded them.

The stillness that followed was almost unbearable. Then, from the blackened shadows of the night, the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps echoed through the garden.

The Kuruvanshis tensed, their hearts pounding in their chests.

From behind the thick curtain of the night, a figure emerged. It was Drupad, the King of Panchal.

His once regal attire was now soaked in blood, his face grim and merciless. But what stole the breath from the Kuruvanshis was the sight of Dushasan, their own blood, being dragged behind him.

Drupad, his eyes burning with fury, gripped Dushasan’s lifeless body by the arm, dragging him like a ragdoll through the dirt.

The younger Kuruvanshi was barely recognizable, his body battered, his face bruised and bloodied beyond recognition. His breaths came in shallow, rasping gasps, the life barely clinging to him as he was thrown unceremoniously at Dhritarashtra’s feet.

The thud of Dushasan’s body hitting the ground reverberated through the garden, a sound so final that it chilled them all to the bone.

“Found the pest trying to sneak up on us,” Drupad growled, wiping the blood from his hands as if Dushasan’s life had been nothing more than an annoyance. “Fucking bastard.”

“Dushasan!” Yuyutsu screamed, his voice cracking as he struggled against the unseen bonds rushed forward.

His eyes darted wildly, searching for a flicker of life in Dushasan’s blood-soaked face.

The rest of the family were frozen, horror-stricken.

Bhism’s face twisted in anguish, his body trembling with the weight of their mounting losses. Gandhari, her sightless eyes wide in terror, her hands reaching out into the air, searching for her injured son. “Dushasan… my son…”

Kunti's tears streaming down her face as she shook her head, unwilling to accept the reality before her. “No… no…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Not Dushasan… not like this.”

Ayushman leaned forward in his throne, watching the scene unfold with glee.

His eyes glittered with amusement as he mocked them. “Oh yes, Matashree. Your precious family… crumbling before your eyes.”

Duryodhan, still pinned beneath Ayushman’s boot, could do nothing but stare at his brother’s mangled body.

His heart thundered in his chest, the pain and guilt surging through him like a flood. He had failed. He had failed them all.

“No…” Yuyutsu choked, his hands now covered in Dushasan’s blood as he tried to stem the bleeding.

“You’re going to be okay… You’re strong, Dushasan… You’re a warrior…”

His words faltered, the desperation in his voice betraying the truth he didn’t want to admit. Dushasan was slipping away.

Dushasan coughed, a spray of blood escaping his lips as he tried to speak.

His eyes, half-lidded, found Yuyutsu’s face, and for a brief moment, there was recognition. “Brother…” he rasped, his voice weak, barely audible.

Tears welled in Yuyutsu’s eyes a“I’m here. I’m with you.”

A small, broken smile tugged at the corner of Dushasan’s lips before his body went limp, the last remnants of his life slipping away into the night.

The silence that followed was deafening. Yuyutsu shook his head violently, refusing to let go. “No… No!” he screamed, his voice raw with grief. “Dushasan! Wake up! Please!”

The rest of the family was in shock, their hearts shattering at the sight of yet another loss.

Gandhari wailed in anguish, her body trembling as the weight of her grief consumed her.

Bhism turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer, while Kunti fell to the ground, her cries lost in the night.

Ayushman watched, savoring every second of their agony.

“Isn’t this just... delightful?” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He glanced over at Drupad, who stood tall and proud beside him, his face cold and indifferent as he looked down at the Kuruvanshis.

“Good work,” Ayushman praised, his voice low and cruel. “Though I do hope you haven’t grown too attached to this little game. We’ve only just begun.”

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