The forests of Dandaka, once calm and serene, now shivered with the coming of a storm. Shurpanakha, humiliated and raging, had poured her venom into the ears of her mighty brothers — Khara and Dushana, rulers of the Rakshasa hordes.
Their eyes burned red with fury, their hearts dark with vengeance. With an army of fourteen thousand fierce demons, they marched — their roars shaking the skies, their footsteps turning the earth to dust.
“Destroy Rama!” Khara bellowed. “Tear him apart, burn his woman, and turn the forest into ashes.”
The Rakshasa army swept through the woods like a wave of darkness. Trees fell, rivers trembled, and the creatures of the forest fled in fear. But Rama stood calm — his eyes steady, his bow firm in his hands.
Lakshmana looked to his brother, his heart burning with anger. “O Rama, let me face this army. I shall destroy them all.”
But Rama placed a gentle hand on Lakshmana’s shoulder. “Stay, dear brother. Protect Sita. This battle is mine to fight.”
With divine strength, Rama strung his mighty bow. The forest fell silent, the very air holding its breath as the prince of Ayodhya prepared for war.
One by one, the Rakshasas charged — their mouths open in cruel laughter, their weapons raised high. But Rama, swift as the wind and fierce as fire, met them with arrows shining like lightning.
Each arrow sang through the air — striking true, striking deep. Demons fell like trees in a storm, their roars turning into screams of fear. The earth drank their blood, and the skies watched in awe.
Khara and Dushana, seeing their army fall, roared with rage and charged at Rama together, their weapons blazing with dark magic. But Rama stood unshaken, his eyes glowing with the light of righteousness.
With a mighty roar, Rama released his arrows — one piercing Dushana’s chest, the other striking Khara down. The mighty brothers fell, their strength no match for the prince who fought not with anger, but with dharma in his heart.
The forest, once darkened by the shadow of Rakshasas, sighed with relief. Birds sang once more, the rivers flowed free, and the earth whispered Rama’s name in gratitude.
Shurpanakha, watching from afar, screamed in fury and fled — her plan shattered, her heart burning with hatred. But she carried one final hope — her mighty brother Ravana, king of Lanka, feared by gods and men alike.
And so, though the battle was won, destiny had only begun to weave its grand tale — for the fall of Khara and Dushana was but the first step on the path to a greater war, one that would shake the heavens and earth.