The poisoned winds howled across the wasteland as Trikala and Ashwatthama continued their journey toward the hidden city of Kashi.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Only the sound of shifting sand and distant thunder filled the silence.
Then Trikala finally broke it.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"Tell me something, Ashwatthama."
The immortal warrior glanced at him but said nothing.
Trikala continued.
"How was the journey from a divine warrior... to a mere man?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Or perhaps I should ask..."
"...how was the journey from a hero to a demon?"
The question hung heavily in the air.
Most people would never have dared to speak so openly to the son of Dronacharya.
But Trikala wasn't most people.
Ashwatthama remained silent.
His expression revealed nothing.
Trikala sighed.
"Strangely enough, your story doesn't make me sad."
He looked toward the dark horizon.
"Perhaps that's because the demonic side within me has begun to awaken."
The wind intensified.
Trikala's voice grew colder.
"You know, perhaps you're the one who should answer this question, great son of Drona."
"You stood beside legends."
"You were as powerful as Arjuna."
"A master archer."
"A scholar."
"A warrior blessed with divine knowledge."
His gaze hardened.
"And yet, your anger destroyed you."
"Your pride consumed you."
"You slaughtered innocents."
"You allowed hatred to become your master."
He stopped walking.
"So tell me."
"Wasn't your journey far more tragic than mine?"
"From a revered Brahmin warrior blessed with celestial power..."
"...to something the world remembers as a monster?"
For several moments, Ashwatthama simply stared ahead.
The wasteland remained silent.
Finally, he spoke.
"Every living being carries darkness."
His voice was calm.
Ancient.
Tired.
"Jealousy."
"Attachment."
"Hatred."
"Greed."
"The desire for pleasure."
"The desire for revenge."
"All of them are seeds of the demonic nature."
He looked at Trikala.
"And yes."
"I agree with you."
For a brief moment, Trikala seemed pleased.
Then Ashwatthama smiled.
A knowing smile.
The kind that made people uncomfortable.
"However..."
"Unlike me, the desire that awakened your darkness remains unfinished."
Trikala's expression froze.
Ashwatthama's eyes seemed to look straight through him.
Past the mask.
Past the lies.
Into the deepest corners of his soul.
"The wish that transformed you..."
"It still exists, doesn't it?"
Trikala said nothing.
The silence itself became an answer.
Ashwatthama chuckled softly.
"Very well."
"Let us leave that topic for another day."
He resumed walking.
Trikala followed.
But the conversation was far from over.
After a while, a strange grin appeared on Trikala's face.
"You know..."
"I think a gift is coming for you."
Ashwatthama raised an eyebrow.
"A gift?"
Trikala pointed ahead.
"Look."
The immortal warrior followed his gaze.
Then his expression changed immediately.
"Oh no."
Trikala blinked.
"What?"
Ashwatthama sighed deeply.
"That."
Far ahead, through the swirling clouds of dust, something massive was moving toward them.
At first it appeared to be a shadow.
Then it became clearer.
A horse.
A gigantic horse.
Its skeletal frame looked almost unnatural.
Its skin was diseased and covered with strange lesions.
Its eyes burned with madness.
Every step shook the earth beneath it.
The creature looked less like an animal and more like a nightmare.
Trikala grinned.
"Your old companion seems to be approaching."
Ashwatthama immediately pointed at him.
"Our companion?"
"No."
"Your companion."
The next moment, something impossible happened.
Trikala turned toward him—
And Ashwatthama was gone.
Completely gone.
"Where—?"
He looked around frantically.
Then he spotted him.
The immortal warrior was crouched behind a large rock.
Hiding.
Trikala stared in disbelief.
"You cannot be serious."
Ashwatthama motioned urgently.
"Get over here."
Trikala folded his arms.
"You are one of history's greatest warriors."
"The son of Dronacharya."
"A legendary archer."
"And you're hiding behind a rock?"
Ashwatthama looked genuinely offended.
"Of course I'm hiding."
Trikala blinked.
"What happened to your bravery?"
Ashwatthama rolled his eyes.
"What happened?"
"I lost a war."
"I lost my honor."
"I lost my pride."
"I lost my place in the world."
He pointed toward his forehead.
"And I lost the jewel that once protected me."
For the first time, there was no humor in his voice.
Only exhaustion.
"You see this wound?"
The cursed scar in the center of his forehead glistened with fresh blood.
Even after thousands of years.
It still bled.
"I cannot die."
"But immortality doesn't mean I cannot suffer."
His voice dropped lower.
"Every wound hurts."
"Every cut burns."
"Every injury feels as real as it did thousands of years ago."
He laughed bitterly.
"The only difference is that death never arrives."
Trikala stared at him.
The sarcasm.
The humor.
The strange behavior.
For the first time, he saw what lay beneath it.
Pain.
Endless pain.
Ashwatthama continued.
"My blood still flows."
"My body still suffers."
"And believe me..."
"I have no desire to be trampled by that thing."
He pointed toward the approaching beast.
"That is not an ordinary horse."
"It has been twisted by disease."
"Corrupted."
"If it steps on you, there won't be enough left to identify."
The giant horse let out a horrifying scream.
The sound echoed across the wasteland.
Ashwatthama immediately ducked lower behind the rock.
"Now stop questioning my wisdom."
"Come hide."
Trikala didn't move.
He simply stood there staring.
Not at the horse.
At Ashwatthama.
The immortal warrior's hair had grown wild and unkempt.
Blood continuously dripped from the cursed wound on his forehead.
His skin appeared damaged, almost diseased.
His body carried the marks of centuries of suffering.
The sight was unsettling.
No.
It was tragic.
A man once considered among the greatest warriors of his age now hid behind stones, avoiding danger not because he lacked courage—
But because he had been condemned to suffer forever.
And in that moment, Trikala understood something terrifying.
Even the wisest.
Even the strongest.
Even the most gifted.
Could fall.
Pride.
Anger.
Hatred.
Given enough time, they could reduce anyone to this.
A living reminder of the price of one's sins.
And standing before him was proof.
The son of Dronacharya had not escaped his punishment.
He was still living it.