As the fierce battle raged on, a mighty tree, battered by relentless winds and stripped of its blossoms, let out a thunderous roar. Struck down by the sharp arrows of the demon Vidyunmālī, it crashed to the earth, falling with the weight and grandeur of the king of birds. Witnessing this devastation—the tree felled by the demon’s expert shafts—Nandīśvara, the powerful attendant of Shiva, was seized by a fury so intense it seemed to blaze from his very being. With his hand raised high, shining with the radiance of the sun and Indra, Nandīśvara charged forth, intent on destroying the cruel buffalo-demon, moving with the unstoppable might of a lordly elephant. But as he rushed forward, Vidyunmālī unleashed a torrent of arrows, filling Nandi’s body with hundreds of piercing shafts. Undeterred, Śailādi, his body bristling with arrows, seemed to transform once more into a mountain. Grasping his great chariot, he sped away with swiftness, though his horse lagged, his head swam, and his chariot spun wildly amid the chaos of battle. Overcome by a sage’s curse, he fell, like the sun’s own chariot plummeting from the heavens. At that moment, the son of Diti emerged by his own illusory power. Striking at steadfast Śailādi with a blood-stained spear, he sought to end him. Yet Śailādi, resolute, extracted the spear from his own body and hurled it back at Vidyunmālī, the leader of the Pramathas. The spear flew true, shattering Vidyunmālī’s armor and splitting his heart; the mighty demon fell to earth like a mountain struck by a bolt of lightning. With Vidyunmālī slain, the Siddhas, Charanas, and Kinnaras—celestial beings all—cried out in wonder, exclaiming, “Excellent, excellent!” and offered worship to Umāpati, the Lord of Uma. Yet even as Nandi triumphed and Vidyunmālī lay vanquished, Maya, the master of illusion, unleashed his wrath. Like a raging forest fire, he scorched the hosts of Pramathas, the divine attendants of Shiva. The battlefield became a sea of suffering: chests were torn by spears, heads crushed by maces, and bodies pierced deeply by arrows. The Pramathas fell in great numbers, as if into an ocean of their own kind. Maya, roaring like a maddened storm-cloud, pierced Shataksha, the serpent king, with a mighty arrow, and wounded both Yama, the lord of death, and the lord of wealth. But the Pramatha hosts rallied, and their arrows struck the demons with great force. Wounded grievously, the demons were driven back into the city of Tripura, even as Shiva entered the fray, his discus flashing in battle. The air resounded with the blare of conch shells, the thunder of drums, and the clash of cymbals—mighty lion-roars announcing the defeat of the sons of Danu. In Kapardi’s army, the demons fell everywhere, their bodies shining like thunderbolts in the midst of conflict. When the demon city was finally destroyed, an auspicious conjunction occurred. By this celestial alignment, the three cities of Tripura were drawn together and united as one. Then Hara, the three-eyed Lord of the Three Paths, took up a threefold arrow—an arrow composed of the essences of the three great deities—and released it swiftly at Tripura. As the arrow sped forth, it shone like a garland of blazing missiles, and the sky itself turned golden, tinged by the brilliance of the sun. Seeing Shiva release the arrow made of the three deities at Tripura, the gods themselves cried out in alarm, “Alas, alas!” and exclaimed in awe at the terrible sight. Beholding the gods bewildered, Śailādi, steadfast as an elephant, approached Maheśvara, the trident-wielder, and asked, “Lord, what is this?” The moon-crested, matted-haired Shiva, deeply moved, replied to Nandi: “Today, that Maya, though devoted, will surely perish.” With the swiftness and power of the wind itself, Nandi sped toward Tripura and entered the city. Finding Maya, the golden-hued leader, he spoke: “O Maya, terrible destruction has come upon Tripura. Leave this house at once, I tell you.” Hearing Nandi’s words, the steadfast devotee of Maheshvara departed the city through its main gate. Then, as a leaf is consumed in a flame, Nandi set the three cities ablaze. In that moment, fire, the moon, and Narayana themselves also seemed to split in three and burn the cities. O best of the twice-born, the cities—filled with the brilliance of Shiva’s arrow—were utterly consumed, just as a noble lineage is destroyed from above by the fault of a wicked son. The three cities, grand as Mount Meru and Kailasa, resembling the peaks of Mandara, were adorned with splendid doors and windows, radiant with offerings. Within them stood beautiful palaces, towering mansions, reservoirs brimming with water, and renowned halls for viewing—magnificent in every way. The houses of Tripura, decked with banners and flags of gold and silver, belonging to the Danavas, were set ablaze by fire in thousands, burning with a brilliance like fire itself. In those lovely palaces, in the forests and groves, in the upper chambers and open courtyards, many others dwelled. Embraced by their lovers, delighting together, the wives of the Danava lords were consumed by the flames, still clinging to their beloveds as fire claimed them. One woman, unable to flee, abandoned her beloved, and before his very eyes, perished in the mouth of the fire, meeting her end. With tears in her lotus-like eyes, her hands joined in supplication, one woman cried out to the fire: “O Fire, I am the wife of another, O tormentor of foes! Witness of righteousness for the three worlds, you should not touch me here. I have lain with another, O god, and with Shiva’s radiance. Go elsewhere, leaving this house and my beloved to me.” Another Danava woman, clutching her young son, stood near the fire and pleaded: “This boy, O Fire, is my son, born of sorrow. You should not take him, beloved of Shanmukha, my dear one.” Some Danava women, abandoning their beloveds in their affliction, leapt into the waters of the ocean, their ornaments tinkling as they fled. Cries of “Father, son!” and “Mother!” echoed through Tripura, as the women wailed in anguish, trembling amidst the flames. Just as fire on a mountain burns the lotuses and the creatures of the water, so did the fire in Tripura consume the lotus-like faces of the women. And just as a mass of frost burns the lotuses in a pond with its cold, so too did the fire burn the fair faces and eyes of the women of Tripura, bringing the once-glorious cities to utter ruin.