As Śūrpaṇakhā poured out her grievances, her brother Khara was seized by furious anger. Without hesitation, he summoned fourteen powerful rākṣasas, fierce as the fires of destruction, and issued his command. “Two men,” he said, “armed and clad in bark and black antelope skin, have entered the dreadful Daṇḍaka forest with a woman. Slay those two and that wicked woman, and return. Let my sister drink their blood for me. This is her desire—fulfill it swiftly and overpower them with your might. When you have killed the two brothers, she will rejoice and drink their blood in the heat of battle.” Obeying Khara’s furious command, the fourteen rākṣasas set out with Śūrpaṇakhā, moving like storm clouds driven by the wind. Soon, Śūrpaṇakhā arrived at the hermitage of Rāma, and she reported to the assembled rākṣasas all about the two brothers and Sītā. As the demons approached, they saw Rāma, radiant and strong, seated in his leafy hut, attended by Sītā and Lakṣmaṇa. Rāma, seeing Śūrpaṇakhā and the rākṣasas arrive, spoke to his brother with calm resolve, his energy blazing. “Saumitri, stay close to Sītā for a moment. I will deal with those who have come upon this path.” Lakṣmaṇa, ever obedient, honored Rāma’s words and replied, “So be it.” Rāma, righteous and steadfast, took up his great golden bow, strung it, and addressed the advancing demons: “We are the sons of Daśaratha, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, who have entered the wild Daṇḍaka forest with Sītā. Living on fruits and roots, practicing discipline and celibacy, what harm have we done you? Armed with bow and arrows, I have come by the sages’ command to destroy you evil-hearted ones who commit atrocities. Remain here if you wish, but do not attack us. If you value your lives, depart, O night-dwellers.” The fourteen rākṣasas, murderers of Brahmins, heard his words and were enraged. With bloodshot eyes, they stared at Rāma, their own eyes burning red. They spoke with mocking sweetness, delighted by his courage: “You have provoked the wrath of our mighty lord Khara. Alone, you will lose your life at our hands this very moment. What power do you have, standing alone before many in battle? With our clubs, spears, and pikes, we will destroy you, your strength, and your bow.” With these words, the fourteen rākṣasas, weapons raised, charged straight at Rāma. All at once, they hurled their spears at the unconquerable Rāghava. But Rāma, swift and mighty, cut down every spear with arrows adorned in gold. Then, his anger blazing, he seized fourteen stone-tipped nārāca arrows, shining like the sun, drew his bow, and took aim. In a single, furious moment, the arrows flew. The rākṣasas fell to the ground like serpents struck from their anthills, their hearts shattered, lifeless as trees with their roots cut. Bathed in blood, their bodies twisted and broken, they lay still on the earth. Śūrpaṇakhā, seeing her allies destroyed, was seized by rage and grief. Blood drying on her wounds, she fled from the scene, only to collapse again in despair, like a vine drained of sap. Tormented by sorrow, she cried out near her brother Khara, her face pale and tears streaming as she trembled with grief. Seeing the devastation wrought upon the rākṣasas, Śūrpaṇakhā, her spirit broken, told Khara everything—how the demons had been slaughtered, how all her hopes were dashed. Khara, beholding his sister fallen and distraught, spoke to her in clear, steady words. “Why do you weep again, Śūrpaṇakhā? I sent those heroic, flesh-eating rākṣasas for your sake. They are always loyal and devoted to me; they would never fail to obey my command. What has happened? Why do you cry out for protection and writhe in such sorrow? Why do you lament as if you have no protector, when I am here? Rise, cast off this weakness.” Comforted by Khara’s words, Śūrpaṇakhā wiped her tears and spoke, her voice trembling. “Brother, I have come to you with my ears and nose cut off, drenched in blood, and you have comforted me.