The fourth night fell upon the plains of Kurukshetra like a final judgment. The air, usually filled with the sounds of men and horses, was heavy with an unnatural silence, broken only by the distant, mournful howls of jackals feasting on the dead and the heart-wrenching sobs that emanated from the royal pavilions of the Kaurava camp. The war, once a grand political calculation for Duryodhana, had now become a raw, bleeding, personal wound. The abstract concept of casualties had been replaced by the very real, very cold bodies of eight of his own brothers.
Duryodhana, the proud king, the master of eleven armies, was a broken man. He did not storm into Bhishma's tent with accusations this night. He stumbled in, his royal robes stained with dust and tears, his face a mask of utter devastation. He fell at the grandsire's feet, not in a gesture of respect, but as a man whose legs could no longer support the weight of his grief. "Pitamaha," he wept, his voice a ragged whisper. "They are gone. Eight of my brothers… slain by that monster, Bhima. He hunts them like animals. How is this possible? How can they, with a smaller army, with less power, inflict such wounds upon us day after day? You are the greatest warrior alive. Drona is the greatest teacher. How are we still losing?"
Bhishma looked down at his weeping grandson, and for the first time in days, the cold warrior's mask fell away, revealing the ancient, sorrowful man beneath. He gently lifted Duryodhana to his feet. "My child," he said, his voice soft and filled with a profound sadness. "I have told you from the beginning. Victory does not follow the larger army; it follows Dharma. The Pandavas have justice on their side. They have Krishna on their side. Every arrow Arjuna fires is guided by a divine purpose. Every blow Bhima strikes is fueled by a righteous rage born from the memory of your sins. This war is not a contest of strength, but a cleansing of the world's Adharma. You are that Adharma, my son. It is not too late. Even now, after all this bloodshed, if you seek peace, if you return their kingdom, this can end. This is your only path to salvation."
But Duryodhana, even in his grief, could not comprehend this truth. His sorrow was not for the injustice he had perpetrated, but for the personal loss he had suffered. He shook his head, wiping the tears from his eyes with a fist. "Peace? After they have murdered my brothers? Never. There will be no peace until I have washed Draupadi's hair in their blood. You must fight harder, Grandsire. You must unleash your full wrath. You must make them pay." He stumbled out of the tent, his grief already re-congealing into the familiar, hard shape of hatred, leaving Bhishma alone with the terrible knowledge that he was bound by his vow to lead this doomed, unholy cause to its bitter end.
In the Pandava camp, the mood was not one of celebration. The victory was a fact, but it was a grim, joyless one. The news of Bhima's slaughter of his cousins had been met with a somber silence. This was the first great act of fratricide, the first time the lines of kinship had been irrevocably erased in blood. Yudhishthira, the king of Dharma, was in a state of near collapse. He had locked himself in his tent, refusing food and water, the weight of the sin he had authorized crushing his very soul.
Bhima found him there, sitting in the dark, a solitary figure of misery. "Brother," Yudhishthir whispered, not even looking up. "Today, you became a kinslayer. You murdered our own blood. The battlefield rejoiced, but my soul weeps. Is this the kingdom we seek? A kingdom built on a foundation of our cousins' bones? How can this be Dharma?"
Bhima's face, which had been a mask of cold fury all day, softened for a moment, but his voice was hard as iron. "Do not speak to me of kinship," he growled. "Where was their sense of kinship when they dragged our wife by her hair into their court? Where was their kinship when they tried to strip her naked before a hall of silent men? Where was their kinship when this Duryodhana slapped his thigh and invited her, the empress, to sit upon it like a harlot? I made a vow that day, brother. A vow to shatter those thighs and to kill every one of those laughing, leering monsters. Today was not murder; it was the first installment on a debt of honor. That is my Dharma. And I will see it paid in full."
The chasm between the two brothers, between the idealist king and the avenging warrior, seemed unbridgeable. It was Krishna who entered the tent, his presence a calming balm on their frayed spirits. "Yudhishthira," he said gently, "your heart suffers because it is pure. But a surgeon who must cut out a cancer to save a life does not rejoice in the cutting, yet he knows the act is necessary. Bhima," he said, turning to the mighty warrior, "your rage is a sacred fire, but do not let it consume you. Use it as the weapon it is meant to be. Today, you have shown the Kauravas the terrible consequences of their actions. You have planted the seed of fear in their hearts. Grieve for the men who died, for they were your family. But do not repent for the act, for it was an act of justice. Now rest. Tomorrow, the battle continues, and you must both be ready to perform your duties." His words, as always, cut through their emotional turmoil, reminding them of the larger purpose. The fourth day was over, and the war had become what they had always feared: a terrible, intimate slaughter of family.