Chapter 70: The Gandharva’s End

The forest shuddered, a scarred battlefield beneath a sky blackened by wrath, the air thick with the tang of blood and the howl of a dying storm. Trees lay shattered, their trunks splintered into jagged ruins, the earth slick with gore from Bhishma's massacre. The wind coiled, a restless beast tethered to his will, its roar a low growl as he faced his prey. Bhishma stood, a colossus of vengeance, his midnight bow raised, an arrow nocked, its tip gleaming with the light of a thousand vengeful stars. Blood streaked his face, his cloak, a crimson war-paint etched in slaughter.

Across the clearing stood the Gandharva King, golden armor aglow, silver hair whipping in the gale, his spear a shard of celestial light clutched in a grip of immortal arrogance. His smirk was sharp, a blade of disdain, his eyes flickering with the confidence of eons. "No mercy, you say?" he taunted, voice smooth as a river over stone. "A mortal's rage—how quaint."

Bhishma's snarl cut the air, his voice a thunderclap. "Your tongue flaps while Chitrangada's blood stains your hands. It ends now."

The Gandharva laughed, a chime of scorn. "Ends? I've danced through centuries—your pup was a stumble. Come, dog, show me your bite."

The spear struck first, a blur of light, swift as a comet tearing the heavens. Its tip sang, aimed for Bhishma's heart, the air splitting before its wrath. Bhishma twisted, boots grinding the dirt, the wind surging—a coiling shield that shoved the spear aside, its point slashing past his ribs, grazing cloth and flesh. Blood welled, a thin red line, but his grin was feral. "Fast," he growled, "but not enough."

He nocked an arrow, the bowstring humming, light flaring along the shaft—a blazing comet in his grasp. "Dodge this!" The arrow flew, a streak of divine fury, the wind howling behind it, tearing leaves from the earth.

The Gandharva spun, spear whirling, a radiant arc that met the arrow mid-flight. Steel clashed, a shriek of metal on metal, sparks bursting like dying stars. The arrow shattered, splinters raining, but the wind roared louder, slamming into the King's stance. He stumbled, boots skidding, his smirk faltering. "Tricks?" he spat, regaining his footing. "You'll need more."

Bhishma charged, bow raised, another arrow nocked in a flash. "For Chitrangada!" His roar was divine, a bellow that shook the trees, the wind exploding into a tempest. The arrow soared, a blazing lance, the gale coiling around it like a dragon's claws.

The Gandharva thrust, spear slashing upward, its light flaring—a shield of celestial might. The arrow struck, steel grinding against steel, the impact a thunderous boom. The spear held, but the wind tore at the King's legs, earth ripping beneath him. He slid back, snarling, "You think a breeze fells me?"

Bhishma's laugh was cold, sharp as a blade. "A breeze? This is your doom." He loosed again, arrow after arrow, a storm of light and steel—each shaft a comet, each shot a vow. The wind screamed, a beast unleashed, shredding the air, the ground, the King's poise.

The Gandharva danced, spear spinning—a whirlwind of gold and silver, deflecting the barrage. One arrow grazed his shoulder, blood spraying, a crimson mist in the gale. He hissed, "A scratch!" Another nicked his thigh, steel biting flesh, golden armor dented. "Mortal filth!" he roared, lunging, spear thrusting for Bhishma's throat.

Bhishma sidestepped, wind coiling tighter, shoving the spear off course. "You bleed," he said, voice low, deadly. "Immortals don't bleed." He nocked, the arrow blazing brighter, the bowstring taut with his fury. "Die!" The shaft flew, a meteor of vengeance, the wind howling a dirge.

The Gandharva swung, spear meeting arrow—steel clashed, a deafening ring, but the wind surged, a fist of force that cracked the spear's shaft. The King staggered, eyes widening, "Impossible!" Bhishma loosed again, relentless, the arrow streaking for his chest.

The spear rose, too slow—crack!—the arrow punched through, piercing armor, flesh, bone. Blood erupted, a scarlet geyser, the Gandharva's gasp a choke as he stumbled back, spear slipping from his grip. "No…" he rasped, clutching the wound, crimson spilling between his fingers.

 "You… can't…" the King choked, silver hair matted with blood, his smirk gone, eyes dimming.

Bhishma towered over him, wind coiling like a serpent, his voice a divine edict. "For Chitrangada." He nocked, the arrow blazing—a sun in his grasp, the bowstring singing a hymn of death. "Burn."

The arrow flew, a blazing star, the wind roaring behind it—a dragon of wrath. The Gandharva raised his spear, trembling, but the shaft struck—straight through the heart, steel erupting from his back in a fountain of blood. The King screamed, a wail of shattered immortality, his body hurled backward, crashing through trees—trunks snapping, branches exploding, leaves raining in a storm of ruin.

He hit the ground, a broken heap, blood pooling beneath him, golden armor cracked, silver hair tangled in the dirt. The spear clattered beside him, its light fading, a relic of a fallen god. Bhishma strode forward, boots crunching the earth, wind dying to a whisper.

The Gandharva's chest heaved, a ragged breath, blood bubbling from his lips. "I… am… eternal…" he croaked, eyes flickering, defiant even in ruin.

Bhishma knelt, bow resting at his side, his gaze ice. "Eternal ends here." He seized the arrow in the King's chest, twisting—bone cracked, blood spurted, a final scream tearing from the immortal's throat. The light in his eyes snuffed out, head lolling, body still—a corpse in the dirt, a debt settled in crimson.

The forest fell silent, the wind fading, leaves settling in the gore-streaked clearing. Bhishma rose, blood dripping from his hands, his bow, his soul. The Ganga's pulse slowed in his veins, a murmur of triumph, a river calmed by vengeance. He stood over the fallen King, cloak billowing, a titan of wrath victorious.

"Chitrangada's avenged," he muttered, voice rough, the weight of the kill sinking in. "Kshema's fire rests. Satyavati's tears dry." He turned, gazing into the shattered woods, the silence heavy, the storm spent. His bow hung at his side, its string slack, its work done.

A thought flickered, cold and quiet, amidst the blood and ruin. A debt paid—what now?