By the power of the wind-missile, the sky was swept clear—clouds driven away as if by a mighty hand, leaving the heavens shining with the deep blue radiance of a lotus petal. The Dānavas, though fierce and strong, were shaken by this storm; they could not hold their ground in that tumultuous battle. Witnessing his army falter, Jambha, the lord of the Daityas, transformed himself into a mountain ten yojanas wide, determined to withstand the force of the wind and to restore courage to his followers. This mountain blazed with the light of countless weapons and burning trees, a fearsome sight. When the wind at last subsided, Jambha stood firm in his mountain form, radiant and formidable. But swiftly, Indra—the hundred-sacrificed one—hurled a thunderbolt forged of adamant. It struck Jambha’s mountainous body with unerring force, shattering caves and waterfalls all around. Thus, the illusion of the mountain was broken, and Jambha’s formidable guise was dispelled. Undaunted and filled with fierce pride, Jambha next assumed the form of a terrifying elephant, vast as a mountain itself. In this dreadful shape, he crushed the armies of the gods, goring deities with his tusks, seizing and breaking them with his powerful trunk. As the gods’ forces were being destroyed, Indra, the slayer of Vṛtra, released the mighty Nārasiṃha weapon—unconquerable in all three worlds. From this weapon, by the power of sacred mantras, thousands of lions sprang forth. Their black fangs gleamed, their roars thundered, and their claws were sharp as saws. Attacked and torn apart by these ferocious lions, Jambha abandoned his elephant form and became a dreadful serpent, surrounded by a hundred hoods. Now, as a vast serpent, Jambha scorched the armies of the gods with his poisonous breath. Seeing this, Śakra, with beautiful arms, invoked the Garuḍa weapon. From it, thousands of Garuḍas emerged and fell upon Jambha in his serpent form, tearing him to pieces and destroying his illusion. Yet, even as his illusions faded, the great Asura Jambha assumed an even more astonishing form—one that followed the paths of the sun and moon, with a mouth wide open, seeking to devour the foremost among the gods. Into that terrifying maw, as vast and dark as the netherworld, the armies of the gods, with their chariots and elephants, were drawn in. As his host was being swallowed by the powerful Daitya, Śakra—his arms weary and his mount beside him—fell into despair. He could not see what might be done and turned to Janārdana, asking, “Is there anything left to do? On what basis do we, eager for battle, contend with this Daitya?” Hari, noble-minded and steadfast, replied, “Now is not the time to abandon the fight out of fear, O Purandara. Quickly, strengthen your great illusion against the enemy. I have marked this Daitya, possessed and empowered him. Do not fall into delusion, O Śakra; recall your weapon at once, O lord.” Thus encouraged, Śakra, king of the gods, filled with righteous anger, focused his mind and released the Nārāyaṇa weapon at the Asura’s chest. The weapon struck true—Jambha’s heart was pierced, and blood poured forth. The son of the Asura, like a warrior leaving the field, departed; by the power of that weapon, the Daitya’s form was destroyed. But the Daitya was not yet vanquished. He vanished from sight, becoming imperceptible in the sky—beyond the reach of weapons and senses. From his unseen vantage, he unleashed utter destruction upon the armies of the gods: spears, axes, discs, arrows, thunderbolts, and maces rained down. The demon showered swords, slings, clubs, and missiles—unfailing and inexhaustible—upon the gods. The earth was soon covered with arms and heads adorned with earrings, thighs thick as elephant trunks, elephants resembling mountains, broken chariots with shattered poles and wheels, and their charioteers. The ground became impassable, smeared with flesh and blood, rivers of gore swirling among heaps of corpses and bones. Amidst heaps of headless bodies that seemed to dance, garments soaked in blood and mud, and the destruction of all beings in the three worlds, jackals, vultures, and crows rejoiced; sometimes a crow, its eye plucked out, shrieked over a corpse. Jackals dragged entrails away; elsewhere, a dreadful heron gnawed at a body already devoured by dogs, while packs of dogs feasted on flesh and wolves drank elephant blood in secret. In one place, dogs dragged circles of horses; elsewhere, goblins and their mates, intoxicated with delight, drank blood and vied for spoils, exclaiming, “Let this hoof be mine, my beloved!” Others claimed, “Let this lotus-like hand be my ear ornament!” Some lamented over bodies missing their beloveds, while others, having found their beloved, drank warm blood and wrapped the corpse’s skin with thick foliage. A yaksha maiden made a tree from a chopped trunk, seized an elephant’s tusk as her child, and, splitting a pot, sought a pearl as a favor for her beloved. Yakshas and rakshasas drank flesh and blood together. One took the juice from a dead horse’s mane, bringing the blood-wine of her beloved who had fallen, saying, “Let it not go to waste—let it come to me. Gone to the cremation ground, this man’s face is praiseworthy.” Others declared, “This serpent brings us no fear, for he has lost his life; I alone cannot subdue the demon’s single face.” Thus yaksha women spoke to their beloveds, while others, holding skulls, mingled as goblins, yakshas, and rakshasas. They cried, “Give, give to me, for I am ravenous!” Some descended into rivers of blood, washed themselves, satisfied their ancestors, and worshipped the gods with offerings; elephants crossed the lake of blood with ease. Thus, in this deep and perilous battle between gods and demons, the proud warriors, overcome by fear and the unconquerable powers arrayed against them, were shattered. Then Indra, Kubera, Varuna, Vayu, Agni, Yama, and Nirriti—all mighty—released their divine weapons together. From the sky, they hurled these weapons at the demons, but for all their might, the gods’ weapons proved ineffective against their foes.