There is a moment in every ethical tradition when the argument stops being about what you do to other people and turns to what you do to the creature on your plate. Valluvar reaches that moment here and does not flinch. He opens with a question so blunt it sounds like an accusation — how can you grow your body by devouring another's? — and never retreats from it. What follows is not a gentle appeal to sentiment but a ten-kural prosecution: psychological, economic, metaphysical, visceral. He compares the meat-eater's mind to the mind of a man gripping a blade. He traces the killing back from the butcher's stall to the buyer's coin. He redefines flesh itself as another being's wound. And then, having demolished every defense, he offers a single image of redemption: the person who neither kills nor eats, before whom every living creature bows. This is not dietary advice. It is Valluvar's most uncompromising claim about what compassion costs when you follow it all the way to the table.