The battlefield was a scene of utter devastation. Horses lay fallen, noble elephants and chariots lay shattered in countless ways, their wreckage mingled with yak-tail fans, parasols, and all manner of banners that once fluttered proudly in the wind. Everywhere, the earth was strewn with the remnants of war—broken spears and pikes, splintered swords and scattered javelins, axes hurled and abandoned, all struck down by the relentless arrows of Rāma. Even great rocks had been crushed to powder beneath the force of his remarkable shafts, and the ground was littered with the severed weapons of the defeated. The battlefield had become vast and terrifying, a grim testament to the fury of conflict. Seeing their comrades slain and the destruction wrought, the surviving rākṣasas were seized with terror and grief. None among them dared to approach Rāma, the conqueror of enemy cities, so fierce and unassailable did he appear. At this moment, Dūṣaṇa, the mighty-armed commander, beheld his army being destroyed. Determined to turn the tide, he rallied the most formidable of his warriors—five thousand rākṣasas who never retreated from battle. At his command, they surged forward, hurling spears, pikes, and swords, raining down rocks and even wielding uprooted trees in their wrath. From every direction, a relentless shower of arrows and a torrent of trees and stones fell upon Rāma, threatening to overwhelm him. Yet Rāghava, righteous and steadfast, met this onslaught with sharp arrows of his own, standing firm and unshaken—like a great bull closing its eyes against the storm. Anger blazed within him at the destruction wrought by the rākṣasas. Filled with wrath, his very presence seemed to radiate fierce energy. Without hesitation, Rāma covered the enemy ranks and Dūṣaṇa himself with a storm of arrows. Enraged, Dūṣaṇa retaliated, loosing arrows like thunderbolts to check Rāghava’s advance. But Rāma, his fury mounting, seized a razor-headed arrow and, with a single shot, cut down Dūṣaṇa’s great bow. In swift succession, he struck down the four horses of Dūṣaṇa’s chariot, and with a crescent-headed arrow, he severed the head of the charioteer. Three more arrows pierced Dūṣaṇa’s chest, leaving him bereft of bow, chariot, horses, and driver. Undaunted, Dūṣaṇa seized a monstrous iron club, banded with gold and as formidable as a mountain peak—a weapon said to crush the armies of the gods. Studded with sharp spikes, smeared with blood and fat, its touch was like thunder and lightning, capable of shattering fortresses. Grasping this dreadful club, Dūṣaṇa, the night-stalker of cruel deeds, charged at Rāma like a serpent unleashed. But as he closed in, Rāghava loosed two arrows that severed Dūṣaṇa’s ornamented arms, sending the club tumbling to the ground. Deprived of his limbs, the great-bodied rākṣasa fell upon the battlefield, his arms and club lying beside him—like Indra’s banner cast down or a mighty elephant whose tusks have been broken. The assembled beings, witnessing Dūṣaṇa’s fall, honored Kakutstha with cries of “Well done! Well done!” In that instant, three furious leaders of the rākṣasa army, as if drawn by the noose of death, joined forces and charged at Rāma. Mahākapāla, Sthūlākṣa, and the mighty Pramāthī each armed themselves—Mahākapāla with a massive spear, Sthūlākṣa with a pattiśa, and Pramāthī with a battle-axe. Seeing them approach, Rāghava greeted them as one would unwelcome guests, with a hail of sharp arrows. He cut off Mahākapāla’s head, crushed Pramāthī with countless shafts, and filled the large eyes of Sthūlākṣa with arrows until he fell to earth like a great tree whose branches have been lopped. Enraged, Rāma turned upon Dūṣaṇa’s five thousand followers, destroying them in a moment and sending their souls to the abode of Yama. When word of Dūṣaṇa’s death and the slaughter of his troops reached Khara, the rākṣasa leader’s fury was unbounded. He commanded his remaining generals, “Dūṣaṇa has been slain in battle, along with his attendants. With all your might, attack Rāma, that mere man! With every weapon, let all the rākṣasas slay him!” At Khara’s order, twelve mighty commanders—Karavīrākṣa, Paruṣa, Kālakārmuka, Hemamālī, Mahāmālī, Sarpāsya, Rudhirāśana, and others—gathered their forces and charged at Rāma, releasing volleys of excellent arrows. But the radiant Rāma struck down the rest of their army with arrows shining like fire, adorned with gold and diamond. His shafts, feathered with gold, blazed like smoky flames, felling the rākṣasas as thunderbolts fell great trees. Rāma matched a hundred rākṣasas with a hundred arrows, a thousand with a thousand, laying them low on the battlefield. Their armor and ornaments shattered, their bows broken and splintered, the night-wandering demons—stained with blood—fell to the earth. The ground was covered, as if with sacred grass on a great altar, by the fallen warriors, their hair unbound and bodies drenched in blood. The forest itself was transformed—filled with the slain rākṣasas, it became exceedingly dreadful, resembling hell itself, muddied with flesh and blood. By Rāma’s hand alone, fourteen thousand rākṣasas of terrible deeds were slain, though he stood alone on foot. When the carnage ended, only three remained upon that dreadful field: Khara, the mighty chariot-warrior; Triśiras, the rākṣasa; and Rāma, the destroyer of foes.