Mahabharat: Shiva's Last Variable

Chapter 170: Chapter 168: Greed & Hatred... Destroy’s Everything From Within...

(A/N):

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

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The fire crackled softly in the center of the settlement.

Its orange glow danced across the faces of the gathered tribesmen, casting long shadows across the clearing.

Nobody interrupted the old tribe leader.

Nobody rushed him.

This was not merely a story.

It was the history of their people.

A history written with mistakes, betrayal, blood, and regret.

The old man stared into the flames for a long moment before continuing.

His voice had become quieter.

Heavier.

As though every word carried the burden of generations.

"Many years passed after the exile."

"The worshippers built their own settlements."

"Their numbers increased."

"Their influence spread."

"Our tribe tried to avoid them."

"We tried to protect the forests."

"We tried to honor our duty."

He shook his head slowly.

"But fate rarely allows old wounds to remain buried."

Several elders nodded silently.

They knew what was coming next.

The old leader took a deep breath.

"One day, one of their people was captured."

Immediately, the attention of everyone in the clearing sharpened.

Even Sage Veenadhara leaned forward as much as his ropes allowed.

Which shows how involves he was in this story.

The old man continued.

"A patrol discovered him deep within the sacred forest."

"He wasn’t hunting."

"He wasn’t gathering herbs."

"He wasn’t lost."

The old man’s eyes narrowed.

"He was doing something."

"Something he clearly did not want discovered."

A young warrior from the tribe frowned so invested in the story.

"What was it?"

The tribe leader shook his head.

"That was the problem."

"He refused to tell us."

The old man poked the fire with a wooden stick.

The sparks rose into the night sky.

"Our ancestors questioned him."

"He remained silent."

"They threatened him."

"He remained silent."

"They beat him."

"He remained silent."

The old man’s expression darkened.

"He simply smiled."

Several warriors spat onto the ground in disgust.

The tribe leader nodded.

"That smile terrified them."

"Because it was the smile of a man who believed he had already won. The purpose of what he came seems to be achieved."

The clearing became silent.

"...."

"...."

"...."

The old man continued.

"The village council gathered."

"The elders gathered."

"The warriors gathered."

"And eventually..."

His voice hardened.

"They decided to execute him."

No one reacted.

For the people of that era, such a punishment would not have seemed unusual.

The old leader stared into the flames.

"They built a pyre."

"A large one."

"The entire village watched."

"The prisoner remained silent until the very end."

The old man paused.

Then slowly raised his gaze.

"But just before the fire was lit..."

His eyes narrowed.

"The man finally spoke."

Even the younger warriors leaned forward.

The tribe leader continued.

"He laughed."

"Not loudly."

"Not like a madman."

"Like someone watching a joke nobody else understood."

The old man’s voice lowered.

"Then he told them the truth."

The atmosphere around the fire became tense.

Several elders unconsciously tightened their fists.

The memory clearly remained vivid.

"He revealed that the worshippers of Pushpasura were preparing a ritual."

"A very rare ritual."

"One that could only be performed under specific celestial conditions."

The old man’s expression darkened further.

"A ritual designed to weaken Pushpasura’s prison."

Devara’s eyes narrowed.

The old man nodded.

"According to the prisoner..."

"The flowers and plants surrounding the sacred lands were not ordinary."

"They formed part of the prison itself."

"Not the chains."

"Not the lock."

"But the roots holding everything together."

The tribe leader looked toward the distant flower forest.

"Destroy enough of them..."

"And the prison weakens."

The clearing fell silent.

Even the fire seemed quieter.

The old man continued.

"The ritual would spread through the surrounding forests."

"The flowers would wither."

"The plants would die."

"The land itself would weaken."

"And with every dying root..."

"Pushpasura’s grip on slumber would loosen."

Shakuni felt a chill run through him.

The story sounded disturbingly similar to what was happening now.

The insects.

The flower fields.

The festival.

Everything.

The tribe leader noticed the realization forming on their faces.

"Yes."

His voice became grim.

"Our ancestors understood immediately."

"They weren’t merely dealing with fanatics."

"They were dealing with people willing to sacrifice entire forests."

Several warriors nodded angrily.

One elder clenched his fists.

"They were willing to doom everyone."

The old man continued.

"The moment the prisoner finished speaking..."

"The entire village panicked."

"Messengers were sent."

"Scouts were dispatched."

"Warriors prepared for battle."

Then his expression changed.

Something between anger and sadness.

"The tribe’s chief at the time..."

His voice became quieter. freёwebnoѵel.com

"Was the younger brother of the original traitor."

That immediately caught Devara’s attention.

The old man nodded.

"After the old chief died..."

"His younger son inherited leadership."

Unlike his father.

Unlike the man who had spared the exiles.

This chief carried no affection toward them.

No sympathy. No hesitation.

The old man’s eyes hardened.

"He hated them."

The statement was simple.

Yet absolute.

"He blamed them for everything."

"The suffering."

"The deaths."

"The years of conflict."

The old man looked toward the stars above.

"And most of all..."

"He blamed them for his father’s death."

Several elders nodded slowly.

The old chief who had shown mercy had spent the remainder of his life drowning in regret.

Watching the consequences of his decision unfold.

The younger brother had witnessed all of it.

Every day. Every year.

The old tribe leader continued.

"He watched his father grow weaker."

"He watched guilt consume him."

"He watched a respected leader become a broken man."

His voice lowered.

"And in his heart..."

"He never forgave his elder brother."

The fire crackled loudly.

The old man’s face became cold.

"While his father saw a son..."

"The younger brother saw a traitor."

"While his father hoped for redemption..."

"The younger brother hoped for justice."

The old man paused.

Then spoke the words that sent a chill through the clearing.

"When he heard about the ritual..."

"He swore an oath."

The warriors around the fire lowered their heads.

Even after generations, the oath remained infamous.

The old leader slowly looked toward Devara.

"He declared that he would hunt down every follower of Pushpasura."

"No matter where they hid."

"No matter how long it took."

"No matter how much blood needed to be spilled."

The old man’s voice became heavy.

"He vowed to erase their tribe from existence."

The clearing became silent.

"...."

"...."

"...."

Not because they disagreed.

But because everyone knew what happened next.

The oath had started a war.

A war whose echoes were still being felt generations later.

And judging by the insects released into the flower fields...

That war had never truly ended.

The old tribe leader remained silent for a few moments after speaking about the oath.

The fire continued to burn steadily between them.

Its flames reflected in the eyes of the gathered warriors.

Many of the younger members had heard fragments of this story growing up.

But hearing it from the tribe leader himself carried a different weight.

A heavier weight.

One that could not be captured in simple tales passed between generations.

The old man slowly fed another piece of wood into the fire.

Then continued.

"The oath did not remain merely words."

His voice had become rough.

"That chief was many things."

"Angry."

"Vengeful."

"Stubborn."

"But he was not a man who made promises lightly."

Several elders nodded.

One elderly warrior even allowed a faint smile to appear.

The old chief remained respected even now.

Feared too.

The tribe leader continued.

"After hearing the prisoner’s confession, he immediately ordered scouts to move."

"Not warriors."

"Not hunters."

"Scouts."

The old man pointed toward several younger men sitting nearby.

"He knew that charging blindly into unknown territory would only get people killed."

"So for weeks..."

"Nothing happened."

The younger warriors frowned.

Weeks?

The old man nodded.

"That was exactly what surprised everyone."

"The entire tribe expected immediate war."

"They expected him to gather warriors and march into the forest."

A bitter smile appeared.

"Instead, he became patient."

"Very patient."

His expression darkened.

"And that made him far more dangerous."

Devara listened carefully.

He had seen men like that before.

A furious man was dangerous.

A furious man who learned patience was far worse.

The tribe leader continued.

"Our scouts followed trails."

"They watched movements."

"They tracked hunters."

"They listened to conversations."

"They mapped routes."

"Counted guards."

"Counted families."

"Counted warriors."

The old man looked into the fire.

"They learned everything."

The clearing remained silent.

"...."

"...."

"...."

The old leader’s voice lowered.

"And eventually..."

"They found them."

A chill seemed to pass through the gathering.

The old man looked toward the darkness beyond the settlement.

"As hidden as they believed themselves to be..."

"They were found."

The warriors around the fire remained completely still.

The tribe leader continued.

"The worshippers had built an entire settlement."

"Deep within the forest."

"Far from trade routes."

"Far from villages."

"Protected by difficult terrain."

His expression became cold.

"They believed they were safe."

A long silence followed.

Then the old man slowly shook his head.

"They were wrong."

Several warriors exchanged glances.

The story was becoming increasingly grim.

"The scouts reported something else."

The tribe leader’s eyes narrowed.

"The ritual preparations had already begun."

That immediately drew Devara’s full attention.

"The ritual?"

The old man nodded.

"According to the reports, they were preparing a great celebration."

"Offerings."

"Prayers."

"Sacrifices."

"Gatherings."

Everything pointed toward a single purpose.

The awakening of Pushpasura.

The tribe leader’s jaw tightened.

"Our chief heard the reports."

"Then remained silent for nearly an entire day."

The elders around the fire nodded.

Even now they remembered that silence.

It had frightened many of their ancestors.

Because everyone knew what it meant.

The old chief was deciding.

Deciding what kind of death awaited the people who had betrayed their tribe.

The old man slowly looked toward Devara.

"When he finally spoke..."

"There was no hesitation."

"No doubt."

"No mercy."

The fire crackled loudly.

Several younger warriors unconsciously straightened.

The tribe leader’s voice became deeper.

"He refused every suggestion."

"He refused challenges."

"He refused warnings."

"He refused negotiations."

One elder sighed.

"He refused mercy."

The old man nodded.

"Yes."

"He refused mercy."

A heavy silence settled over the clearing.

The tribe leader continued.

"He said they had abandoned the right to be treated as honorable people."

"They had abandoned the right to be treated as fellow tribesmen."

"They had abandoned the right to be treated as warriors."

His voice carried the same coldness that the ancient chief must have felt.

"Then he spoke words our tribe remembers even today."

The old man paused.

Then repeated them.

Slowly.

Exactly as they had been passed down through generations.

"’Warriors die beneath the sun.’"

"’Traitors die in darkness.’"

The clearing fell silent.

Even the children stopped fidgeting.

The hatred behind those words could still be felt centuries later.

The old tribe leader continued.

"The attack would happen at night."

"No warnings."

"No challenges."

"No chances."

Several warriors nodded grimly.

"The chief said he would not grant them an honorable death."

"He would not grant them a warrior’s death."

"He would not grant them glory."

His eyes hardened.

"He wanted fear."

The old man stared into the fire.

"He wanted every follower of Pushpasura to understand the price of betrayal."

The atmosphere had become heavy.

Painfully heavy.

The chief’s hatred had clearly gone beyond justice.

Far beyond it.

The old leader sighed.

"At the time..."

"Many agreed with him."

"Many wanted revenge."

"Many believed suffering should be answered with suffering."

The old man’s voice grew quieter.

"Looking back..."

He shook his head.

"Hatred had already begun poisoning both sides."

No one argued.

Because everyone knew it was true.

The descendants of the worshippers carried hatred.

The protectors carried hatred.

Generation after generation.

Until eventually no one remembered where justice ended and vengeance began.

The old tribe leader looked toward Devara.

"The attack was prepared."

"The warriors sharpened their blades."

"The scouts marked the paths."

"The hunters volunteered."

The firelight danced across his face.

"And on the night before the ritual..."

He slowly exhaled.

"Our ancestors marched into the darkness."

His gaze drifted toward the endless forest.

Toward events long buried by time.

"Their goal was simple."

The old man’s voice became almost a whisper.

"End the worshippers."

"End the ritual."

"And ensure Pushpasura never awakened."

The clearing remained completely silent.

Because everyone around the fire knew what came next.

If things had gone according to plan...

The story would have ended there.

But it hadn’t.

Otherwise the worshippers would not still exist today.

And Pushpasura would not be stirring once again beneath the flower forests of Mallikavana.

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(Author note:)

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