Śuka began: Thus, having honored the resolve of the king, Lord Madhusudana—Krishna—together with Balarāma, the son of Rohini, strode forward to face the mighty wrestlers Chanura and Mushtika. The contest began with hands locking against hands, feet against feet, each opponent straining with all his might, determined to emerge victorious. The arena resounded with the force of their blows—fists, knees, heads, chests, and shoulders were all brought to bear as they struck and countered one another. The battle unfolded with constant circling, clever feints, tight embraces, sudden throws, advances and retreats—each move swiftly answered by the other. They lifted, raised, shook, and held each other, each one striving to overpower his adversary, exerting every ounce of strength. As this fierce contest played out, all the women assembled there, O King, were moved to compassion. In small groups, they whispered among themselves, distressed by what they saw: “Alas, what great injustice is this in the king’s assembly! How can they allow such a contest of strength and weakness before the king himself, as he watches on?” They looked upon the wrestlers, their bodies as hard as thunderbolts, towering like mountain peaks, and then at Krishna and Balarāma—two youths, delicate and not yet fully grown—and wondered, “How can such a match be fair?” They lamented that the assembly was inviting unrighteousness and warned that where adharma arises, none should remain. A wise person, they said, should avoid such a gathering, for whether he speaks out or remains silent, an ignorant man is tainted by the faults of the assembly. Their hearts went out to Krishna, whose lotus-like face was now beaded with sweat from his exertions, resembling a lotus bud moistened with dew as he faced his enemy. They spoke of Balarāma too, whose eyes glowed copper-red with righteous anger, his face alight with a smile and the flush of battle as he confronted Mushtika. Their thoughts turned to the blessed land of Vraja, where this ancient Lord, disguised in human form and adorned with garlands of forest flowers, once tended the cows with Balarāma, playing his flute, his feet worshipped by the beloveds of the mountain lord, delighting in countless pastimes. They marveled at the good fortune of the cowherd women who, through their unknown austerities, were able to behold his form—the very essence of beauty, ever new, unique, and unattainable, the sole abode of fame, fortune, and majesty—drinking in his presence with their eyes. They praised the women of Vraja, whose minds were ever devoted to the mighty Lord, who, with voices choked by tears, sang of him as they milked cows, gathered dung, churned butter, smeared their floors, swung their children, or swept—whatever their daily labor. Morning and evening, as Krishna set out for the pastures or returned with the cows, flute in hand, these blessed young women would hurry to the roadside, eager to catch a glimpse of his smiling face and compassionate glances. As the women spoke thus, O best of the Bhāratas, the Lord—Hari, master of yoga—resolved in his heart to destroy his enemy. The words of the women reached the parents of Krishna and Balarāma, who, overwhelmed by love and grief for their sons, suffered deeply, unaware of the boys’ true strength. The wrestling continued, with Krishna and his opponent exchanging every manner of wrestling technique, just as Balarāma and Mushtika did. Under the relentless blows of Krishna—whose limbs struck with the force of thunderbolts—Chanura’s body was battered again and again until he was utterly exhausted. Summoning the speed of a hawk, Chanura leapt up, both fists clenched, and struck Krishna’s chest in anger. Yet Krishna did not move, as unshaken as an elephant struck with a garland. Swiftly, Hari seized Chanura by the arms and spun him around again and again, then dashed him violently to the ground. Chanura’s life ebbed away; his hair and garland scattered as he fell like Indra’s banner being toppled. Meanwhile, Balarāma struck Mushtika with a mighty blow of his fist, then hit him hard with his palm. Blood poured from Mushtika’s mouth as he trembled, tormented, and fell lifeless to the earth like a tree felled by the wind. Next, the great warrior Rāma, with effortless contempt, slew Kūṭa with a blow of his left fist. At the same moment, Śala, his head struck by Krishna’s foot, and Tośalaka were both split in two and fell to the ground. With Chanura, Mushtika, Kūṭa, Śala, and Tośalaka slain, the remaining wrestlers, desperate to save their lives, fled the arena. Gathering their cowherd friends, Krishna and Balarāma played joyfully, dancing as the musical instruments sounded and their anklets jingled. The people rejoiced at the deeds of the brothers; everywhere, except for Kaṃsa, the foremost brāhmaṇas and the virtuous cried out, “Well done! Well done!” But when the best of his wrestlers were slain, Kaṃsa, king of the Bhojas, was thrown into turmoil. He silenced his musicians and declared in fury: “Expel from the city those two wicked sons of Vasudeva! Seize the wealth of the cowherds! Bind Nanda, that evil-minded man! Kill Vasudeva at once, along with the finest horses! And my father Ugrasena, who sides with the enemy—kill him and his followers too!” As Kaṃsa made these boasts, the imperishable Lord, enraged, leapt swiftly onto the high platform. Seeing Krishna approach—his very death—Kaṃsa sprang up from his seat, seizing his shield and sword. He moved about with the speed of a hawk, circling right and left, but Krishna, whose energy is irresistible and fierce, seized him as Garuḍa would seize a serpent. Grabbing Kaṃsa by the hair, his crown shaking, Krishna threw him down from the high platform into the arena. Then, the lotus-naveled Lord himself, the refuge of the universe, leapt down upon him. Hari dragged Kaṃsa’s lifeless body across the ground as one would drag a fallen elephant, while the world looked on in shock and a great cry of “Alas! Alas!” rose from the people. Kaṃsa, whose mind was always anxious—whether eating, speaking, moving, sleeping, or breathing—had always seen before him the Lord with the discus. Now, at the end, he attained that very form, difficult to attain. But the story did not end there. Kaṃsa’s eight brothers—Kaṅka, Nyagrodhaka, and the rest—rushed forward, burning with rage, intent on avenging their brother’s death.