At Maya Dānava’s urging, the mighty Dānavas gathered up the bodies of their fallen kin, lifting the slain Daityas and casting them into a mysterious pool. Miraculously, those cast into the waters emerged anew—radiant, adorned in their own ornaments and garments, rising from the pool as if they were immortals themselves, dwelling in the heavens. Revived by the pool’s power, some Dānavas, roaring like lions, charged back into the fray alongside the Asuras, their vigor restored. With fierce taunts, the Dānavas mocked the Pramathas, the divine attendants, saying, “Why do you advance, Pramathas? Even those you slay, the pool will revive again!” Their words, sharp as a serpent’s bite, reached Śaṅkukarṇa, who swiftly approached the lord of the gods to report what he had witnessed. “O God,” he said, “these Asuras are slain by the Pramathas, yet they rise again, as terrible and unstoppable as crops revived by the rains. In this city, it is said, there is a pool filled with the nectar of immortality. Whenever the slain Dānavas are cast there, they live again.” Thus, Śaṅkukarṇa informed the great Maheśvara, and the power of the Dānavas grew truly dreadful, with terrifying omens manifesting. Tāraka, his eyes blazing fiercely, his mouth torn like that of Hari, rushed in a fury toward Mahādeva’s chariot. In Tripura, a tremendous clamor arose—the sound of drums and conches thundered as the Dānavas, seeing the gods and the chariot of the lord of gods, sallied forth to battle. The very earth quaked; Śatāṅga fell to the ground. Witnessing this upheaval, Rudra and the self-born grandsire, Brahma, were deeply agitated. Accompanied by these two foremost gods, the excellent chariot reached a place without support and began to sink, as if a virtuous man, deprived of strength, faltered. Just as a body becomes slack when its vital forces are depleted, or as water diminishes in the heat of summer, so too did the chariot lose its vigor, its lubrication disturbed. Then, a great vital force sprang forth from the chariot, lifting up the exhausted vehicle—whose form encompassed the three worlds. At that moment, Janardana, clad in yellow garments, leapt from the chariot, assumed the mighty form of a bull, and seized the formidable chariot. Grasped by its horns, the great chariot, bearing the three worlds, was carried as a bull carries its herd. Suddenly, the demon king Tāraka, with wings like a mountain lord, rushed toward Brahma and struck him down. Struck by Tāraka, Brahma placed his goad on the yoke and blazed forth, exhaling his breath in fiery bursts. From the demons and Dānavas arose a great and terrifying roar, a thunderous sound made in worship of Tāraka. In the midst of battle, the chariot’s wheel—honored by the foremost bulls and bull-kings—crushed the forces 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 dispels the gathered darkness of night. The lake, adorned with water-laden clouds, white lotuses, and blooming blue lilies, was thus emptied. Having drunk from the reservoir of the demon kings, Janardana, still clad in yellow and with mighty arms, let out a roar and entered the arrow. The demons, struck down by the fierce lords of the hosts, their rivers running red from wounds, turned and fled, made fearful by the terrifying faces of their foes, just as men are driven back in battle by those skilled in strategy. Tāraka, adorned with a garland of lightning, together with Maya and the Pramathas, launched an attack upon the city. But pierced by arrows, they retreated, just as bodies depart when the wind arises. The lords of the hosts—Mahendra, Nandi, and the six-faced one—shone with rising pride; they roared and laughed arrogantly in battle, crying, “Let us conquer!” along with the moon and the lords of the directions. Broken in battle by the Pramathas, the enemies of the gods retreated into the city, terrified, as the Pramathas shattered the city gates. They were like elephants with broken tusks, bulls with shattered horns, birds with damaged wings, or rivers with depleted waters—so battered and dispirited were they. Nearly dead, their faces twisted by the gods’ might, the Daityas became despondent, asking one another, “What should we do?” As their courage withered, Maya, the lotus-faced demon and supreme leader of the Daityas, spoke to them. “You who first entered the city, and again, overwhelmed by force, entered out of fear, harassed by the Pramathas—know that the gods act against us. There is no doubt. Even this mighty fortress has come under siege. Ah, the power of Time! Truly, Time is unconquerable.” Maya lamented, “While I contended like a roaring cloud, the Daityas lost their brilliance, like planets dimmed at the rising of the moon.” Then, the guardians of the reservoir approached Maya, their hands joined in respect, comparing him to Yama himself. They spoke: “That reservoir, concealed and made by you, whose waters contained the essence of immortality—filled with lotuses, teeming with fish, and muddy with water lilies—has been drunk by someone in the form of a bull. Now, O leader of the Daityas, the reservoir is lifeless, like a woman bereft of consciousness.” Hearing these words, Maya, lord of the Dānavas, cried out in despair and addressed the sons of Diti: “If the reservoir, created by my power of illusion, has been drunk, then we are destroyed; there is no doubt, O Dānavas, Tripura is lost. Whether the Daityas are slain by the gods or revived, whether the reservoir is drunk or drunk by one clad in yellow garments—our fate is sealed.