Desolation stretched across the land from horizon to horizon. A barren forest still remained on this dead land. In the center stood a decrepit castle surrounded by ninety-nine bodies impaled on pikes, some still alive. Who could still live in such a place? Who could do such a thing to these people? The answer was simple: Count Jarasandha. Count Jarasandha walked about his victims with a goblet in hand. Every wriggle of pain and moan of agony filled him with euphoria. At random, he chose a victim, gave his wounds a squeeze, and let the blood drip into his goblet. He took a sip. Tonight he was especially parched, for he had recently escaped from a man named Krishna and his friends who had been hunting him. If the Count was going to face them, he also may as well do so with the home ground advantage. A racing chariot sounded in the distance. It was them: Krishna, Bhima, and Arjuna. They had found him. The three jumped from the chariot, weapons in hand. "It is over, Jarasandha,...
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