The previous chapter asked what makes a king great. This one asks what makes him a criminal. And Valluvar does not mince the answer: a ruler who oppresses his people is worse than a professional murderer. Not metaphorically worse — structurally worse, because the murderer at least stands outside the law he breaks, while the tyrant wields the law itself as his weapon. What follows is the most sustained attack on state violence in classical Tamil literature. Valluvar moves from moral equivalence to economic ruin to cosmic collapse, each kural tightening the noose until the final image: a land where cows go dry and scholars forget their texts, not because of invasion or plague, but because the man sworn to protect did not. The chapter reads like an indictment drafted by a poet who has watched too many thrones mistake fear for respect.