Adorned with the brilliance of lightning, the mighty sons of Diti—delighted and resplendent—gathered together with the gods. These were the enemies of the gods, yet now they stood side by side, their minds set on the great battle ahead. Among them, many were resolved to die, uncertain of victory, and their weakened army resembled a body whose limbs had grown feeble. The battlefield thundered as both sides roared like storm clouds, their shining forms flashing across the field. Skilled in the art of war, they hurled themselves into combat, each bearing old offenses against the other. Weapons blazed and smoked, gleaming like the moon, as anger and the desire for battle drove them to strike one another fiercely. Some warriors fell, struck down by thunderbolts; others were pierced by arrows, and still others were torn apart by the spinning discus, their bodies tumbling into the churning waters of the ocean. The gods, their garlands and great ornaments cut, their garments and jewels scattered, fell battered among the hosts of whales and crocodiles below. All around, the air was filled with the rain of blows from maces, pestles, javelins, axes, thunderbolts, spears, lances, and swords. A great flood of weapons—mountain peaks and trees, hurled in wrath by swift, smoky, radiant demons—also crashed down into the surging ocean. As gods and demons hurled their weapons with ever-increasing fury, a destruction so great was wrought that even the stars seemed to tremble. Just as a herd of young elephants brings devastation in their wake, so too did the hosts of gods and demons cause a slaughter among the whales and crocodiles of the ocean. Amidst this chaos, Vidyunmālī—swift as a thundercloud wreathed in lightning—rushed toward Nandīśvara, roaring like thunder. That demon, whose voice echoed like thunder, called out to the mountain-like Nandīśvara on the battlefield. “Desiring battle, I, Vidyunmālī, have come, strong as I am. If you escape with your life now, Nandikeśvara, know that it will not be by words that Vidyunmālī is slain in battle, O demon.” To these bold words, Nandīśa, foremost among the blazing ones and skilled in eloquence, replied, “Strike, then, here! O demon, this is not the time for those who desire righteousness. If you are able to kill, why 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? Even one who could cross the ocean with his arms or bring down the sun would not be able to gaze upon me with his eyes.” As Nandī spoke thus, Vidyunmālī struck him with a single arrow, swift and sharp, as the sun pierces a cloud with its rays. The arrow drank the best blood from Nandī’s chest, just as the sun draws up the waters of rivers and oceans by its radiance. Reeling from the powerful blow, Nandī first staggered, then, with the strength of a lordly elephant, uprooted a tree and hurled it at his foe. The tree, battered by the wind and shedding its flowers, roared as it flew, but Vidyunmālī’s excellent arrows cut it down, and it fell like the king of birds. Seeing his attack thwarted, Nandīśvara’s wrath blazed. His hand raised and shining with the brilliance of the sun and Indra, he charged forth to slay that cruel buffalo-like demon, moving with the force of a lordly elephant. As he rushed forward, Vidyunmālī filled him with hundreds of arrows. Pierced by arrows, Śailādi became like a mountain once more; seizing his great chariot, he swiftly departed. But his horse faltered, his head spun, and his chariot whirled in the chaos of battle. He fell, struck down by a sage’s curse, like the sun’s chariot plummeting from the sky. Then, by his power of illusion, the son of Diti emerged and struck Śailādi, who stood firm, with a spear. Śailādi, undaunted, extracted the blood-stained spear and hurled it back at Vidyunmālī, the leader of the Pramathas. Pierced by the 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. But the battle was not yet over. Now, Maya, in his fury, burned the host of Pramathas like a raging forest fire. Their chests were torn by spears, their heads crushed by maces, and their bodies deeply pierced by arrows as they fell into the ocean of Pramathas. Maya, swift in his wrath, struck Shataksha, the serpent king, with a mighty arrow, and wounded Yama and the lord of wealth, roaring like a maddened cloud. Yet, the Pramatha hosts responded; their arrows struck the powerful demons, who, greatly wounded, were driven back into Tripura, just as Shiva himself entered the fray with his discus. Then, the sound of conch shells, drums, and cymbals resounded with lion-like roars, announcing the defeat of the sons of Danu. In Kapardi’s army, the fallen shone like thunderbolts scattered across the battlefield. At that moment, when the city of the demons was destroyed, an auspicious conjunction occurred, and by that conjunction, the three cities of the demons became one. Then, Hara, the three-eyed lord of the three paths, released a mighty threefold arrow—composed of the three deities—swiftly toward Tripura. As the arrow sped forth, it shone like a garland of arrows, and the sky turned golden, tinged by the rays of the sun. When Shiva released this arrow at Tripura, the gods cried out in alarm, “Alas, alas!” and exclaimed, “How terrible!” Seeing the gods bewildered, Śailādi, like a great elephant, approached Maheśvara, the trident-wielder, and asked, “What is this, O Lord?