The battle between the Pramathas, led by Nandīśvara, and the Dānavas, commanded by the mighty Tāraka, erupted with tremendous force, each side driven on by their own formidable armies. Swords gleamed with the cool brilliance of the moon, spears blazed like tongues of fire, and arrows, expertly loosed, flew with deadly precision as both sides struck at each other relentlessly. Amidst the clash, as arrows sped and swords fell, the warriors themselves seemed like great meteors streaking down from the heavens. The field was filled with cries of agony as spears pierced hearts and merciless blows felled the Pramathas and Asuras alike, their wails echoing like souls plunged into the torments of hell. Heads adorned with golden earrings and towering crowns toppled to the earth, falling like mountain peaks struck down in a cataclysm. The mighty fell, struck by axes, spears, swords, and maces—those who had once resembled powerful elephants now lay collapsed upon the ground. Yet, in the midst of this carnage, the Pramathas let out a thunderous roar, exultant and terrifying, while others among them—accomplished Siddhas—displayed wondrous feats of Gandharva warfare. Proud and powerful, the Pramathas advanced into the heart of the battle, shouting, “You appear strong! You seem like a Daitya!” They pressed forward like elephants charging into the fray. But not all went in their favor; some followers of Śaṅkara, struck by the Dānavas’ heavy maces, spewed blood from their mouths, like mountains emitting streams of gold. The Asuras, enemies of the gods, were slain by the Pramathas with arrows, and even with uprooted trees and mountain peaks hurled as weapons. Yet, at Maya Dānava’s prompting, other eminent Dānavas gathered the bodies of the fallen Daityas and cast them into a mysterious pool. Astonishingly, those cast into the pool, their bodies radiant and adorned with their ornaments and garments, rose again as if they were immortals ascending to heaven. Revived by the waters, these Dānavas roared like lions and charged once more into battle, joined by the Asuras. With renewed arrogance, the Dānavas taunted the Pramathas: “Why do you advance, Pramathas? Even those you have slain, the pool will revive again!” Stung by these words, which bit like the grasp of a serpent, Śaṅkukarṇa hastened to the lord of the gods and reported: “Slain, slain, O god! These Asuras are killed by the Pramathas, yet they rise again, terrible as crops revived by rain. In this city, it is said, there is a pool filled with the nectar of immortality; whenever slain Dānavas are cast there, they live again.” Thus Śaṅkukarṇa informed the great Maheśvara, and the power of the Dānavas became truly dreadful, as dire portents filled the air. Tāraka, his eyes blazing fiercely and his mouth torn like that of Hari, rushed in a fury toward Mahādeva’s chariot. In Tripura, the tumult of drums and conches resounded; seeing the gods and the chariot of the lord of gods, the Dānavas sallied forth to meet them. The earth itself trembled, and Śatāṅga fell to the ground in the turmoil. Witnessing this upheaval, Rudra and the self-born grandsire, Brahma, grew agitated. The excellent chariot, bearing those two foremost gods, reached a place without support and began to sink, faltering as a virtuous man might in a moment of weakness. Just as a body loses its strength when its vital energies are spent, or as water diminishes in the heat of summer, so too did the chariot lose its vigor, its lubrication disrupted. Then, from the chariot, a great vital force sprang forth, lifting up the exhausted chariot whose form encompassed the three worlds. At that moment, Janardana, dressed in radiant yellow garments, leapt from the chariot, assumed the mighty form of a bull, and seized the formidable chariot. Grasped by its horns, the chariot carried the three worlds, just as a bull leads its herd. Meanwhile, the demon king Taraka, bearing wings like a mountain lord, rushed upon Brahma and struck him down. Struck by Taraka, Brahma placed the goad on the yoke and blazed forth with power, exhaling his breath in bursts. The demons and Dānavas raised a terrifying roar in worship of Taraka, a sound as mighty as thunderclouds. Then, in the great battle, the chariot’s wheel—honored by the foremost bulls and bull-kings—crushed the armies of the sons of Diti, while Keśava entered the city of Tripura. The preceptor of the gods drank the nectar from the entire lotus-filled lake, consuming it as the sun devours the darkness of night, the lake adorned with clouds, white lotuses, and blooming blue lilies. Having drunk from the reservoir of the demon kings, Janardana, his mighty arms resplendent and clad in yellow, roared and then entered the arrow. The demons, struck down by the fierce lords of the Pramatha hosts, their rivers running red with blood, turned their faces away in terror, driven back as men are by masterful strategists in war. Taraka, adorned with a garland of lightning, joined by Maya and the Pramathas, attacked the city, but pierced by arrows, they retreated, fleeing like bodies departing when the wind arises. The lords of the hosts—Mahendra, Nandi, and the six-faced one—shone with growing pride. They roared and laughed arrogantly in the heat of battle, crying out, “Let us conquer!” together with the moon and the guardians of the directions. Broken by the might of the Pramathas, the enemies of the gods retreated into the city, frightened, as the Pramathas shattered the gates. They were like elephants with broken tusks, bulls with shattered horns, birds with damaged wings, or rivers whose waters had run dry. The daityas, nearly dead and their faces twisted in despair by the gods, became despondent, asking among themselves, “What should we do?” At this moment, as their spirits wilted, the lotus-faced demon Maya, supreme among the daityas, spoke to them. Having fought fierce battles with the Pramathas and their allies, and having given their all in the struggle, Maya addressed the daityas, seeking a way forward in the face of their defeat.