As the opposing forces advanced, the chiefs of the Yādava army stood firmly before them, O King, their bows drawn and vibrating with the sound of arrows being released. Expert in the art of weapons, these warriors—mounted upon horses, elephants, and chariots—unleashed volleys of arrows, as if rain-laden clouds were showering upon mountains. Witnessing her husband’s army engulfed by a torrent of arrows, the slender-waisted maiden, Rukmiṇī, gazed anxiously at Krishna’s face, her eyes shy and fearful. Krishna, seeing her distress, smiled gently and reassured her: “Do not fear, O lotus-eyed one. This hostile force will now be destroyed by your own kin.” Unable to bear the enemy’s valor, Gada, Saṅkarṣaṇa, and the other heroes struck the opposing horses, elephants, and chariots with iron arrows. The heads of charioteers, horsemen, and elephant riders—adorned with earrings, crowns, and turbans—fell to the earth by the thousands. Arms wielding swords, maces, and bows, along with elephants, thighs, feet, horses, mules, camels, oxen, donkeys, and the heads of men—all lay scattered on the battlefield. As their forces were decimated by the victorious Vṛṣṇis, the kings, led by Jarāsandha, turned and departed. Approaching Śiśupāla—who appeared like a man bereft after his wife had been taken, his brilliance dimmed, his fervor gone, and his mouth parched—the kings spoke consoling words. “O best of men, cast off this sorrow! Among embodied beings, O king, none experience lasting happiness or distress. Just as a wooden puppet woman dances at the magician’s will, so too, one under the Lord’s control acts in happiness and sorrow. For seventeen days I was defeated in battle by Śauri, but on the eighteenth day, with twenty-three armies, I gained victory over him. Still, I neither grieve nor rejoice at any time, knowing that the world is driven by time joined with destiny. Even now, all of us, chiefs of mighty warriors, have been defeated by the Yadus, protected by Krishna, through their clever strategies. Our enemies have prevailed, for time follows its own course; when time turns in our favor, then we shall be victorious.” Śuka continued: Thus consoled by his friends, the king of Cedi departed for his city with his followers, and the surviving kings returned to their own realms. But Rukmī, unable to bear his sister’s marriage by force to Krishna—a Rākṣasa in his eyes—and burning with hatred, followed Krishna, powerful and surrounded by his army. Enraged and agitated, Rukmī made a vow before all the kings, his arms trembling and bow in hand: “Unless I kill Krishna in battle and recover Rukmiṇī, I will not enter Kuṇḍina. This I declare to you truly.” With these words, he swiftly mounted his chariot and commanded his charioteer, “Drive the horses! Let me face Krishna in battle! Today, with sharp arrows, I will humble the pride of that wicked cowherd who has forcibly taken my sister.” Boasting thus, ignorant of the Lord’s greatness, Rukmī challenged Govinda, shouting, “Stop! Stop!” as he approached with his single chariot. Drawing his strong bow, he struck Krishna with three arrows and cried, “Wait a moment, O disgrace of the Yadu clan! Where are you going, having stolen my sister like a jackal snatching sacrificial offerings? Today I will break your pride, O deceitful, treacherous fighter! Until you have struck me down with your arrows and made me fall, release the maiden!” Smiling, Krishna broke Rukmī’s bow and pierced him with six arrows. With eight arrows, Krishna struck the four horses; with two, he hit the charioteer; with three, he shattered the banner. Rukmī, undeterred, took up another bow and wounded Krishna with five arrows. Assailed by these showers of arrows, Achyuta cut Rukmī’s bow to pieces; again Rukmī took up another, but the imperishable Lord destroyed that too. Whatever weapon Rukmī seized—mace, spear, trident, shield and sword, javelin, or tomara—Hari cut them all to pieces. Then, leaping down from his chariot, sword in hand and intent on killing, Rukmī rushed at Krishna in anger, like a moth drawn to a flame. As he charged, Krishna shattered his sword and shield into fragments with arrows. Drawing his own sharp sword, Krishna prepared to slay Rukmī. Seeing her husband about to kill her brother, Rukmiṇī, overwhelmed with fear, fell at Krishna’s feet and spoke in distress: “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, Lord of the world, you should not kill my brother, O mighty-armed, bringer of good.” Her body trembled with fear, her face parched by grief, her throat choked, and her golden necklace slipped in her anxiety as she clasped Krishna’s feet. Moved by compassion, Krishna desisted. Instead, he bound the wicked Rukmī with a cloth and shaved off his hair and beard, disfiguring him. Meanwhile, the Yadu heroes routed the enemy army like elephants trampling a lotus pond. When they approached Krishna, they saw Rukmī in that condition, nearly dead. Seeing him bound, the compassionate Lord Saṅkarṣaṇa released him and spoke to Krishna: “What you have done, Krishna, is improper and shameful for us—shaving off the hair and beard, disfiguring, or killing a friend. Let not this virtuous lady blame us out of concern for her brother’s disfigurement; for no one else gives happiness or sorrow—each person reaps the fruits of their own actions. Even though the killing of a relative is a great sin, one should not slay a kinsman; if he is ruined by his own fault, what is the point of killing him again? This is the law for kṣatriyas, established by the Lord of creatures: even a brother may kill his brother, and nothing is more terrible than this. For the sake of kingdom, land, wealth, women, pride, or power, blinded by arrogance, they destroy others—even their own kin.” Thus unfolded the events, filled with valor, fury, and compassion, as Krishna and his companions upheld their dharma amidst the tumult of battle and familial strife.