In the city called Taraka, a fierce and heroic battle raged, with the gods, armed on all sides, falling like mountains with wings torn from the sky. Within Tripura itself, the leaders of the hosts fought in three divisions, and mighty warriors such as Vidyunmali and Maya were swept into the chaos of battle, as if trees were being submerged in a raging flood. Vidyunmālī, lord of the Daityas and radiant as a towering mountain, seized a dreadful iron club and struck powerfully at Nandin. The blow landed with such force that Nandin staggered, just as once mighty Nārāyaṇa had reeled under Madhu’s influence. As Nandīśvara withdrew, the renowned and valiant Gaṇas, their hearts burning with wrath, surged forward to confront the Asura Vidyunmālin. At that moment, the fearsome attendants Ghaṇṭākarṇa, Śaṅkukarṇa, and Mahākāla unleashed a rain of arrows upon the Gaṇas and their leaders. Again and again, the greatest of the Gaṇeśvaras were pierced, and as the blows struck, their roars echoed like thunderclouds rolling across the heavens. The tumult of battle roused Nandin, who, shining with the brilliance of the sun, regained consciousness and charged once more at Vidyunmālī. With a mighty gesture, Nandin hurled the blazing thunderbolt—gifted by Rudra and shining with the fire’s own radiance—at the Daitya, whose limbs were as hard as adamant. The dreadful thunderbolt, adorned with pearls, struck Vidyunmālī squarely in the chest. Though his body was as hard as a thunderbolt, Vidyunmālī was felled, collapsing like a mountain struck by Indra’s own weapon. Seeing their lord and pride of their lineage slain by Nandin, the Dānavas wailed in despair, and even the leaders of the Gaṇas fled the field. The very clouds, as if sharing their grief, poured down a terrible storm of trees and mountains. The Gaṇeśvaras, crushed beneath the weight of falling mountains, were at a loss, confused and helpless, like the unrighteous when praised. Then, the illustrious and mighty Asura Tāraka appeared, his form shining forth as if he were composed of many mountains. The Gaṇas, battered and broken, their heads shattered and faces marked by wounds, resembled serpents bound by powerful spells. Under Maya’s magical assault, the Gaṇeśvaras wandered in confusion, their cries rising like the clamor of caged birds. Tāraka’s power blazed forth, burning up the entire army as fire consumes dry fuel. The Gaṇas were driven back by showers of arrows from Tāraka and, assailed by Maya’s illusions and Tāraka’s shafts, they became as distressed as trees whose roots have rotted. Once more, fire rushed forth, threatening planets, crocodiles, serpents, mountains, monkeys, tigers, trees, and all manner of fierce creatures. By his illusion, Maya caused waters, winds, and even the limbs of Sharabha to fall upon the enemies. Overwhelmed and confused by this sorcery—by the illusion of Maya, called Taraka—the leaders of the hosts were rendered helpless, unable even to think of action, like senses restrained by a sage’s discipline. Assailed by torrents of water, fire, elephants, serpents, lions, tigers, bears, rakshasas, and demons, and bewildered by darkness, the Gaṇas were like those lost, seeking depth in the middle of the ocean. As the leaders of the hosts were being crushed, and as gods and demons roared, the foremost of the gods, armed with their weapons, entered the enemy’s force to protect their own. Yama, bearing his mace; Varuna and Bhaskara; Kumara attended by countless immortals; and Indra himself, lord of the gods, riding his white elephant and brandishing the thunderbolt—all entered the fray. The lord of the Maruts with his son, the sun with his retinue, and the radiant three-eyed lord—all intoxicated with might—entered the well-guarded force of the enemy. Just as lordly elephants charge into the forest, as the sun bursts into a sky filled with clouds, or as lions assail a herd of cows in a deserted place, so did the gods assault that army. The attendants broke the enemy’s ranks, the demons wounded and distressed by their blows, just as the radiant sun disperses the darkness of mortals, or as fire destroys dense gloom. As the moon always soothes the night’s accumulated darkness, so too did the gods pacify the field; and as the power of darkness waned, the brilliance of weapons only grew. A mighty lion’s roar arose for a moment from the guardians of the directions and the leaders of the hosts. In the battle’s fury, monstrous and deformed beings were shattered, their heads severed, their bodies pierced with arrows. The non-divine beings, struck by the best of gods, sank into the mire like lordly elephants. Vajrapani with his thunderbolt, and the mighty Mayuraketu with his spear, pressed the attack. Dharmaraja wielded his fierce staff, Varuna his noose, the Yaksha king his trident, and Sukeśa shone with strength and brilliance—all joining the battle. The leaders of the hosts, resplendent as the gods themselves, their crests gleaming as if bathed in sacred offerings, destroyed the sons of Danu’s hosts, just as Indra’s thunderbolts strike down their foes. But Maya, having wounded the god Kumara—son of Uma and protector of the gods—with an arrow, called out to Taraka’s son, the demon Taraka. “I have struck, and now I shall enter the city, mighty with the strength of the demon king. Once I have rested and regained my vigor, I shall return to battle those who come forth. Though our bodies are wounded and pierced by weapons, our arms, banners, armor, and vehicles shattered, still we yearn for victory, shining for triumph, just as the leaders of the hosts and the lords of the worlds do.” Hearing Maya’s words resound in the sky, Taraka’s eyes blazed red with longing for battle. With the sons of Diti and the sons of Aditi, exulting in the prospect of conflict, he swiftly entered Tripura. Then Maya, master of illusion and foremost among the Danavas, having struck the foe, swiftly entered Tripura, dark as a rain-laden cloud in the sky. He exhaled a long, hot breath, gazing upon the Daityas gathered about him, and pondered deeply—as if he were the very embodiment of approaching destruction, another form of Time itself. Even mighty Indra, ever eager for battle, now stood before Maya in fear. And yet, that illustrious Vidyunmālī too had met his end, fallen in the tumult of this great war.