Indrajit, filled with wrath and his anger doubled, unleashed a hundred well-aimed arrows that struck Vibhīṣaṇa with tremendous force. Witnessing this act, Lakṣmaṇa, the mighty younger brother of Rāma, was undaunted. He laughed off Indrajit’s assault, disregarding the pain, and addressed Rāvaṇa’s son with fearless words. With his face set in resolute fury, Lakṣmaṇa gathered a host of fierce arrows and launched them at Indrajit, his aim unwavering in the heat of battle. “O night-wanderer,” Lakṣmaṇa declared, “true warriors do not fight as you do. Your arrows are light and weak, easy for me to withstand. Heroes do not enter combat in such a manner, eager for battle yet lacking the spirit of true fighters.” With these words, Lakṣmaṇa, the great bowman, rained arrows upon Indrajit. The golden armor adorning Indrajit was shattered by Lakṣmaṇa’s onslaught, its fragments cascading onto the chariot floor like a net of stars scattered from the sky. Shaking off what remained of his armor, Indrajit, though wounded, stood tall and radiant in the midst of battle, like the sun rising at dawn. Enraged, Indrajit retaliated, piercing Lakṣmaṇa with a thousand arrows, his valor striking terror into his foes. The divine armor protecting Lakṣmaṇa was destroyed beneath this storm of missiles. Thus, the two great warriors—each a subduer of enemies—stood facing one another, both having dealt and received mighty blows. They fought on, their breath heavy, their bodies slashed and bleeding from countless wounds, each refusing to yield. For a long time, these masters of warfare exchanged sharp arrows, each striving relentlessly for victory. Their armor and banners were shredded, and warm blood flowed from their wounds as if two springs had burst forth. As they released their arrows in a thunderous deluge, the sounds echoed like the clash of storm clouds pouring rain in the sky. Time stretched on as the two champions fought, neither retreating nor succumbing to fatigue. Both, supreme in their mastery of weapons, displayed their skill by weaving missiles of many forms through the air. Man and rākṣasa alike, free from error and swift in movement, performed a fierce and tumultuous contest, remarkable in its intensity and skill. From each came the terrible sound of striking palms, a noise that shook the hearts of onlookers like the crash of thunder. Their roars at one another rang out like the ominous rumbling of storm clouds. Renowned for their might and steadfast in their pursuit of victory, both warriors streamed blood from wounds inflicted by golden-shafted arrows. These arrows, their golden feathers stained with blood, slipped from their bodies and fell to the earth. In the air, other sharp weapons clashed, thousands of arrows shattering and being cut apart. The battlefield became dreadful, a veritable heap of arrows lying between the two fighters, like a pile of sacred kuśa grass set between two blazing sacrificial fires. The bodies of Lakṣmaṇa and Indrajit, wounded and bloodied, shone like two blossoming trees—the kimshuka and the shalmali—stripped of leaves in the forest. Again and again, Indrajit and Lakṣmaṇa engaged in fierce, tumultuous combat, each seeking the other’s defeat. Lakṣmaṇa struck Rāvaṇa’s son, and Indrajit struck Lakṣmaṇa; blow answered blow, yet neither tired nor relented. Their bodies, pierced and covered by showers of arrows, resembled mountains overgrown with creepers, their limbs blazing like burning fires. Though a great length of time passed as they fought, neither turned away nor flagged in spirit. Then, seeing undefeated Lakṣmaṇa’s weariness in the midst of combat, the noble Vibhīṣaṇa, ever concerned for his dear one’s welfare, entered the fray to offer support and stood firm by Lakṣmaṇa’s side. Now begins the eighty-ninth sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Yuddha Kāṇḍa. Seeing the man and the rākṣasa locked in relentless combat, like two maddened elephants battling for supremacy, Vibhīṣaṇa, the valiant brother of Rāvaṇa, yearned to witness their struggle. Armed with his splendid bow, he placed himself at the forefront of the conflict. Standing resolute, Vibhīṣaṇa drew his great bow and loosed sharp-tipped, mighty arrows at the rākṣasas. These arrows, as keen as peacock feathers, struck their targets with deadly precision, scattering the rākṣasas like thunderbolts shattering great mountains. Vibhīṣaṇa’s attendants, skilled in wielding spears, swords, and lances, joined the fray, felling the foremost among the rākṣasas with their weapons. Surrounded by these warriors, Vibhīṣaṇa shone in their midst like a mighty elephant among bold young tuskers. Urging on the monkeys, who delighted in slaying rākṣasas, Vibhīṣaṇa, wise and noble among his kind, spoke timely words to inspire them: “This one alone stands as the last refuge of the rākṣasa king; this is all that remains of his army. Why do you hesitate, O lords of the monkeys? When this wicked rākṣasa is slain here on the battlefield, then, except for Rāvaṇa, the rest of his force will be destroyed. The valiant Prahasta has already fallen, as have the mighty Nikumbha, Kumbhakarṇa, Kumbha, and Dhumrākṣa, the night-stalker.” Thus, the battle raged on, with the fate of the rākṣasas hanging in the balance and the warriors of both sides displaying their courage and might.