After the mighty elephant Kuvalayapīḍa was slain, Lord Madhusūdana, his determination fulfilled, entered the grand wrestling arena with Balarāma, the son of Rohiṇī, at his side. They strode directly towards the formidable wrestlers Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika, ready for the contest that awaited them. The two pairs faced each other, locking hands and feet, each straining with all their might, eager for victory. Fierce blows were exchanged—fists striking flesh, knees colliding, heads butting, chests and shoulders crashing together. Their bodies circled and feinted, embraced and threw, advancing and retreating, each move met with a countermove. They lifted, raised, shook, and held one another, each striving to overpower the other with every ounce of strength. As this intense display of strength and skill unfolded, all the women gathered in the arena watched with anxious compassion. In groups, they whispered among themselves, deeply troubled by the scene before them. "Alas, what injustice is this, that the king’s assembly desires such a contest of strength and weakness, right before the king himself? How can these wrestlers, whose bodies are as hard as thunderbolts and as immovable as mountains, be matched against these two youths, so delicate and not yet fully grown?" They lamented that such unrighteousness was taking place in the assembly, warning that where adharma arises, one should not remain. "A wise person," they said, "should not enter an assembly where faults are known; whether he speaks out or stays silent, an ignorant man is tainted by sin." Their eyes fell on Kṛṣṇa’s lotus-like face, glistening with sweat from exertion as he faced his opponent—like a lotus bud moistened with dew. They beheld Rāma’s face as well, his eyes copper-red, adorned with a fierce smile and flushed with anger, shining as he confronted Muṣṭika. The women recalled the blessed land of Vraja, where this ancient Person, hidden in human form, adorned with garlands of forest flowers, tended the cows with Balarāma, playing his flute. His feet were worshipped by the beloved of the mountain lord, and he delighted in many pastimes. They wondered what great austerities the cowherd women must have performed to behold his form—the very essence of beauty, ever fresh, peerless and unique, the sole abode of all glory, fortune, and majesty—drinking it in with their eyes. Fortunate, too, were the women of Vraja, whose minds were devoted to the mighty Lord. With voices choked by tears, they sang of him while milking cows, gathering dung, churning butter, smearing floors, swinging their children, or sweeping—whatever their task might be. Morning and evening, as he left for the pastures or returned with the cows, playing his flute, the young women would hurry out to the path, eager to see his smiling face and compassionate glances. As the women spoke thus, Lord Hari, master of yoga, resolved within himself to slay his enemy. The parents of Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma, hearing the fearful words of the women, were overcome with grief and affection for their sons, not knowing the true measure of their strength. The wrestling continued with all its techniques. Acyuta battled Cāṇūra, and Bala fought Muṣṭika. The blows from the Lord’s limbs, as hard as thunderbolts, battered Cāṇūra’s body, exhausting him. Suddenly, with the speed of a hawk, Cāṇūra leapt up, clenched his fists, and struck Vāsudeva, the Lord, on the chest. But Kṛṣṇa did not move, as unshaken as an elephant struck by a garland. Seizing Cāṇūra by the arms, Hari spun him around again and again, then dashed him violently to the ground. Cāṇūra’s life was nearly gone; his hair and garland scattered, he fell like Indra’s banner collapsing. Meanwhile, Balabhadra struck Muṣṭika forcefully with his fist, then hit him severely with his palm. Muṣṭika trembled, blood pouring from his mouth, tormented and lifeless, collapsing to the ground like a tree felled by the wind. Then Rāma, the best among fighters, effortlessly slew Kūṭa with a contemptuous blow of his left fist. At that moment, Śala, his head struck by Kṛṣṇa’s foot, and Tośalaka, both split in two, fell down. With Cāṇūra, Muṣṭika, Kūṭa, Śala, and Tośalaka slain, the remaining wrestlers, terrified for their lives, fled the arena. Kṛṣṇa and Balarāma gathered their cowherd friends, and together they danced joyfully as musical instruments played and their anklets rang out. All the people rejoiced at the deeds of Rāma and Kṛṣṇa. The foremost brāhmaṇas and the virtuous exclaimed, "Well done! Well done!"—all except Kaṃsa, who was greatly agitated. When the best of the wrestlers were slain, King Kaṃsa, disturbed and enraged, stopped his musicians and commanded, "Expel those two wicked sons of Vasudeva from the city! Seize the wealth of the cowherds! Bind Nanda, that evil-minded man! Kill Vasudeva at once, along with the best of horses! And kill Ugrasena, my father, who sides with the enemy, along with his followers!" As Kaṃsa thus raged, the imperishable Lord, filled with anger, swiftly leapt up and mounted the high platform where Kaṃsa sat. Seeing his death approaching in the form of Kṛṣṇa, Kaṃsa sprang up from his seat, seizing his shield and sword. He moved swiftly, circling like a hawk in the sky, but Kṛṣṇa, of irresistible and fierce energy, seized him as Garuḍa seizes a serpent. Grabbing Kaṃsa by the hair, his crown shaking, Kṛṣṇa threw him down from the high platform onto the arena floor. Then the lotus-naveled Lord, the refuge of the universe, fell upon him from above. Hari dragged Kaṃsa’s lifeless body across the ground, as one might drag an elephant, while all the world looked on. A great cry of "Alas! Alas!" arose from the people. Kaṃsa, whose mind was ever anxious—whether eating, speaking, moving, sleeping, or breathing—always saw before him the Lord with the discus weapon. Thus, at the end, he attained that very form of the Lord, which is so difficult to attain.