Rāma stood firm upon the battlefield, his bow blazing with power. With shafts swift as thought, he struck down the horses adorned in golden harnesses, yoked to their chariots, along with their charioteers. His arrows did not spare the elephants and their riders, nor the cavalrymen who thundered across the field. Each arrow, loosed from his mighty bow, shattered and broke the ranks of the enemy, felling foot soldiers in great numbers and sending them to the abode of Yama, the god of death. The rākṣasa army, pierced in their vital points by Rāma’s many arrows, found no relief, just as a parched forest finds no comfort from a raging fire. Yet, some among the night-dwellers, mighty and heroic, were seized by furious rage. They hurled spears, lances, and axes at Rāma, hoping to overcome him. But Rāma, great-armed and valiant, met their weapons with a rain of arrows, blocking every assault. In that fierce contest, he took their lives, severing heads and necks with unerring aim. The battlefield became a dreadful sight. Warriors with severed heads, broken shields, and shattered bows fell to the earth, scattered like trees toppled by a mighty wind. The survivors, wounded by arrows and hearts heavy with fear, fled toward Khara, seeking his protection from the wrath of Rāma. But Dūṣaṇa, mighty-armed and fierce, took up his bow and rallied the rākṣasas. With words of encouragement, he charged forward in a fury, like Death itself unleashed. Emboldened by his presence, the rākṣasas regained their courage. They turned back, rushing at Rāma with sala and tāla trees torn from the earth, and stones gripped as weapons. With spears and maces, ropes and arrows, those of great strength unleashed a storm of weaponry upon him. The rākṣasas hurled showers of trees and stones, making the battle wondrous, tumultuous, and terrifying to behold. Once again, they attacked Rāma from all sides, and the struggle grew exceedingly dreadful. Rāma looked out and saw all directions filled with rākṣasas, their numbers vast, the sky darkened by showers of arrows. Then, Rāma, mighty and resolute, let forth a terrifying sound and invoked the radiant Gandharva missile. From his bow’s curve, thousands of arrows sprang forth, filling all ten directions, converging upon the enemy. The rākṣasas, struck by this unending rain, beheld Rāma as he drew, released, and wielded dreadful arrows, each shaft a messenger of death. The sky itself grew dark with arrows, even as the sun shone above. Rāma stood amidst the storm, his form radiant, casting arrows unceasingly. On the earth, the slain fell in heaps—many at once, many together, many scattered far and wide. Everywhere, the ground was strewn with the bodies of rākṣasas: slain, fallen, exhausted, limbs severed and broken, torn apart in thousands. Turbans and heads, arms with bracelets, thighs and limbs adorned with ornaments lay about in myriad forms. Horses, noble elephants, and shattered chariots littered the field, their yak-tail fans, parasols, and banners cast aside. Rāma’s arrows struck down all, severing spears and pikes, breaking swords, scattering javelins and axes. Rocks were crushed to powder, and remarkable arrows lay everywhere, making the earth vast and terrible, covered with the remnants of battle. Seeing their comrades slain, the rākṣasas were overcome with distress. None dared move against Rāma, the conqueror of enemy cities. Now, as the next chapter of the battle began, Dūṣaṇa beheld his army’s destruction. Resolute, the mighty-armed commander issued commands to his fiercest warriors. He summoned five thousand rākṣasas, steadfast in battle, who charged at Rāma with spears, pikes, swords, and a deluge of rocks and trees. From all sides, they rained an unbroken shower of arrows and weapons upon him. Rāghava, righteous-souled, received that storm with sharp arrows of his own, standing firm like a bull closing its eyes against a tempest. Anger surged within Rāma for the devastation wrought among the rākṣasas. His wrath blazed forth, and he covered the army, along with Dūṣaṇa, in a relentless rain of arrows. Dūṣaṇa, destroyer of foes, met Rāma’s assault with arrows like thunderbolts, blocking his advance. But Rāma, his anger now fierce, took up a razor-headed arrow and cut down Dūṣaṇa’s great bow in a single stroke. With four more arrows, he struck down the four horses of Dūṣaṇa’s chariot. Sharp arrows felled the horses, and with a crescent-headed shaft, Rāma severed the head of Dūṣaṇa’s charioteer. Three more arrows pierced the rākṣasa commander’s chest. Deprived of bow, chariot, horses, and charioteer, Dūṣaṇa seized a terrifying iron club, massive as a mountain peak, wrapped in golden bands—a weapon famed for crushing the armies of the gods. Studded with sharp iron spikes, smeared with blood and fat, its touch was like thunder and lightning, able to shatter fortresses. Grasping that fearsome club, Dūṣaṇa, night-stalker and doer of cruel deeds, rushed at Rāma. As he charged, Rāghava loosed two arrows, cutting off Dūṣaṇa’s arms, each adorned with ornaments, along with the deadly club they held. Deprived of his arms, the great-bodied rākṣasa fell upon the battlefield, his weapon cast down, like Indra’s banner toppled before him. Thus did Dūṣaṇa, his spirit mighty but his arms broken, fall to the earth like a noble elephant whose tusks have been shattered.