Long before time was measured by clocks and calendars, before men built nations and called them gods, there was a war.
A war not for land, or gold, or even power—but for Dharma.
It began with a game of dice, played not for pleasure but pride. One man gambled away his kingdom, his brothers… and then, her.
And when she was dragged into that hall, wrapped in blood-stained silk and fury, she did not weep.
She vowed.
"I swear—by the fire in my soul and the blood in my veins—until justice is done, I shall not bind my hair again. You will answer for this. All of you."
Her voice became a curse, echoing beyond the battlefield, beyond time itself.
And when the war ended, and the ground drank the last drop of blood, the gods wept in silence. There were no victors. Only survivors cursed to carry the weight of their choices.
Krishna, the divine guide, whispered his final words to the wind as he prepared to leave the world.
"Dharma falters when men forget they are not gods. And when gods walk as men, they must bleed to remember why they came."
The age turned.
Time rolled forward.
But some debts are never paid in one lifetime.
Now, in the age of glass towers and electric skies, the souls return—restless, remembering.
The five who once stood for righteousness.
The one who swore vengeance in silence.
The one who guided them with a smile, even to their ruin.
And the one who still believes he was wronged.
Kurukshetra breathes again—not in the plains of battle, but in city streets, in courtrooms, in boardrooms, in broken homes and restless hearts.
The dice have been cast once more.
And Dharma?
Dharma must rise again.