As evening descended, gentle moonlight bathed the gardens, and the air was alive with the calls of cuckoo birds gathered in groups. Amidst this serene city of the demons, Kama, having spent all his arrows, wandered, his presence a subtle echo of desire in the twilight. The moon, pale as garlands of jasmine, was veiled, its light diminished, resembling a cloud that obscures its radiance. Just as the moon loses its brilliance when shrouded, so too does a wealthy man become pale when fortune deserts him. Soon, the sun rose, outshining the moon with its reddish charioteer. Its disk glowed like heated gold, standing at the zenith of its ascent, illuminating the sky and striving to cross the darkness-bearing waters. When the thousand-rayed sun ascended Meru, its brilliance awakened the gods, who roared together like the ocean at the world's end. Indra, the thousand-eyed Purandara, accompanied by Savitṛ, Varuṇa, and Hara, set forth towards Tripura. These destroyers, taking many forms, advanced with fierce, lion-like roars, the sounds of drums echoing their might. With drums, parasols, and towering trees, the divine army moved like a forest stirred by wind. Upon seeing Rudra's immense and fierce army approaching, the demon lords were greatly agitated, their turmoil resembling the restless ocean. They gripped spears, javelins, tridents, clubs, axes, bows, arrows, thunderbolts, and heavy maces, their eyes blazing red with anger. Like winged mountains striking with storm clouds at the end of the heat, they prepared for battle. Adorned with lightning, the sons of Diti, delighted, gathered with the gods, their enemies. Among them, minds set on dying yet uncertain of victory, the weak army was like a body with feeble limbs. Roaring and shining like clouds, skilled in battle, they fought fiercely, each bearing offenses against the other. Weapons smoked and blazed, shining like the moon, as anger drove both sides to strike. Some fell, struck by thunderbolts; others, pierced by arrows; still others, torn apart by discus weapons, plunged into the ocean's waters. Garlands and great ornaments were cut, garments and jewels scattered, and gods fell battered among whales and crocodiles. Everywhere, blows from maces, pestles, javelins, axes, thunderbolts, spears, lances, and swords rained down. A great flood of weapons—mountain peaks and trees—hurled in wrath by swift, smoky, radiant demons also crashed into the surging ocean. These weapons, thrown with increasing force by gods and demons alike, wrought great destruction, causing the stars themselves to tremble. Just as in the battle of small elephants great destruction occurs, so too, among the hosts of gods and demons, there was a slaughter of whales and crocodiles. Then Vidyunmālī, swift as a thundercloud wreathed in lightning, with a roar like thunder, rushed toward Nandīśvara. That best of speakers, Vidyunmālī, his voice thunderous and cloud-like, addressed the mountain-like Nandīśvara in battle: “Desiring battle, I, Vidyunmālī, have come, strong as I am. If you escape with your life now, Nandikeśvara, it will not be by words that Vidyunmālī is slain in battle, O demon.” To these words, Nandīśa, foremost among the blazing ones and skilled in speech, replied, “Strike, then, here! O demon, this is not the time for those who desire righteousness. If you are able to kill, why do you hesitate because of your birth’s fault? If I had slain you before, like a beast, or if I do so now, why should I not destroy the defiler of sacrifice? He who crosses the ocean with his arms, or brings down the sun, even he would not be able to gaze upon me with his eyes.” As Nandī, resembling him, spoke thus, Vidyunmālī struck him with a single arrow, piercing him as the sun pierces a cloud. That arrow drank the best blood from Nandī’s chest, just as the sun, by its own radiance, draws up the water of rivers and oceans. Struck with that powerful blow, Nandī staggered, then, uprooting a tree with his hand, hurled it like a lord of elephants. The tree, battered by the wind, its flowers scattered, roared loudly, and, cut down by Vidyunmālī’s arrows, fell like the king of birds. Seeing the tree felled by the demon’s arrows, Nandīśvara, mighty in form, was seized by intense wrath. With his hand raised, shining with the brilliance of the sun and Indra, he charged forth to slay that cruel buffalo, like a lord of elephants. As he rushed forward with great speed and force, Vidyunmālī filled Nandī with hundreds of arrows. His body pierced with arrows, Śailādi became like a mountain once more; seizing the great chariot, he swiftly departed. His horse delayed, his head spinning, and his chariot whirling in battle, he fell by the sage’s curse, like the sun’s chariot falling. Then, the son of Diti emerged from within by his illusion and struck Śailādi, who stood firm, with a spear. Śailādi, extracting that blood-stained spear, hurled it at Vidyunmālī, leader of the Pramathas. Pierced by that spear, his armor shattered and his heart split, Vidyunmālī fell to the earth like a mountain struck by thunder. With Vidyunmālī slain, the Siddhas, Charanas, and Kinnaras exclaimed, “Excellent, excellent!” and worshipped Umāpati in reverence and joy.