In the heat of battle, the non-divine beings—those who opposed the gods—were struck down by the greatest among the deities. They sank into the mire like mighty elephants overwhelmed by their foes. Vajrapani, wielding his thunderbolt, and the powerful Mayuraketu, brandishing his spear, pressed their attack with relentless force. Dharmaraja, with his fierce staff, Varuna with his formidable noose, the Yaksha king with his trident, and Sukeśa, radiant in strength and brilliance, all joined the fray, each displaying their prowess. These leaders of the divine hosts, their crests gleaming as if anointed with sacred offerings, destroyed the armies of Danu’s sons, their blows falling like Indra’s thunderbolts. Yet amidst this chaos, Maya, the master of illusion, pierced Kumara—the son of Uma and protector of the gods—with an arrow. Turning to Taraka’s son, the demon Taraka, Maya spoke with resolve, declaring that after striking his foes, he would enter the city, empowered by the strength of the demon king. Even after resting and regaining his vigor, he vowed to return to battle against any who dared to confront him. Despite their bodies wounded and pierced by weapons, their banners, armor, and vehicles shattered, Maya and his allies burned with the desire for victory, shining with determination alongside the leaders of the hosts and lords of the worlds. Hearing Maya’s words echoing in the sky, Taraka, his eyes bloodshot with longing for battle, swiftly entered Tripura with the sons of Diti and Aditi, exulting in the prospect of war. Maya, the master of illusion and bull among the Danavas, having struck, entered Tripura with speed, his form dark as a blue cloud in the sky. He exhaled a long, hot breath, gazing upon the Daityas gathered in their midst, and pondered deeply, as the destruction of worlds loomed near, embodying the force of Time itself. Even Indra, eager for battle, stood before him in fear, for the illustrious Vidyunmālī had already met his end. Maya reflected that there was no fortress equal to Tripura, yet even this mighty stronghold had come to ruin. No fort could ever truly offer safety, for all things, even the strongest, are subject to Time. When Time is enraged, nothing can protect against its force. All power in the three worlds, in every being, is under the sway of Time, as decreed by the ordinance of the Grandsire. Maya questioned who could exert mastery over this boundless and unrestrainable force, who could cross over except for the great god Maheśvara. He declared that he did not fear Indra, nor Yama, nor Varuna, nor Kubera, but acknowledged that Maheśvara, lord of the gods, was unconquerable. Determined to display the fruit of sovereignty and supreme power, Maya resolved to create a pond filled with the water of immortality and rare herbs, so that the Daityas might live again, revived by the life-restoring waters. With this resolve, Maya, the foremost magician, conjured a wondrous pond by his magic, reminiscent of the Grandsire’s creation with the mango tree. The pond stretched two yojanas in length, one yojana in width, adorned with steps and landings, its form marvelous beyond compare. It was filled with supreme water, fragrant with nectar, shining like the rays of the moon, and endowed with every virtue, as if it were a noble woman. Around the pond bloomed blue lotuses, white water-lilies, and red lotuses, clusters of kadamba flowers, all encircled by fearsome barriers shining with the hues of moon and sun. Birds of sweet song filled the air, radiant as gold, and the pond was crowded with wish-fulfilling beings, a veritable fire of life for the living. Having created this miraculous pool, Maya, just as Maheśvara did with the Ganga, washed Vidyunmālī in its waters first. Immersed in the pond, the mighty Daitya, enemy of the gods, rose up at once, blazing like a fire kindled with fresh fuel. Paying his respects to Maya, Taraka by name addressed him, declaring, “I am Vidyunmālī,” and rose up, eager for battle. He called out, “Where is Nandī, surrounded by Rudra and the Pramatha jackals? Let us fight, crushing our enemies—what need have we for mercy in our bodies? If we do not follow Rudra, O mighty ones, we shall be slain in battle and become food for Yama.” Moved by these powerful words, Vidyunmālī, his eyes moist, embraced him, and the great Asura spoke: “O Vidyunmālī, I desire neither kingdom nor even life itself; what use is anything else to me without you, great Asura? This immortal pool, O lord of Maya, has been created by your magic; it restores life to the slain Dānavas and Daityas. By fortune, I see you here, returned from the realm of Yama, rescued from misfortune; today we shall enjoy a great treasure.” The Daitya lords, seeing again and again the pool created by Maya’s magic, their faces and eyes beaming with joy, declared, “Now let the Dānavas fight fearlessly with the Pramathas; the pool created by Maya will revive those who are slain.” Then the terrifying drum sounded, roaring loudly in the Raurava mode, like the agitated ocean, again and again. Hearing its dreadful sound, like the rumbling of gathering clouds, the Asuras, eager for the battle of Tripura, rushed swiftly onto the field. Adorned with armlets of iron, silver, and gold, set with jewels, splendid earrings, necklaces, and towering crowns, they were a formidable sight. Constantly smoking as if blazing with fire, they seized their weapons, shining and resolute in valor. They danced like actors, roared like thunderclouds, towered like elephants with raised trunks, and stood fearless like lions. Deep as lakes, blazing like the sun, and as sturdy as trees, the Daitya lords struck terror into the great army. The Pramathas, eager for battle, swooped down like Garuḍas, attacking the Dānavas, those who restrained their own kind, and thus the great conflict continued, fierce and unrelenting.