As the sun hung in the sky, a dark, blood-red ring—blazing like a fiery wheel—appeared around it, casting an ominous glow over the land. Near the raised golden banner, a massive, dreadful vulture descended and perched, its presence foreboding. In the region of Janasthāna, carnivorous beasts and birds, uttering the cries of Khara, gathered and made a cacophony of dreadful sounds. From the blazing direction, fierce and terrifying creatures—both auspicious and dreadful—let out ghastly cries, echoing those of night-dwellers. Suddenly, massive clouds, resembling split elephants and streaming blood and water, shrouded the sky so thickly that it seemed the heavens had vanished. A terrible, tumultuous darkness arose, chilling all who witnessed it and causing their hair to stand on end; the directions and intermediate quarters became indistinct, swallowed by the gloom. Twilight, robbed of its usual time, glowed with the hue of fresh blood, while dreadful beasts and birds cried out, facing Khara. Herons, jackals, and vultures gave forth ominous cries, portending evil in battle and appearing as dreadful omens. Facing Bala, a Kabandha—a monstrous figure with a mouth emitting flames and form like an iron club—was seen near the sun. The great demon Svarbhānu seized the sun in the wrong phase, the wind blew fiercely, and the sun lost its brilliance. Stars, shining like fireflies, appeared though it was not night, and lotuses with their fish and birds hidden became withered and dry. In that moment, trees lost their flowers and fruits; dust, red as clouds, was stirred up without any wind. Starlings began to cry out with ‘cīcī’ and ‘kūcī’ sounds, and dreadful meteors, resounding, fell from the sky. The earth, along with its mountains, forests, and groves, trembled as Khara, wise and terrible, roared from his chariot. Khara’s left arm quivered, his voice faltered, and tears filled his eyes as he looked around. Pain arose on his forehead, yet he did not turn back, confused by the great, hair-raising omens before him. Then, Khara laughed and addressed all the Rākṣasas, “All these great and dreadful omens have arisen. I do not worry about them; by my strength, I consider the strong and the weak alike. Even the stars I could bring down from the sky with sharp arrows. Enraged, I will bring death, in accordance with the law of mortality, upon that Rāghava, proud of his strength, and his brother Lakṣmaṇa. Without slaying them with sharp arrows, I cannot turn back; for the downfall of Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa is my purpose. This is evident before you; I do not speak falsely. Even if enraged, I could slay the king of the gods, who rides the intoxicated Airavata. He who wields the thunderbolt in battle could be slain by me—what then of those two men?” Hearing Khara’s boastful roar, the great army of the Rākṣasas felt incomparable delight, though they were bound by the noose of death. The great souls, eager to witness the battle, assembled. The seers, gods, Gandharvas, Siddhas, and Cāraṇas gathered together and spoke among themselves about the one of virtuous deeds. “May there be well-being for cows and Brāhmaṇas, and for those esteemed in the worlds. May Rāghava conquer in battle the Paulastyas, the night-roaming demons. As Viṣṇu, bearing the discus, destroyed all the foremost Asuras, so may he.” Thus, and in many other ways, the supreme seers spoke. Filled with curiosity, the gods stationed in their aerial chariots watched the army of the Rākṣasas, whose life-force was spent. Then Khara, swift as a hawk, emerged rapidly at the head of the army in his chariot; Pṛthugrīva, Yajñaśatru, Vihaṃgama, Durjaya, Karavīrākṣa, Paruṣa, Kālakārmuka, Hemamālī, Mahāmālī, Sarpāsya, and Rudhirāśana—these twelve of great valor advanced around Khara. Mahākapāla, Sthūlākṣa, Pramātha, and Triśiras—these four followed Dūṣaṇa at the rear of the army. That army, fierce and swift, eager for battle and filled with Rākṣasa heroes, suddenly confronted the two princes, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, like the sun and moon approached by garlanded planets. When Khara, mighty in valor, had departed for the hermitage, Rāma, together with his brother, beheld those same ominous portents. Seeing those terrible and dreadful omens, Rāma, deeply disturbed for the welfare of the people, spoke to Lakṣmaṇa, “Behold, O mighty-armed one, these great and destructive omens that have arisen to bring about the destruction of all the Rākṣasas. These streams of blood, resounding with harsh cries, are being poured forth; in the sky, clouds turn back, rough and the color of donkey’s blood. All my arrows, wreathed in smoke and golden-backed, move restlessly, eager for battle, O discerning one. The forest-dwelling birds are calling in strange ways; safety does not lie ahead for us, and there is doubt regarding our very lives. A tremendous battle will surely take place—of this there is no doubt; my arm, trembling again and again, foretells it to me. But, O hero, when we draw near, victory for us and defeat for the enemy are certain; for your face shines bright and clear.” Thus, the stage was set: dreadful omens, trembling earth, and the gathering of gods and heroes—all heralded the coming battle between Rāma and the night-roaming Rākṣasas.