When Śūrpaṇakhā, battered and bloodied, once more collapsed before him, her brother Khara beheld her with mounting fury. His voice rang out, clear and sharp, as he questioned her distress, for she had come seeking his protection. "I have already dispatched those heroic, flesh-eating rākṣasas for your sake," he said, "so why do you still weep? These warriors are ever loyal and devoted to me; if they are being killed, it is not for lack of obedience. Tell me, what is this calamity? Why do you writhe on the ground, crying 'Alas, protector!' like a wounded serpent?" Khara continued, "Why do you lament as if you are without a defender, when I am here? Rise, rise! Cast aside this weakness—do not let your heart fail." Thus admonished by her formidable brother, Śūrpaṇakhā, comforted for a moment, wiped the tears from her eyes and spoke to Khara. "Brother," she began, "I have come to you, my ears and nose cruelly severed, my body drenched in blood, and you have offered me comfort. You sent fourteen fierce rākṣasas, armed for battle, to destroy the dreadful Rāghava and Lakṣmaṇa for my sake. But all of them, driven by fury and wielding spears and pikes, were struck down in battle by Rāma, whose arrows never miss their mark. I saw those swift warriors fall to the earth in a single instant, and the sight of Rāma's great feat filled me with overwhelming fear." She confessed her terror, agitation, and despair to Khara, saying, "O night-wanderer, seeing danger everywhere, I have sought your refuge once more. I am submerged in a vast ocean of grief, inhabited by crocodiles of despair and waves of terror—will you not rescue me? The rākṣasas who came to my aid now lie dead, felled by Rāma's sharp arrows. If you have any compassion for me or for those fallen warriors, and if you possess the strength to oppose Rāma, then act, O night-wanderer!" Her voice rose with anguish. "Strike down this thorn among the demons who dwells in the Dandaka forest! If you do not kill Rāma, the destroyer of enemies, today, then I will abandon my life before your very eyes, shameless one. In my judgment, you are not able to face Rāma in battle. Even with your forces, you cannot stand before him in the great war; you claim to be a hero, but your valor is empty boasting. Leave Janasthāna at once with your kin, or else slay the enemy in battle—otherwise, you will bring disgrace upon our lineage. You are unable to slay those two men, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa; what kind of existence is this, lacking strength and power? Overcome by Rāma's energy, you will soon perish, for Rāma, son of Daśaratha, is endowed with immense might." Exhausted by grief, she collapsed beside her brother, striking her belly with her hands and weeping as sorrow overwhelmed her. Thus, provoked by Śūrpaṇakhā's bitter words, Khara's warrior spirit blazed forth among the assembled demons. His words, sharper than his own name, thundered with wrath: "This anger, born of your humiliation, is unmatched—it cannot be contained, like the surging sea. I do not consider Rāma powerful—a mere mortal whose end is near. Today, he will lose his life through his own deeds. Dry your tears and calm your agitation; I will send Rāma and his brother to the abode of Yama." He declared, "Today, you will drink the hot blood of Rāma, struck down by my axe as he lies helpless on the ground, O demoness." Hearing these fierce promises, Śūrpaṇakhā's heart leapt with joy; in her folly, she once more praised her brother, chief among the demons. Having been chastised and then praised by her, Khara turned to his general, Dūṣaṇa. "Fourteen thousand demons, fierce and relentless in battle, obey my command," he said. "They are dark as rain clouds, roam about harming the world, and are all fully prepared. Gather all these warriors, gentle one, and swiftly bring me my chariot, along with bows, arrows of every kind, swords, and sharp spears. I will lead from the front in the destruction of that unruly Rāma, who is skilled in battle, along with the great-souled Paulastyas." As he spoke, Dūṣaṇa ordered the preparation of a great chariot, resplendent as the sun, yoked with dappled steeds. The chariot gleamed like the peak of Mount Meru, adorned with refined gold, golden wheels, and a yoke set with cat's-eye gems. Its surface was covered with images of fish, flowers, trees, mountains, golden moons and suns, auspicious birds in flocks, and stars. Banners and swords hung from it, bells chimed, and it was always drawn by the finest horses. In his anger, Khara mounted this magnificent chariot. Beholding his vast army, bristling with chariots, armor, weapons, and banners, Khara called out to all the rākṣasas, ordering Dūṣaṇa, "Set out!" Then that rākṣasa army, terrifying in their armor and weaponry, departed from Janasthāna with a thunderous roar, moving swiftly to battle. They brandished clubs, spears, tridents, razor-sharp axes, swords, and spinning wheels—glittering with maces and javelins—marching to confront the mighty Rāma.