As soon as Vandiyathevan said, “Draw your sword from its sheath!” the prince cried out, “Here, I have drawn it!” and unsheathed his sword with a flourish. At that very moment, Vandiyathevan too drew his sword from its scabbard. These were no ordinary blades—they were grand, monstrous swords. The men who had come with their horses and halted near the sacred Bodhi tree at Anuradhapura had handed over these very swords before departing.

The prince leapt down from his horse and said sternly, “Come, get down! I can no longer endure your endless speeches! We must settle this here and now, with our own hands, before we leave!” Vandiyathevan was taken aback. He could not tell if this was mere sport or deadly earnest. Yet, since the prince had already dismounted, he too was compelled to follow suit.

“What is this, sir! Why do you hesitate? Did you not try to humiliate me last night? Did you not say that your grandfather’s palace courtyard was guarded by my ancestors? Did you not claim that poets watched as their umbrellas and palanquins were snatched away, and bore it in silence? The more I think of it, the less I can bear it. One of us must settle this matter here and now before we move on!” So saying, the prince gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands and, spinning it, advanced towards Vandiyathevan.

Yes, as we have said, this was no ordinary sword. No matter how strong a man might be, it was a great feat to hold it upright with one hand. Only by gripping it with both hands could one swing it and strike at an enemy.

When the prince thus spun the sword with both hands, he no longer appeared as the delicate, pampered royal youth raised amidst palace luxuries. He seemed instead like the ancient heroes—like Bhima, Arjuna, and Abhimanyu. In his very form, he resembled the battle-scarred Vijayalaya Chola, who bore ninety-six wounds, and the valiant Rajaditya Deva, who fell atop his elephant. He stood there, a living reminder that he was descended from such a heroic lineage, radiating martial splendor and grandeur.

Vandiyathevan too gripped his sword with both hands and began to swing it. At first, confusion and hesitation held sway in his mind. But as the moments passed, his resolve hardened. The frenzy of valor surged within him. Though his opponent was the prince, worthy of his respect and loyalty... He forgot. He even forgot why this fight had begun. Before his eyes, only the enemy’s whirling dagger remained. His entire attention was fixed on a single thought: how to escape being struck by that blade, how to knock it aside and wound his opponent in return.

The speed at which the daggers spun, the force with which they clashed—clang! clang!—against one another, began at a measured tempo, passed through a moderate pace, and now surged into a furious tempo. At first, even Azhwarkkadiyan could not comprehend the prince’s intention. Yet,