Chapter 446 - 414: Wound Never Healed Again...

(A/N):

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

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Before Devara could continue, he noticed movement behind the boy.

Vrishasena, despite his injuries, had managed to raise one hand.

He caught his son’s shoulder and pulled him towards himself, making a desperate effort to keep the boy away from Devara.

"Father!" the prince exclaimed, turning towards him.

"You shouldn’t move! Your wound..."

Vrishasena shook his head.

He tried to speak, but the pain and his severed tongue made it impossible.

Instead, he tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder and gestured towards the arriving commanders.

His intention was clear.

They were withdrawing.

One of the surviving commanders immediately understood the signal and stepped forward.

"All remaining Vrishabhapura soldiers! Gather your wounded! We are returning!"

The order travelled through the surrounding ranks.

Soldiers began collecting their injured companions, while the newly arrived reinforcements hurried to assist them.

Some looked towards their king in disbelief, while others lowered their heads, unable to meet the eyes of the allied warriors.

The prince, however, refused to move.

"Father, wait! We just arrived! Why are we leaving?"

Vrishasena looked at his son and gently pressed a hand against his shoulder.

He then gestured towards the army, making it clear that they had to leave immediately.

"But..."

The king shook his head again.

The boy finally noticed the exhaustion in his father’s eyes.

He looked at the blood covering Vrishasena’s hands and swallowed the words he had been about to say.

He allowed the soldiers to help his father stand.

Even then, he continued looking towards Devara.

There was fear in his expression, but also a deep resentment that a child could barely comprehend, let alone control.

Devara did not stop them.

He watched as Vrishasena was helped towards one of the surviving chariots.

The king turned his head once more, looking directly at Devara.

His eyes still burned with hatred, but he could do little more than stare.

Devara met his gaze without flinching.

The surviving Vrishabhapura commanders organised their soldiers and began the withdrawal.

The wounded were placed in chariots and on carts, while the remaining infantry gathered around the royal party.

Their banners, once proudly raised above a mighty army, were now carried low.

The young prince climbed into the chariot beside his father.

Before it began moving, he looked back one last time.

Devara was still standing in the same place, surrounded by his commanders and allied warriors.

Behind him, the banners of Trivenivrata and its allied kingdoms fluttered in the evening breeze.

The prince clenched his small fists.

He had arrived expecting to see his father victorious.

Instead, he was leaving with a wounded king, a defeated army, and an image of Devara that would remain etched in his memory for years to come.

As the Vrishabhapura forces gradually disappeared from the battlefield, Bhishma approached Devara.

"The battle is over, Maharaja,"

he said, glancing towards the departing army.

Devara nodded.

"Yes. Now we must attend to our own wounded and ensure that the prisoners are treated properly. Send messengers to the allied commanders. I want an accurate account of our casualties before sunset."

Drona acknowledged the instruction and began issuing orders to the officers nearby.

Devara looked once more towards the distant chariot carrying Vrishasena.

The king had lost his army, his divine weapon, and his tongue.

But the consequences of the war were far from over.

Several weeks had passed since the devastating battle between Trivenivrata and Vrishabhapura.

The defeated army had finally returned to its kingdom, bringing with it the wounded, the surviving commanders, and the grim memories of a war that had ended in a manner none of them had anticipated.

The once-proud soldiers who had marched towards Trivenivrata with confidence now returned in scattered formations, their banners lowered and their numbers considerably diminished.

News of their defeat had already spread throughout Vrishabhapura before the army even reached its capital.

The people had gathered along the streets, expecting to welcome their king and his victorious soldiers.

Instead, they were greeted by a procession of damaged chariots and exhausted warriors.

Mothers searched anxiously for their sons, wives looked among the returning soldiers for their husbands, and families waited for news of those who had not come back.

At the centre of the procession was Vrishasena.

The king was being transported in a covered royal chariot, accompanied by several guards and physicians.

His injuries had been attended to throughout the journey, but his condition remained far from satisfactory.

The wound across his mouth had stopped bleeding, thanks to the efforts of the royal physicians.

However, the damage itself showed no signs of healing.

The severed portion of his tongue had been lost on the battlefield, and the injury around the corner of his mouth remained open despite repeated treatments.

Medicinal pastes, herbal preparations, specialised ointments, and even certain healing rituals had been attempted.

Yet the wound stubbornly refused to close.

It was as though the flesh itself had forgotten how to heal.

When the royal chariot entered the palace courtyard, the queen hurried forward with their son following close behind.

"Your Majesty!"

She approached the chariot, her eyes immediately moving towards her husband’s face.

The moment she saw the bandages and the injuries beneath them, her expression crumbled.

"Who did this to you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Vrishasena looked at her but could not answer.

He had grown increasingly frustrated with his inability to speak.

Even simple instructions had become difficult.

He could communicate through gestures and writing, but neither could replace the authority he once commanded through his voice.

The young prince stood beside his mother, looking at his father with concern.

"Father, are you feeling better now?"

Vrishasena gently placed a hand on his son’s head.

The boy smiled faintly, relieved to see him alive, but his attention soon returned to the bandages.

"Will the physicians make you better?"

The king nodded.

However, the expression on his face suggested that he was far less certain.

Later that evening, inside the royal treatment chamber, several physicians gathered around Vrishasena.

The king sat on a cushioned seat while one of the senior physicians carefully removed the outer bandages.

The queen remained nearby, anxiously observing the procedure.

The wound was exposed once again.

The physician examined it under the light of an oil lamp, gently inspecting the damaged flesh.

He then applied a specially prepared medicinal paste before covering the area with fresh bandages.

Vrishasena watched him impatiently.

After finishing the treatment, the physician stepped back.

"Well?" the king gestured, demanding an explanation.

The physician hesitated.

"Your Majesty, the bleeding has stopped, and we have managed to prevent any infection. However..."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"However, the wound is not healing."

Vrishasena’s eyes narrowed.

The physician continued.

"We have used the strongest preparations available to our medical practitioners. We have also consulted specialists who possess knowledge of wounds caused by divine weapons. Yet the damaged flesh remains unchanged. It is neither worsening nor recovering."

The king’s expression darkened.

"Have you tried the medicines from the northern provinces?" the queen asked.

"Yes, Maharani. We have tried those as well."

"What about the physicians from the great gurukuls?"

"We have already sent requests to them. Some have promised to arrive, while others are still examining the details of His Majesty’s injury."

Vrishasena clenched his fingers.

He gestured towards the physician, demanding to know whether there was anything else they could attempt.

The elderly physician lowered his head.

"Your Majesty, we will continue searching. But I must be honest. This injury does not appear to be an ordinary physical wound."

The king stared at him.

The physician swallowed before continuing.

"There is something unusual about it. Our medicines can treat the surrounding tissue, but the actual wound remains unaffected. It is almost as though some force is preventing the damaged flesh from restoring itself."

Vrishasena’s eyes hardened.

He knew what that meant.

Devara’s words on the battlefield returned to his memory.

The wounds caused by those words would not heal.

At the time, Vrishasena had dismissed the statement as nothing more than an angry threat.

He had believed that Devara would simply punish him physically and that the injury would eventually recover.

But now, after several weeks of treatment, the reality was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

This was no ordinary wound.

It was the consequence of a curse.

Vrishasena slowly turned towards the physician and gestured for him to leave.

The elderly man bowed and departed with the other medical practitioners.

Once they were alone, the queen approached her husband.

"Was this caused by Devara?"

Vrishasena looked at her.

She lowered her voice.

"I heard what happened on the battlefield. I also heard about the words you exchanged before the war. Is this the curse he placed upon you?"

The king did not respond immediately.

Instead, he reached for a writing board that had been kept beside his seat.

Taking a stylus, he wrote a few words and showed them to her.

It will not heal.

The queen stared at the writing.

"Then we must find someone who can remove it. Surely there is a sage or a divine physician who can help you."

Vrishasena looked towards the doorway through which the physicians had departed.

For the first time, he found himself wondering whether there was anyone in the entire kingdom capable of undoing what Devara had done.

And somewhere deep within his thoughts, another question began troubling him.

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(Author note:)

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