At Khara’s command, his charioteer urged the horses forward, driving them swiftly to the place where Rama, mighty of arm, stood alone, his bow at the ready. As Khara advanced, all the night-dwelling Rakshasas—his ministers and followers—surged around him, filling the air with a tumultuous roar. Amidst this fierce assembly, Khara, standing tall in his chariot, appeared like the fiery red planet Mars rising amidst a host of stars. With a thunderous battle cry, Khara unleashed a rain of a thousand arrows upon Rama, whose strength was unmatched. The enraged Rakshasas, determined to overwhelm their lone adversary, showered Rama with a barrage of weapons—maces, iron spears, javelins, swords, and axes flew through the air, striking at him from all sides. Huge and powerful, the Rakshasas charged at Rama, some on chariots and horses, masses of dark forms like storm clouds rolling across the battlefield. Others, mounted on elephants as formidable as mountain peaks, pressed forward, releasing volleys of arrows meant to bring Rama down. Surrounded on all sides by these fearsome beings, Rama stood like a mountain king enveloped by thunderous, rain-laden clouds. Yet, just as the great god is attended by hosts on festival days, so too did Rama receive the onslaught of weapons hurled by the Rakshasas. With unwavering composure, he repelled them with his own arrows, as the ocean receives the rushing waters of many rivers. Though his body was struck and smeared with blood from the dreadful weapons, Rama did not falter. He stood, pierced and bloodied, resembling a mighty mountain struck by flaming thunderbolts. In that moment, Rama seemed like the sun veiled by evening clouds, and the gods, Gandharvas, Siddhas, and great sages who watched from above were filled with despair at the sight of him alone, encircled by thousands of foes. But Rama, seeing himself so surrounded, was seized by righteous fury. He readied his bow and, standing firm in a circular stance, began to release arrows—sharp, swift, and countless—by the hundreds and thousands, each as inescapable as the noose of Death. With effortless skill, Rama loosed feathered arrows adorned with gold, letting them fly playfully into the enemy ranks. As these arrows struck, they claimed the lives of the Rakshasas, piercing their bodies and becoming drenched in blood. Some arrows soared upwards, blazing like fire in the sky, while others poured forth in unending streams from Rama’s bow, fierce and deadly, cutting down bows, banners, shields, and armor. In the chaos, Rama severed arms adorned with bracelets and thighs as thick as elephant trunks by the hundreds and thousands. Horses with golden harnesses, charioteers, elephants with their riders, and cavalrymen fell before him. The arrows, released with divine precision, shattered their ranks, sending the foot soldiers to the abode of Yama, the god of death. The Rakshasa army, struck by arrows that found their vital points, found no comfort from Rama, just as a dry forest finds no relief from a raging fire. Some of the Rakshasas, still fierce and heroic, hurled spears, lances, and axes at Rama in their wrath. But Rama, great-armed and valiant, blocked their weapons with his arrows, severing heads and necks, taking their lives in the heat of battle. All around, the fallen Rakshasas, with severed heads, shattered shields, and broken bows, lay scattered like uprooted trees tossed by the wind. Those who survived, wounded and demoralized, fled to Khara, seeking his protection. At that moment, Dūṣaṇa, rallying the battered Rakshasas, seized his bow and charged forward in a fury that seemed like Death itself unleashed. Encouraged and emboldened by Dūṣaṇa’s presence, the Rakshasas turned back to face Rama, brandishing sala and tāla trees and hurling stones as weapons. With spears, maces, and ropes in hand, the Rakshasas unleashed fresh showers of arrows and weapons, hurling trees and stones in a battle that grew ever more tumultuous and fearsome. Once again, they attacked Rama from all sides, and the conflict became exceedingly terrible. Rama, seeing all directions filled and the regions around him crowded with Rakshasas and darkened by showers of arrows, responded with might. With a terrifying sound, he invoked the radiant Gandharva missile. From the curve of his bow, thousands of arrows sprang forth, filling all ten directions as they converged upon the enemy. The Rakshasas, struck by these arrows, beheld Rama drawing, releasing, and wielding shafts of dreadful power. The sky grew dark with arrows, obscuring even the sun, as Rama stood, a tireless source of destruction. All at once, many Rakshasas fell, slain or wounded, and the earth became strewn with their bodies. Everywhere lay the fallen—slain, exhausted, severed, shattered, and torn apart—Rakshasas in their thousands. The field was covered with turbans and heads, arms adorned with bracelets, thighs, and limbs, all severed and decked with various ornaments, lying in many forms across the battlefield, a testament to Rama’s unmatched valor and divine wrath.