In the shadowed vigil of my severed head atop this sacred hill, I, Barbarik-grandson of the mighty Bhima, son of the demon prince Ghatotkacha, and wielder of divine arrows that could end this war in three swift seconds-bear witness to the cataclysmic dance of dharma and destruction below. The wind here is cold, biting at skin that no longer feels warmth, carrying with it the metallic taste of ozone and the impending rot of an era ending. My eyes, granted this eternal, unblinking gaze by Lord Krishna himself, do not dry, nor do they tire. They are the lenses through which history will view this carnage, recording every drop of blood, every broken vow, and every shattered bone.
I am not merely a spectator; I am the voice echoing through the ages, the ultimate commentator in the cosmic box. But hold your horses, my friends! If you are expecting a dry, dusty recitation of Sanskrit verses and somber chanting, you have tuned into the wrong frequency. With Sidhhaisms galore, I am going to paint this battlefield like a canvas of chaos, a Jackson Pollock painting made of gore and glory.
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