The battle raged with unrelenting fury. The chiefs of the hosts, pierced again and again by arrows, surrendered their very life-force, falling as mountains yield their hidden veins of gold. All around, the Daityas were struck down—by trees, stones, thunderbolts, spears, and axes—shattered like fragile glass under mighty blows. Tripura, the city of the demons, blazed with the presence of formidable and terrifying Daityas, swelling in power like the ocean surges at the rise of the full moon. Amidst the chaos, the Daityas shouted triumphantly, “Victory to Taraka!” while the chiefs of the divine hosts proclaimed, “Victory to Indra and Rudra!” Within that vast ocean of battle, warriors were hemmed in and torn apart by a relentless hail of arrows, the tumult echoing like thunderclouds bursting in the rainy season. The battlefield became a dreadful sight—severed hands and heads, banners and umbrellas stained pale, flesh and blood overflowing in every direction. Suddenly, Danavas and their attendants leapt high into the sky, only to be struck down by mighty weapons and hurled to the earth before their foes. In the heavens, the Siddhas, Apsaras, and Charanas, moving in delight at the spectacle of powerful blows, cried out, “Excellent! Excellent!” Celestial drums, untouched by mortal hand, thundered in the sky, their roar wild and bestial, as if the clouds themselves were enraged. Within Tripura, the Daityas retreated into the rivers like furious serpents slipping into anthills, their faces twisted in anger, as rivers merge into the ocean. In the city named Taraka, the valiant gods, armed on every side, fell as if they were mountains with wings struck down. The battle split into three divisions within Tripura, and the chiefs of the hosts fought fiercely. Even Vidyunmali and Maya, renowned among the Daityas, were submerged in the conflict like trees overwhelmed by a flood. Vidyunmali, the radiant lord of the Daityas, seized a dreadful iron club and struck Nandin, Shiva’s devoted attendant. Hit hard by Vidyunmali’s club, Nandin staggered—just as once, long ago, even Narayana faltered under the assault of Madhu. As Nandishvara withdrew from the field, the renowned and valiant Ganas, burning with wrath, surged forward to confront the Asura Vidyunmali. Then the fierce attendants—Ghaṇṭākarṇa, Śaṅkukarṇa, and Mahākāla—showered arrows upon all the Ganas and their leaders. Again and again, they pierced the greatest of the Ganeshvaras, and as their arrows struck, the Ganas roared like thunderclouds in the sky. The tumult of battle revived Nandin, who shone like the rising sun. Regaining his senses, he charged at Vidyunmali with renewed vigor. Nandin hurled a blazing thunderbolt, gifted by Rudra and radiant as burning fire, at the Daitya whose limbs were as hard as diamond. The thunderbolt, adorned with pearls, struck Vidyunmali squarely in the chest. Though his body was as hard as a thunderbolt, Vidyunmali fell—just as a mountain topples when struck by Indra’s weapon. Seeing their lord slain by Nandin, delight of his lineage, the Danavas wailed in despair, and the leaders of the Ganas withdrew in haste. In their grief and fury at Vidyunmali’s fall, the clouds themselves seemed to mourn, pouring down a storm of trees and mountains upon the battlefield. The Ganesvaras, pressed down by the weight of the mountains, were at a loss, as the unrighteous are when praised. Then the illustrious and mighty Asura Taraka appeared, his form as vast and varied as many mountains, shining forth in the chaos. The Ganas, their heads broken and faces marked by shattered feet, looked like serpents subdued by spells. Assailed by Maya’s magical power, the Ganesvaras wandered in confusion, making a great clamor, like caged birds desperate for freedom. By the might of Taraka, the entire army was consumed, as dry fuel is devoured by fire. At that moment, the Ganas were repelled by showers of arrows from Taraka, and Maya’s illusions, combined with Taraka’s shafts, left the Ganeshvaras distressed, like trees whose roots have decayed. Once more, fire rushed forth, threatening planets, crocodiles, serpents, mountains, monkeys, tigers, trees, and all manner of fierce creatures. Maya, wielding his power of illusion, unleashed torrents of water, blasts of wind, and the very limbs of Sharabha upon the enemy. Confused and overwhelmed by Maya’s illusion, called Taraka, the leaders of the hosts became helpless, unable even to think of what to do—like senses restrained by a sage from their objects. Assailed by floods, fires, elephants, serpents, lions, tigers, bears, rakshasas, and demons, and bewildered by darkness, the divine hosts were like those lost at sea, seeking the bottom in the midst of the ocean’s depths. As the leaders of the hosts were being crushed and both gods and demons roared in the tumult, the foremost of the gods, armed with shining weapons, entered the enemy’s force to defend their own. Yama wielded his mighty mace; Varuna, Bhaskara, Kumara with his countless immortals, and Indra himself—lord of the gods, mounted on his white elephant and grasping the thunderbolt—joined the battle. The lord of the Maruts and his son, the sun with his retinue, and the radiant three-eyed lord, intoxicated with might, all entered the well-guarded enemy ranks. Like proud elephants charging into a forest, like the sun piercing clouds, or lions attacking a herd of cows in a deserted place, so did the gods assault the demon army. The attendants broke the demon ranks, whose warriors were wounded and distressed, just as the radiant sun dispels the darkness of mortals, or fire devours the densest gloom. As the moon soothes the darkness of night, so did the gods pacify the battlefield; and as the force of darkness waned, the brilliance of weapons shone ever brighter. A mighty roar, like that of a great lion, rose for a moment from the guardians of the directions and the leaders of the hosts. In the thick of battle, monstrous and deformed beings, limbless and shattered, their heads severed and bodies pierced with arrows, fell in heaps—testament to the terrible glory of that celestial war.