The Daitya armies, overwhelmed and bewildered, lost all their brilliance and fell from the battlefield like mighty mountains whose wings had been shorn away. Their leader, the lord of the Daityas, seemed cloaked in darkness as dense as the ocean at night, as if even the destroyer of gods himself were enveloped in an impenetrable gloom. At this moment, Maya conjured a powerful illusion—tamasic and blazing—born from the fierce Aurva fire, resembling the fire that arises at the very end of an age. This illusion, masterfully crafted, scorched the gods, while the Daityas, adopting the dazzling forms of the sun, surged up again to fight. Afflicted by the burning illusion of Aurva, the gods, tormented and desperate for relief, fled to the realm of the moon, seeking its coolness and the soothing touch of water. Yet, even there, their minds clouded and bodies burning, the gods found no peace. In their distress, they turned to the wielder of the thunderbolt, Indra, seeking refuge and a solution. As the divine army suffered under the Daityas’ onslaught and the suffocating illusion, Varuṇa, urged on by Indra, spoke up to reveal a deeper truth behind the fire that tormented them. He began to recount an ancient tale: “Once, O Indra, the sage Aurva, born of the great Brahmarshis, undertook severe austerities. His brilliance rivaled that of Brahmā himself. As Aurva’s penance blazed like the sun, the hosts of divine sages and Devarṣis approached him in reverence. At that time, Hiraṇyakaśipu, lord of the Dānavas, also visited the supremely radiant sage to make his request. The Brahmarshis then addressed Aurva with words of righteousness: ‘O venerable one, the lineage of seers to which you belong has been cut off at its root. You alone remain, without offspring, for you have kept the vow of celibacy from your youth and continued in hardship. Among the purified sages, many lineages persist, but their bodies are solitary, without progeny. Our sons are lost, but you, foremost in austerity and radiant like Prajapati, endure. Therefore, for the sake of your lineage, act now. Increase your line by your own self. Through the virtue you have gained, create a second body.’ Hearing this, the sage was deeply struck. He reproached the assembled seers and replied: ‘The eternal practice among sages has always been to follow the way of the rishis—living on roots and fruits of the forest. For a Brahmin born of Brahma, who has realized the self, steadfast celibacy can even unsettle the mind of Brahma himself. There are three ways of life for householders, but for us who dwell in the forest, the ascetic life is supreme. Some live on water, some on air, some grind food with their teeth, some pound with stones, and some endure the fivefold heat. All undertake the most difficult vows, with celibacy at the forefront, seeking the highest state. It is celibacy that establishes a Brahmin’s true nature; so declare those who know celibacy in the other world. Truth abides in celibacy, as does austerity; those Brahmins who remain steadfast in celibacy dwell in heaven. Without yoga, there is no attainment; without attainment, there is no fame. In this world, there is no root of fame greater than celibacy, nor any austerity superior to it. He who restrains his senses and controls the five elements, establishing himself in celibacy—what austerity could be greater? Wearing matted hair without true union, performing vows without resolve, and conduct without celibacy—these three are known as hypocrisy. What need have we of wives, of union, or of the confusion of feelings? Was not the mental progeny created by Brahma through his mind alone? If you truly possess the power of austerity, then create mental sons, as Prajapati did. The womb of the mind should be established by ascetics; for those released by vows, there is neither union nor seed. What you have suggested, abandoning righteousness and purpose, seems to me, though spoken by the good, to be as if spoken by the wicked. Therefore, having made this body, blazing with inner power and formed of the mind’s substance, I shall create a son from my own being, without union. Thus, by this wild method, my own self will beget a second self, as if wishing to burn up all creatures.’ With his mind possessed by austerity, Aurva placed his thigh in the sacred fire. Using a single blade of grass as the churning stick, he pierced his own thigh, seeking the birth of a son. Suddenly, from his thigh, a son wreathed in flames and without need of fuel was born—Agni, the fire—intent on consuming the world. Splitting open Urvaśī’s thigh, that fierce fire, called Aurva, the Ender, was born, as if he wished to burn the three worlds. Immediately upon his birth, the child spoke to his father in a voice weakened by hunger: ‘Father, hunger torments me; release me to consume the world.’ As he spoke, the fire expanded, his flames reaching the heavens, blazing in all ten directions, intent on burning all beings. Witnessing this, Brahmā himself, honoring the sage Aurva, intervened: ‘Restrain your son and show compassion to the world. For this child of yours, O sage, I shall provide an excellent abode. This is the truth, O son, best of speakers, listen to my words.’ Aurva, filled with gratitude, replied, ‘Blessed and favored am I, for today the Lord grants this understanding for my child—truly, this is the highest grace.