As Khara prepared for battle, a series of grim and wondrous omens began to manifest. A great vulture of fearsome size and dreadful aspect swooped down and perched upon the raised golden banner, casting a shadow that seemed to chill the air. Near Janasthāna, the cries of carnivorous beasts and birds echoed with the voices of Khara himself, filling the forest with eerie and menacing sounds. From the blazing quarter of the sky, fierce and terrifying creatures—at once auspicious and dreadful—howled the ghastly cries of those who dwell in the night. Massive clouds, dark as split elephants and streaked with streams of blood and water, blotted out the heavens, leaving the sky hidden from view. A terrible, tumultuous darkness arose, so profound that it made the hair stand on end; the directions and even the quarters between them were obscured, swallowed by gloom. Twilight appeared without the proper time of day, glowing with the hue of fresh blood. Dreadful beasts and birds cried out, their voices turned toward Khara. Herons, jackals, and vultures uttered ominous cries, portending evil in the coming battle, their presence a dire sign. In the sky, a Kabandha—a monstrous, headless trunk with a flaming mouth, iron-club-like in form—was seen near the sun, facing Bala. At that moment, the mighty demon Svarbhānu seized the sun out of its proper phase. The wind howled fiercely, and the sun lost its brilliance, casting a pall over the land. Stars, shining like fireflies, appeared though it was not night, and the lotuses, their fish and birds hidden, withered and dried up. Trees lost their flowers and fruits, and red dust, as thick as clouds, swirled without any wind to stir it. The starlings began to cry out with strange 'cīcī' and 'kūcī' sounds, and dreadful meteors streaked down from the heavens with thunderous noise. The earth itself trembled, along with its mountains, forests, and groves, as Khara, wise in his own might, roared from his chariot. Yet, as he looked about, his left arm quivered, his voice faltered, and tears welled up in his eyes. Pain throbbed on his forehead, but confusion did not cause him to turn back; instead, he beheld these great, hair-raising omens with grim resolve. Then Khara laughed and addressed all the Rākṣasas, saying, “Behold, all these great and dreadful omens have arisen. Yet I do not fear them; by my strength, I count the strong and the weak as the same. Even the stars in the sky I could bring down with my sharp arrows. Driven by rage, I will bring death, as fate decrees, upon Rāghava—who boasts of his strength—and his brother Lakṣmaṇa. I cannot return without slaying them with my arrows; their destruction is my purpose. This is plain before you all, and I do not speak falsely. Even if the king of the gods, mounted on his intoxicated Airāvata, were to face me in anger, I could slay him. If I can slay Indra, wielder of the thunderbolt, what are these two mere men to me?” Hearing Khara’s thunderous boast, the army of the Rākṣasas rejoiced with wild delight, even though the noose of death was already tightening around them. Great souls, eager to witness the coming conflict, assembled from all quarters. The seers, gods, Gandharvas, Siddhas, and Cāraṇas gathered together, speaking among themselves about Rāma, the one of virtuous deeds: “May there be well-being for cows and Brāhmaṇas, and for all those esteemed in the worlds. May Rāghava conquer in battle the Paulastyas, the night-roaming demons, just as Viṣṇu, bearing the discus, destroyed the foremost of the Asuras.” Thus, and in many such ways, the supreme seers spoke their hopes. Filled with curiosity, the gods, stationed in their aerial chariots, gazed down upon the army of Rākṣasas, whose life-force was already spent. Then Khara, swift as a hawk, surged forward at the head of his army in his chariot. Around him advanced twelve mighty warriors: Pṛthugrīva, Yajñaśatru, Vihaṃgama, Durjaya, Karavīrākṣa, Paruṣa, Kālakārmuka, Hemamālī, Mahāmālī, Sarpāsya, and Rudhirāśana. Four others—Mahākapāla, Sthūlākṣa, Pramātha, and Triśiras—followed Dūṣaṇa at the rear of the army. That army, fierce and swift, eager for battle and filled with Rākṣasa heroes, surged forward to confront the two princes—Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa—like the sun and moon beset by garlanded planets. Now begins the twenty-fourth sarga. When Khara, mighty in valor, had set out for the hermitage, Rāma and his brother Lakṣmaṇa beheld these same ominous portents. Seeing the terrible and dreadful omens, Rāma, his heart troubled 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. Streams of blood, echoing with harsh cries, pour forth; in the sky, rough clouds the color of donkey’s blood swirl and turn back. All my arrows, wreathed in smoke and golden-backed, move restlessly, eager for battle, O discerning one. The birds of the forest call out in strange ways; there is no safety ahead for us, and even our lives are in doubt. Surely a tremendous battle will soon take place—of this I have no doubt, for my arm trembles again and again, foretelling it. Yet, O hero, when we draw near, victory for us and defeat for the enemy are certain, for your face shines bright and clear. For those about to fight, O Lakṣmaṇa, when their faces lose their luster, it is a sign that their life is nearing its end.” Thus, amid dire omens and the gathering forces of darkness and fate, the stage was set for the great and fateful battle between Rāma and the Rākṣasas.