As the great battle was about to unfold, the gods themselves, joined by the Gandharvas, Siddhas, and Charanas—all exalted beings—gathered eagerly to witness what was to come. The greatest sages, foremost among the Brahmarshis, assembled together as well, their hearts filled with virtue and concern. They spoke among themselves, wishing for the welfare of cows, Brahmanas, and all the worlds. Their prayers rose: “May Raghava, Rama, conquer in battle these Paulastyas, these night-wandering Rakshasas!” They recalled how the wielder of the discus—Vishnu—had vanquished the foremost Asuras in battle, and, looking at one another, expressed their hope that Rama would do the same. Yet, a question lingered among them: “Fourteen thousand Rakshasas of dreadful deeds, and Rama alone, righteous and resolute—how will this battle be?” As Rama stood at the forefront of the field, blazing with energy, all beings—divine and earthly—were seized with awe and dread. His form, steadfast and tireless in mighty deeds, became incomparable, resembling Rudra himself when enraged. The gods, Gandharvas, and Charanas murmured among themselves, even as a terrifying host of Rakshasas arose, their roars deep and fearsome, clad in dreadful skins, bearing weapons and banners. The night-demons assembled all around, their warrior shouts echoing as they advanced toward one another. They drew their bows, stretching the strings again and again, yawning fiercely, while their tumultuous voices and the beating of drums resounded through the forest. The noise of the Rakshasas filled the woods, and the wild beasts, terrified by the sound, fled for safety, not daring to look back. The mighty host of Rakshasas, swift as a torrent, surged toward Rama. With weapons of every kind, deep as the ocean, they surrounded him. Rama, expert in the art of war, surveyed the advancing army of Khara. He strung his formidable bow and drew arrows from his quiver, summoning a wrath so intense it blazed like the fire at the end of an age. His anger made him hard to behold, and the forest deities themselves trembled at his radiance. Rama seemed the very image of Shiva—Pinaka-wielder—when he rose in fury to destroy Daksha’s sacrifice. The Rakshasa army, their bows, ornaments, chariots, and armor shining like fire, appeared at sunrise as a dark mass of clouds, ominous and foreboding. Then, Khara, the Rakshasa chief, arrived at the hermitage with his foremost warriors. He saw Rama, angry and ready, bow in hand, the slayer of enemies. Roaring mightily, Khara ordered his charioteer to drive straight toward Rama. At his command, the charioteer urged the horses forward to where mighty-armed Rama stood alone, his bow raised. As Khara advanced, all the night-dwelling Rakshasas—his ministers and lieutenants—surrounded him, their shouts filling the air. Khara, standing tall in his chariot among his followers, shone like the red planet Mars rising among the stars. Then, with a thousand arrows, Khara assailed Rama, roaring fiercely as the battle began. All the enraged Rakshasas, weapons in hand, showered Rama with every manner of missile. Maces, iron spears, javelins, swords, and axes rained down upon him. Great Rakshasas, massive as thunderclouds, charged at Kakutstha—Rama—on chariots and horses. Intent on his destruction, they advanced with elephants like mountain peaks and loosed volleys of arrows at Rama. Surrounded on all sides by fierce Rakshasas, Rama stood like a mountain lord enveloped by storm clouds pouring rain. As the great god is surrounded by his attendants on festival days, so was Raghava surrounded by the weapons of the Yatudhanas. Yet, Rama repelled their attacks with arrows as the ocean receives the floods of many rivers. Though his body was struck by dreadful weapons, he did not waver. Rama’s body, pierced and smeared with blood, resembled a great mountain struck by many blazing thunderbolts. He appeared like the sun veiled by evening clouds, and the gods, Gandharvas, Siddhas, and great sages watching from above grew despondent. Seeing himself alone, surrounded by thousands, Rama’s wrath flared. He readied his bow in a circular stance and released hundreds and thousands of sharp arrows—irresistible and unbearable, like the very nooses of Death. With ease, he loosed feathered arrows adorned with gold, which fell upon the enemy ranks as if in play. Like Death’s own snares, Rama’s arrows seized the lives of the Rakshasas. They pierced Rakshasa bodies, becoming drenched in blood, and then, ascending into the sky, shone with the brilliance of blazing fire. Countless were Rama’s arrows, issuing forth from his bow, fierce and deadly, taking the lives of the Rakshasas. With these, he cut down their bows, banners, shields, and armor. In the heat of battle, Rama severed by the hundreds and thousands the arms of his foes—arms adorned with bracelets and thighs as thick as elephant trunks—scattering them across the field. Thus, the battle raged, Rama standing alone against the terrible host, his valor and divine wrath shining for all the worlds to witness.