Now that their enemies had prevailed, the kings consoled one another, saying, “Time runs its own course—today fortune favors them, but when time turns, we shall be victorious.” With these words, the king of Cedi, comforted by his companions, departed for his own city with his followers. The other surviving kings, too, returned to their respective realms. But Rukmī, unable to bear that his sister Rukmiṇī had been carried away by Kṛṣṇa in the manner of a Rākṣasa marriage, burned with hatred for Kṛṣṇa. Consumed by anger and surrounded by his army, he pursued Kṛṣṇa. In the hearing of all the assembled kings, Rukmī, his great arms trembling and bow in hand, made a fierce vow. “I swear to you all: unless I slay Kṛṣṇa in battle and reclaim my sister, I shall never again enter Kuṇḍina!” Having spoken thus, he mounted his chariot and urged his charioteer, “Drive the horses! Take me to face Kṛṣṇa in battle!” Boasting in his wrath, Rukmī declared, “Today, with sharp arrows, I will humble the pride of that wicked cowherd who has stolen my sister!” Ignorant of the Lord’s true greatness, he challenged Govinda, calling out as he approached on his single chariot, “Stop! Stop!” Rukmī strung his mighty bow and struck Kṛṣṇa with three swift arrows, taunting, “Wait a moment, O disgrace of the Yadus! Where are you going, having stolen my sister like a jackal snatching sacrificial offerings? Today I will break your pride, O deceitful fighter! Do not release the maiden until you have struck me down with your arrows!” But Kṛṣṇa only smiled. With ease, he broke Rukmī’s bow and pierced him with six sharp arrows. With eight more he struck Rukmī’s four horses, with two he wounded the charioteer, and with three he cut down the banner. Undaunted, Rukmī seized another bow and wounded Kṛṣṇa with five arrows. Assailed by this shower, Kṛṣṇa—Achyuta—again cut Rukmī’s bow to pieces. Rukmī took up weapon after weapon—mace, spear, trident, shield and sword, javelin, and tomara—but Hari shattered each one to fragments. Enraged, Rukmī leapt from his chariot, sword in hand, intent on slaying Kṛṣṇa, like a moth rushing into a flame. As Rukmī charged, Kṛṣṇa broke his sword and shield with arrows. Then, drawing his own sharp sword, Kṛṣṇa prepared to strike Rukmī down. Seeing her husband about to kill her brother, Rukmiṇī was overwhelmed with fear. She fell at Kṛṣṇa’s feet, her voice choked with distress. “O Lord of yoga, immeasurable one, God of gods, Lord of the world! Do not kill my brother, O mighty-armed one who brings good!” Her body trembled with fear, her face dried with grief, her throat choked, her golden necklace slipping in her anxiety. Clasping his feet, she pleaded. Moved by her compassion, Kṛṣṇa desisted. Instead, he bound Rukmī with a cloth and, as a mark of disgrace, shaved off his hair and beard, disfiguring him. Meanwhile, the Yadu heroes routed the remaining enemy army as elephants trample a lotus pond. Soon, the Yadus approached Kṛṣṇa and saw Rukmī in this state—bound and nearly dead. Lord Sankarṣaṇa, moved by compassion, 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 because of her brother’s humiliation; for happiness and sorrow come to each according to their own actions. Even though killing a relative is a great sin, one should not slay a kinsman; if he is already ruined by his own fault, what is the point of killing him again?” He continued, “This is the law for kṣatriyas, set 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, toward those with wicked hearts; for you always consider what is good for friends as good for all, as if they were ignorant. Delusion arises among men by the divine power of Māyā; those who identify with the body see some as friends, some as enemies, and some as neutral. But in truth, there is only one supreme Self for all embodied beings—it is not manifold, though the deluded see it as such, just as light or the sky appears divided.” He explained further, “This body, having a beginning and an end, is composed of matter, life-force, and qualities; fashioned by ignorance upon the Self, it causes the embodied one to wander in worldly existence. For the true Self, there is neither union nor separation with another, whether existent or non-existent; such notions arise from their apparent connection, like the sun and the forms it illuminates. Birth and other transformations belong to the body, never to the Self, just as the phases of the moon do not affect the moon itself, nor does an eclipse truly harm it. Just as one experiences oneself and objects in dreams, enjoying their results though they are unreal, so too does the unwise person enter worldly existence, mistaking the unreal for real. Therefore, dispel the sorrow born of ignorance, which dries up and confuses the Self, by true knowledge—be established in your own nature, O pure-smiling one.” Thus instructed by the Lord, the slender-waisted Rukmiṇī abandoned her distress and composed her mind with understanding. Rukmī, his life-breath nearly spent, his strength and brilliance destroyed by the two Lords, remembered his disfigured form and his vain ambitions. He established a great city named Bhojakaṭa for his residence, refusing to attack Kṛṣṇa again or hinder his younger sister. True to his vow, “I will not enter Kuṇḍina,” he remained there in anger, defeated by the Lord and by Rukmiṇī, daughter of Bhīṣmaka, along with the other kings. Kṛṣṇa brought Rukmiṇī to his city, performing all the proper rites. In every house of the Yadu city, a great festival arose among those devoted to Kṛṣṇa, Lord of the Yadus. Men and women, delighted and adorned with shining jeweled earrings, brought splendid gifts for the newly wedded couple, both radiant in their finery.