The battle raged fiercely as warriors, skilled in the use of weapons, stood upon horses, elephants, and chariots, unleashing torrents of arrows. The sky seemed to darken with the onslaught, as if clouds were pouring rain upon the mountains. In the midst of this chaos, Rukmiṇī, slender-waisted and full of grace, saw her husband’s army overwhelmed by the deluge of arrows. Fearful and bashful, her eyes wide, she looked anxiously at Kṛṣṇa’s face. Kṛṣṇa, seeing her distress, smiled gently and reassured her: “Do not fear, O lotus-eyed one. This hostile force arrayed against you shall now be destroyed by your own kin.” Unable to tolerate the enemy’s valor, Gada, Saṅkarṣaṇa, and the other Yadu heroes responded. With iron-tipped arrows, they struck down the horses, elephants, and chariots of their foes. Heads of charioteers, horsemen, and elephant riders—adorned with earrings, crowns, and turbans—fell to the earth by the thousands. Severed arms clutching swords, maces, and bows, along with the bodies of elephants, thighs, feet, horses, mules, camels, oxen, donkeys, and men’s heads, littered the battlefield. As the Vṛṣṇis pressed their advantage, seeking victory, the kings—led by Jarāsandha—saw their forces decimated. They turned away, retreating from the field. Approaching Śiśupāla, who resembled a man bereft of his wife, his brilliance faded, enthusiasm gone, and mouth parched with sorrow, they spoke consoling words. “O best of men,” they said, “cast off this grief! Among all living beings, no one experiences unending happiness or distress. Just as a wooden puppet woman dances at the will of the magician, so too does one, under the Lord’s control, act in both joy and sorrow. For seventeen days I was defeated by Śauri in battle, but on the eighteenth, with twenty-three armies, I prevailed. Still, I neither grieve nor rejoice, for I know the world is driven by time and destiny. Even now, all of us, chiefs of mighty warriors, have been defeated by the Yadus, protected by Kṛṣṇa’s clever strategies. Now our enemies have triumphed, for time follows its own course; when time favors us, we shall be victorious.” Śuka continued: Thus comforted by his friends, the king of Cedi departed for his city with his followers, and the other surviving kings returned each to their own lands. But Rukmī, unable to bear that his sister had been married by force to Kṛṣṇa and burning with hatred, pursued Kṛṣṇa, leading his army in pursuit. Enraged and agitated, Rukmī made a solemn vow before all the assembled kings, his great arms trembling as he gripped his bow: “Unless I kill Kṛṣṇa in battle and win back Rukmiṇī, I will not enter Kuṇḍina again. This I swear to you truly.” With these words, he swiftly mounted his chariot and commanded his charioteer, “Drive the horses! Let me face Kṛṣṇa in battle!” Boasting, he declared, “Today, with sharp arrows, I will humble the pride of that wicked cowherd who has stolen my sister.” Ignorant of the Lord’s greatness, Rukmī challenged Govinda, calling out, “Stop! Stop!” as he approached with his single chariot. Drawing his strong bow, he struck Kṛṣṇa with three arrows and taunted, “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!” Kṛṣṇa, smiling, broke Rukmī’s bow and pierced him with six arrows. With eight more, he struck the four horses, with two he wounded the charioteer, and with three he cut down Rukmī’s banner. Rukmī, undeterred, seized another bow and wounded Kṛṣṇa with five arrows. But Achyuta, assailed by this shower of arrows, cut that bow to pieces as well. Each weapon Rukmī took up—mace, spear, trident, shield and sword, javelin, or tomara—Hari shattered them all. Desperate, Rukmī leapt from his chariot, sword in hand, intent on killing Kṛṣṇa, rushing at him in anger like a moth drawn to a flame. But as he charged, Kṛṣṇa shattered his sword and shield with arrows. Then, drawing his own sharp sword, Kṛṣṇa prepared to slay Rukmī. At that moment, Rukmiṇī, overcome with fear at the sight of her husband about to kill her brother, fell at Kṛṣṇa’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 was dried with grief, her throat choked, and her golden necklace slipped in her anxiety as she clasped his feet. Moved by her compassion, Kṛṣṇa desisted from killing Rukmī. Instead, he bound the wicked Rukmī with a cloth and, shaving off his hair and beard, disfigured him. Meanwhile, the Yadu heroes routed the enemy army like elephants trampling a lotus pond. When the Yadus approached Kṛṣṇa, they saw Rukmī in this pitiful state, nearly dead. Seeing him bound, the compassionate Lord Saṅkarṣaṇa released him and spoke to Kṛṣṇa: “What you have done, Kṛṣṇa, is improper and shameful for us—shaving off the hair and beard, disfiguring, or killing a friend. Let not this virtuous lady blame us for her brother’s disfigurement; for no one else gives happiness or sorrow—each person reaps the fruits of their own actions. Even though killing a relative is a great sin, one should not slay a kinsman; if he is ruined by his own fault, what is the point in 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. Your judgment toward all beings is harsh, O Kṛṣṇa, especially toward those with wicked hearts; for you always consider what is good for friends as good for all, as if they were ignorant.” Thus, the drama of battle, love, and destiny unfolded under the watchful gaze of the Lord.