The battle roared back to life, but its nature had changed. Arjuna, his heart now steeled by Krishna's divine intervention, fought with a new, terrible purpose. He and Shikhandi renewed their charge, and this time, there was no holding back. But the sun, as if unable to bear witness to the tragedy that was about to unfold, began its descent. The conches blew, signaling the end of the day's fighting. The Pandava army, shattered, bleeding, and on the very brink of annihilation, retreated in disarray. The ninth day belonged entirely and unequivocally to Bhishma and the Kauravas.
The Kaurava camp that night was a scene of wild, delirious celebration. They had not just won; they had crushed the enemy. The Pandava army was broken, their spirit seemingly extinguished. Duryodhana was ecstatic. He fell at Bhishma's feet, his earlier accusations forgotten, his voice choked with gratitude and triumph. "Grandsire! You have kept your word! You have shown them your true power! Today, I have seen our victory! Tomorrow, you will finish them, and this kingdom will be mine, once and for all!" The camp was filled with the sounds of cheering soldiers and boastful commanders, all convinced that the war was as good as won.
In the Pandava camp, there was only the silence of despair. The losses had been catastrophic. Their army was demoralized, their commanders weary, and their king heartbroken. Yudhishthira sat in his tent, the very picture of defeat. "It is over," he whispered to his brothers. "We cannot win. The grandsire is a god of death. We have led thousands to their slaughter for nothing. My pride, my claim to the throne, has destroyed us all. Tomorrow, he will finish what he started today. Our cause is lost."
It was in this atmosphere of absolute despair that the final, desperate act of the night was undertaken. As Krishna had advised, the five Pandava brothers, their royal robes laid aside, their armor removed, walked unarmed across the dark, corpse-strewn no-man's-land that separated the two camps. They proceeded directly to the magnificent, brightly lit pavilion of the man who had just spent the day trying to kill them: their grandsire, Bhishma.
The Kaurava guards, stunned into silence by this unprecedented sight, allowed them to pass. Bhishma, who was having his wounds tended, looked up and saw his five beloved grandsons standing before him, their faces etched with sorrow and desperation. He dismissed his attendants and welcomed them with a sad, loving smile. The terrible warrior of the battlefield was gone, replaced once more by the loving patriarch.
Yudhishthira, his palms joined, his eyes filled with tears, fell to his knees. "Pitamaha," he said, his voice breaking. "We have come to you as your children, not as your enemies. We cannot defeat you. You are invincible. As you yourself blessed me on the first day, you invited me to ask you for a boon. The time has come. I beg of you, tell us… how may you be slain? How can we win this war and establish Dharma?"
Bhishma looked down at his grandsons, his ancient eyes filled with a profound love and an infinite weariness. He had lived a long, hard life, bound by terrible vows. He had seen his family tear itself apart. He was tired. He was ready for release. He gently raised Yudhishthira to his feet.
"My child," he said, his voice calm and serene. "I knew you would come. My time in this world is over. I will tell you the secret of my end." He looked directly at Arjuna, his most beloved grandchild. "I have a vow that I will never raise my weapon against a woman, or one who was once a woman. Drupada's child, Shikhandi, was born a woman. When I see him before me on the battlefield, my arms will not lift my bow. In that moment, Arjuna, you must stand behind him. Hide yourself from my sight, and from that position, you must shower my body with your arrows. Do not hesitate. Do not grieve. Your arrows will be a welcome release for me, a bed upon which this old warrior can finally rest. It is my wish. It is my blessing. It is the only way."
He had given them not just a strategy, but his permission, his command, to kill him. He was orchestrating his own glorious, tragic death, choosing to have it delivered by the hand of the one he loved the most. The Pandavas stood in stunned, heartbroken silence. They had come seeking a way to win a war; they had been given the blessing to commit a mercy killing. The ninth night was over. The stage was now set for the tenth day, the day the great pillar of the Kuru dynasty would finally fall.