The world was thrown into turmoil. Mountains shattered, the earth itself trembled with dread, and wild, violent winds howled across the land. Even the depths of the sea were stirred and agitated, as if nature recoiled in fear. Fires refused to burn, the sun withheld its light, and throughout the heavens, neither planets nor stars nor constellations shone; all was plunged into unnatural darkness. It was at this moment that the blessed Vīrabhadra arrived, accompanied by his devoted followers and the revered goddess. Together, they approached the blazing enclosure of the sacrifice, their presence formidable and awe-inspiring. As Vīrabhadra entered, Daksha, though gripped by terror, stood his ground, feigning anger and resolve. He demanded, “Who are you? What do you seek here?” Vīrabhadra, radiant and terrible, his voice rumbling like thunderclouds, listened to Daksha’s challenge. Fixing his gaze upon Daksha, and with a subtle, unsettling smile, Vīrabhadra addressed the assembly of gods and priests with words that were both clear and full of meaning: “We are attendants of Śarva, the Lord of boundless power. We have come here desiring our rightful share; let it now be given to us.” He continued, “If, in this sacrifice, no portion has been allotted to us, then state the reason—or else, let me fight here with the immortals.” Thus challenged by the mighty lord of hosts, the gods, with Daksha at their head, replied, “The mantras are our authority; we ourselves have no power.” The mantras themselves then spoke, chiding the gods: “O gods, your minds are clouded by delusion, for you do not worship Maheshvara, who deserves the first portion of the sacrifice.” Yet, even when admonished by the very mantras that gave them power, the gods, their minds utterly confused, refused to offer the auspicious portion, intent on rejecting it. When their own words, though true and proper, proved fruitless, these dull-minded gods departed for the eternal realm of Brahma. Then Vīrabhadra, chief of Shiva’s hosts, spoke to the gods, with Vishnu at their head: “You have not honored the mantras, blinded as you are by pride in your own strength. Because you have dishonored us in this sacrifice, I shall now remove your pride—along with your very lives.” With these words, the enraged Lord split the great altar of the Yakshas with fire from his eye, just as Hara had done in times before. Then, all the hosts of Shiva’s attendants, their forms towering like mountains, uprooted the sacrificial posts and tied them around the priests’ necks with ropes. They broke and crushed the various sacrificial vessels, seized the sacred offerings, and hurled them into the stream of the holy Ganga. Within the chaos, heaps of divine food and drink as large as mountains appeared, rivers of milk flowing with nectar and rich, creamy curds. There were meats of every kind, both coarse and fine, fragrant foods and flavorful drinks, delicacies to lick and chew—abundant and overflowing. The fierce heroes devoured these offerings, plundering and scattering them, wielding thunderbolts, discs, great spears, darts, nooses, and clubs. With pestles, swords, spikes, splitting rods, and axes, they attacked the gods and the guardians of the worlds. These mighty beings, born from the very body of Vīrabhadra, struck, broke, hurled, and destroyed with cries of “Cut! Break! Throw! Tear! Rend!” Their harsh, furious shouts—“Strike! Attack! Split! Uproot!”—echoed terribly, terrifying all who heard them. Wherever these lords of the hosts appeared, ready for battle, some had eyes wide open in rage, others bit their lips, teeth, and palates in fierce concentration. They dragged away hermitage-dwellers, slew ascetics, seized their ladles, and threw fire into the waters. Pots were broken, jewel altars shattered; all the while, they sang, shouted, and laughed in wild abandon. The foremost of Shiva’s attendants drank blood-wine and danced, having crushed the gods, including mighty Indra; these leaders were like chiefs among bulls, serpents, and lions. They performed deeds beyond compare, their hair bristling with delight—some rejoicing, some striking, some running, some babbling. Some danced, others laughed or leaped, displaying the full strength of the Pramathas. Some sought to seize the clouds, others leapt to grasp the sun, while yet others wished to rush along with the wind; the fierce Pramathas stood even in the sky. Some, brandishing mighty weapons, wandered like great serpents or like Garuda himself; the gods fled in terror, while these beings moved through the sky like mountain peaks. Some uprooted houses—complete with latticed windows and railings—and hurled them into the waters, roaring like storm clouds. Doors, walls, and balconies were overturned and destroyed, leaving the sacrificial enclosure broken and abandoned, like a statement devoid of meaning. As houses were torn apart, the women within cried out in despair: “O protector! O father! O son! O brother! O mother!” In the midst of this devastation, the principal gods—Vishnu, Indra, and the rest—were overwhelmed by fear and panic, and they fled. Witnessing the gods under attack, though their own bodies had committed no wrong, and seeing the truly guilty go unpunished, the foremost leader of the hosts grew furious. He seized his trident, the subduer of all powers, his gaze lifted and mighty arms ablaze, with flames issuing from his mouth. He drove away even the gods, scattering them like a lion dispersing elephants; his advance was terrible yet awe-inspiring in its beauty. Like a maddened ascetic in Varanasi, he became a spectacle to behold, disturbing the great army of the gods. Like a wild elephant leader in a vast lake, he displayed many colors—blue, pale, and red—his form a dazzling and fearsome vision amidst the chaos.