Mahabharat: Shiva's Last Variable

Chapter 169: Chapter 167: Betrayal Of Kin... Mistake Ruins Generations...

(A/N):

Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.

Guys I hope you put more comments and power stones... Which will encourage me...

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The tribe leader remained silent for a long time after hearing Devara’s promise.

"...."

The clearing had become completely quiet.

Even the warriors who had been skeptical moments ago were now watching the strange merchant with newfound attention.

There was something about the way he had spoken.

No boasting.

No exaggerated claims.

No attempt to impress anyone.

He had simply stated his intention.

As though the matter had already been decided.

The old leader had spent decades judging men.

Hunters.

Warriors.

Chiefs.

Travelers.

Liars.

And one thing he had learned was that truly dangerous people rarely shouted about their strength.

They spoke quietly.

Exactly like this merchant.

The old man studied Devara’s face carefully.

The calm expression.

The straight posture.

Most of all...

Those unusual green eyes.

The sunlight filtering through the forest canopy briefly reflected within them, making them seem to gleam.

Not with arrogance.

But with conviction.

The tribe leader slowly exhaled.

Then finally nodded.

"If you truly seek those people..."

His voice carried a mixture of caution and old bitterness.

"Then perhaps you deserve to know why our tribe hates them so much."

The surrounding warriors immediately became silent.

Several elders lowered their heads.

Even the children stopped moving.

It was obvious this was not a pleasant story.

The tribe leader motioned for a few people to bring seats.

Devara and Shakuni accepted.

Meanwhile, Sage Veenadhara was still tied to the pole.

Forgotten. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Completely forgotten.

The sage looked around in disbelief.

Everyone was receiving seats.

Everyone was listening to stories.

Meanwhile he remained tied up like a goat waiting for market day.

The tribe leader ignored him completely and began speaking.

"Long ago..."

His eyes drifted toward the distant forest.

"So long ago that even our oldest stories have become incomplete..."

"Our tribe and theirs were one."

Devara’s expression became thoughtful.

The old man continued.

"We belonged to the same ancestors."

"We lived together."

"Hunted together."

"Protected these forests together."

Several elders nodded.

The story was familiar to them.

One they had heard since childhood.

The tribe leader pointed toward the endless flower forest surrounding the settlement.

"Our ancestors believed this forest was sacred."

"They taught that Lord Vishnu himself blessed these lands."

"The flowers."

"The rivers."

"The animals."

"The insects."

"Everything."

His voice carried genuine reverence.

"Our purpose was simple."

"Protect the forest."

"No matter the cost."

Shakuni listened carefully.

The old man wasn’t speaking like a storyteller.

He was speaking like someone reciting an oath.

An oath that still mattered.

The tribe leader continued.

"For generations, our people followed that duty."

"Every child was taught from birth."

"Every elder passed the knowledge forward."

"Our ancestors believed the responsibility had been given to us directly through Lord Vishnu’s grace."

One of the elders sitting nearby folded his hands respectfully.

The old man continued.

"Every four years..."

A faint smile appeared on his face.

"A trial was held."

That immediately caught Devara’s attention.

"A trial?"

The tribe leader nodded.

"Five individuals would be chosen."

"The strongest."

"The wisest."

"The most disciplined."

"The most selfless."

"Not merely warriors."

"Not merely scholars."

"People worthy of carrying our tribe’s blessing."

Several younger warriors straightened proudly.

Even today, being selected remained one of the highest honors within the tribe.

The old leader pointed toward the center of the settlement.

Where a small shrine could barely be seen among the trees.

"There."

Devara followed his gaze.

The shrine appeared ancient.

Far older than the rest of the settlement.

Time itself seemed etched into its stones.

The tribe leader’s voice softened.

"Inside that shrine rests a sacred flower."

The clearing became completely silent.

Even the wind seemed quieter.

The old man continued.

"Our ancestors believed it originated from the lotus carried by Lord Vishnu."

"A divine flower passed down through generations."

From behind, one elder corrected gently.

"Not the flower itself."

"The blessing within it."

The leader nodded.

"Yes."

"The blessing."

He continued.

"From that flower, a special nectar could be created."

"A herbal solution unlike anything found elsewhere."

"The chosen five would drink it."

"But only after completing the trials."

His expression hardened.

"Without passing the trials..."

"No one was permitted to touch it."

"No one."

The elders nodded firmly.

The rule was absolute.

Even the tribe leader himself could not break it.

Devara leaned forward slightly.

He could already sense where the story was heading.

Stories like these rarely ended happily.

The old man lowered his gaze.

And sure enough...

The warmth in his voice gradually disappeared.

"Then came the drought."

Several warriors clenched their fists.

The elders remained silent.

"...."

Old wounds. Very old wounds.

The tribe leader continued.

"For three years the rains barely came."

"The rivers shrank."

"The crops failed."

"Animals disappeared."

"Children starved."

His voice grew heavy.

"The people became desperate."

Shakuni’s expression darkened.

He already knew desperation had the power to destroy entire civilizations.

The old man nodded slowly.

"Most endured."

"Some lost faith."

His gaze shifted toward the darker parts of the forest.

Toward lands unseen.

"Then one day..."

"They found something."

The clearing became silent once more.

"What?"

Devara asked quietly.

The tribe leader’s face hardened.

His voice became filled with disgust.

"They found stories."

"Forbidden stories."

"Stories about an ancient being."

The warriors around him visibly tensed.

Several hands unconsciously gripped weapons.

The old man’s next words came out almost like a curse.

"Pushpasura."

The very name seemed to poison the air.

Even Sage Veenadhara stopped complaining.

For the first time since arriving, the sage listened quietly.

The tribe leader looked directly into Devara’s eyes.

"That was where everything began."

"What started as curiosity became temptation."

"What became temptation turned into worship."

"What became worship eventually became madness."

His gaze drifted toward the distant forest.

Toward enemies generations old.

"The people who now follow Pushpasura..."

"They were once our brothers."

The words carried more pain than anger.

"They ate beside us."

"Prayed beside us."

"Protected this forest beside us."

A long silence followed.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Then the old man slowly closed his eyes.

"And they were the ones who stole the sacred nectar."

The entire clearing froze.

Even Devara’s eyes narrowed.

Now the true story was finally beginning.

The old tribe leader fell silent after mentioning the theft of the sacred nectar.

"...."

For several moments, the only sounds that could be heard were the crackling of a nearby fire and the distant calls of birds echoing through the forest.

His weathered face seemed older than before.

As though the memories themselves carried weight.

The elders sitting around him lowered their heads.

Several younger warriors remained silent out of respect.

Even they knew this part of the story was painful.

Devara noticed it immediately.

The old man wasn’t speaking with anger anymore.

He was speaking with regret.

The kind of regret that survives long after the people responsible have died.

Eventually, the tribe leader let out a slow breath.

His eyes remained fixed upon the ground.

"When the theft was discovered..."

His voice sounded distant.

"Chaos spread throughout the village."

The elders nodded grimly.

"Our ancestors captured every person involved."

The old man’s hands tightened slightly.

"They were brought before the village council."

"Before the elders."

"Before the chief."

His gaze slowly lifted.

"The punishment should have been death."

Several warriors immediately nodded.

To steal something considered sacred by the entire tribe was not a minor crime.

To attempt stealing divine blessings for personal gain was even worse.

The old man continued.

"The evidence was undeniable."

"They confessed."

"They showed no remorse."

"They believed they had done nothing wrong."

A bitter smile appeared on his face.

"They claimed the nectar belonged to everyone."

"They claimed the trials were unfair."

"They claimed the blessings should be taken rather than earned."

Devara remained silent.

Listening.

"...."

The old man closed his eyes.

Then came the part that clearly still haunted him.

"But among those captured..."

His voice grew quieter.

"There was one person the chief could not judge fairly."

Several people around the fire lowered their heads.

The younger generation already knew the answer.

The older generation had never forgotten it.

The tribe leader slowly looked toward Devara.

"The chief’s son."

Silence.

A heavy silence.

"...."

"...."

"...."

The old man nodded.

"He was among them."

"He had joined the worshippers."

"He had helped plan the theft."

"He had helped spread their beliefs."

The warriors around the fire remained expressionless.

But the pain in the old man’s voice was unmistakable.

"The chief loved his son."

"He was his only child."

"He had trained him."

"Taught him."

"Dreamed of seeing him become chief one day."

The old man laughed bitterly.

"A father can prepare for many things."

"But watching his own son stand among traitors..."

He shook his head.

"No man is prepared for that."

The clearing remained completely silent.

Even Sage Veenadhara had stopped trying to interrupt.

"...."

For once, the sage understood that this wasn’t merely history.

This was a wound.

One that still hadn’t healed.

The tribe leader continued.

"The elders demanded execution."

"The warriors demanded execution."

"The people demanded execution."

His eyes narrowed.

"And they would have been right."

The words surprised several younger tribesmen.

Yet none disagreed.

The old man sighed.

"But the chief could not do it."

"He stood before the entire village."

"He looked at his son."

"And he failed."

Not in anger. Not in accusation.

Simply a statement of fact.

"He failed."

The old man looked toward the distant trees.

"He couldn’t bring himself to order his son’s death."

"So he chose another punishment."

"Exile."

The word seemed to carry centuries of consequences.

"He banished them."

"Every single one of them."

"They were stripped of their names."

"Stripped of their rights."

"Stripped of their place within the tribe."

"They were forbidden from returning."

Several warriors clenched their fists.

One elder quietly shook his head.

The tribe leader noticed.

"At the time..."

He smiled sadly.

"Many believed it was mercy."

The smile vanished.

"It was not."

His voice hardened.

"It was weakness."

The words echoed through the settlement.

Several younger warriors lowered their heads.

Because even after generations, everyone knew what happened next.

The old man continued.

"The chief thought he was saving his son."

"He believed exile would be enough."

"He believed they would survive."

"He believed they would learn."

"He believed they would return one day seeking forgiveness."

A bitter laugh escaped him.

"They never did."

The old man’s eyes darkened.

"Instead..."

"They found something."

Devara’s gaze sharpened.

The tribe leader nodded slowly.

"They found a way to communicate with Pushpasura."

Several people around the fire instinctively made protective gestures.

Even after all these years, the name remained unsettling.

The old man continued.

"At first nobody believed the stories."

"Then strange things began happening."

"The exiles started prospering."

"Their hunts became successful."

"Their crops grew."

"Their enemies suffered accidents."

His expression became grim.

"Their wishes began coming true."

The clearing became silent again.

The tribe leader leaned forward slightly.

"They claimed Pushpasura listened."

"They claimed Pushpasura answered."

"They claimed he gave them what Lord Vishnu never did."

Several warriors spat onto the ground.

The old man continued.

"More desperate people joined them."

"More outcasts."

"More fools."

"More people hungry for easy answers."

His voice carried deep contempt.

"They built their own settlement."

"Their own tribe."

"Their own shrines."

"And over time..."

His face darkened.

"They stopped being merely exiles."

"They became something else."

The warriors around the fire nodded grimly.

One elder spoke quietly.

"A plague."

The tribe leader nodded.

"A plague."

Another elder added.

"They spread everywhere."

A third elder clenched his jaw.

"Always bringing suffering."

The old man looked directly at Devara.

"At first they only prayed for blessings."

"Then they demanded more."

"Wealth."

"Power."

"Revenge."

"Influence."

His voice grew colder.

"And every blessing required a price."

Devara already knew the answer.

The insects. freewēbnoveℓ.com

The destruction.

The suffering.

The old man nodded as though reading his thoughts.

"They began releasing pests."

"Destroying fields."

"Ruining harvests."

"They called it devotion."

The tribe leader’s eyes narrowed.

"We called it madness."

A long silence followed.

Then the old man looked toward the forest.

Toward lands hidden beyond sight.

Toward enemies older than most kingdoms.

"When our ancestors finally realized the mistake..."

His voice became heavy once more.

"It was already too late."

He slowly closed his eyes.

"The chief who spared them spent the rest of his life watching the consequences of his decision."

The old man opened his eyes again.

"They say his final words were not prayers."

"Not wisdom."

"Not blessings."

Only regret.

The tribe leader looked directly at Devara.

A deep sadness visible in his gaze.

"Our tribe has been paying for that one moment of mercy ever since."

The fire crackled softly.

No one spoke.

Because everyone understood.

Sometimes a sword left sheathed could wound far more people than one drawn.

And somewhere deep within the flower forest...

The descendants of those exiles were once again moving.

Once again plotting.

Once again threatening to awaken the ancient force their ancestors had chosen over faith.

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(Author note:)

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