With a roar that echoed across the heavens, Vīrabhadra, the mighty-armed, unleashed his wrath upon the fleeing gods. His sharp arrows rained down upon them, relentless as Magha’s monsoon pelting the mountains. The many arms of this formidable hero, each resembling an iron club, glittered with blazing weapons, as if serpents themselves had become sheathed in living fire. Weapons and missiles flew from his hands in countless numbers, and Vīrabhadra shone with a radiance reminiscent of the very source of creation, releasing all beings into existence. As the sun’s rays envelop the earth, so too did his arrows cover every direction in an instant, blotting out the sky. Each arrow, adorned with gold, soared in the circle of the heavens, flashing like bolts of lightning. The mighty hosts that followed him struck down the gods, separating them from their very lives, as easily as drums scatter frogs in the monsoon. They drank the intoxicating blood that flowed from the wounds. Some gods had their arms severed, others their faces torn away, some were ripped open at the sides; thus, the immortals fell to the earth, their bodies broken. Pierced by arrows, their joints shattered, eyes rolling upward, many fell lifeless to the ground, some wishing to sink into the earth, others longing to escape into the sky. In their desperation, some gods melted together, unable to restrain themselves, while others fled into the caves of distant mountains. Some took refuge in the sky, others plunged into the waters, as Vīrabhadra stood resplendent among the gods, his foes’ limbs scattered around him. He appeared then as Bhairava himself, the Lord surrounded by his fierce hosts, the destroyer of Tripura—consuming the multitude of beings before him. The entire army of the gods became pitiable, wretched and hideous to behold, a sight born of the lord of the hosts’ fury. From the bodies of the fallen gods, a dreadful river of blood began to flow, its ominous current foretelling terror for all living beings. The sacrificial ground, drenched in blood, seemed clothed in red, dark as night, like the goddess Kaishiki bereft of her beauty. As this great and terrible battle raged, the earth itself trembled with fear. The vast ocean surged, sending forth mighty waves and whirlpools; blazing meteors streaked across the sky as dire omens, and trees cast down their branches in despair. All the quarters of the world became inauspicious, and an unwholesome wind blew. The natural order was overturned—though Daksha, son of Brahma and lord of creatures, was the sacrificer, this horse-sacrifice had become improper. Yet, amidst the chaos, the upholders of righteousness and the assembly members were protected by the one bearing the Garuda banner, and the gods led by Indra received their shares directly. Still, for Daksha, the priests, and the sacrifice itself, the result was immediate beheading—an outcome unworthy and tragic. Thus, it was declared: what is not prescribed by the Veda, nor sanctioned by the Lord, should never be performed. Even if one undertakes countless sacrifices and meritorious deeds, without devotion to the Great Lord, the fruit is not attained. Conversely, even the gravest sinner who worships Shiva with devotion is freed from all sins—of this, there is no doubt. Why say more? Charity, austerity, sacrifice, and oblation are all in vain for one who delights in reviling Shiva. The hosts of gods, along with Narayana, the Rudras, and the guardians of the worlds, struck by the arrows of the lord of the hosts, fled the battlefield, overcome with excruciating pain. Some divine heroes wandered with hair disheveled, some staggered with limbs outstretched, others fell with faces shattered, and some could move no more. There, amidst the carnage, some of the gods perished, their garments, ornaments, weapons, and armor scattered, collapsing in utter distress, their pride, arrogance, and strength abandoned. Having routed the path and scattered Daksha’s sacrifice, Vīrabhadra, weapons unbroken, stood among the leaders of the hosts, shining resplendent, like a lion among bulls. Thus, with their bodies shattered and broken, the gods led by Vishnu found themselves in a dire state, trembling, with only a few survivors. The Pramatha hosts, incited by Vīrabhadra and filled with supreme fury, pursued the terrified gods and others across the battlefield. Seizing them, they bound their hands, feet, necks, and bellies with strong iron fetters. At that desperate moment, Brahma himself, the blessed one, best of mountains and son of Indra, moved by compassion and acting as a charioteer, approached and spoke in supplication: “Enough of this anger, O Lord! These dwellers of heaven are destroyed. Be gracious—let all be forgiven, together with the Romajas, O virtuous one.” Hearing Brahma’s words, the supreme attendant, out of respect, became peaceful and pleased. The gods, seizing this opportunity, ministers of the god of gods, placed their hands in reverence upon their heads and praised him with many hymns: “To Rudra the auspicious, lord of the Rudras, embodiment of Rudra. To the form of Kālāgni Rudra, destroyer of the bodies of Kāla and Kāma, slayer of the heads of the gods and of the wicked Daksha. Because of association with the sin of Daksha, who acts without blemish, we have been punished in battle by you, O hero, though we are blameless. We have all been burned by you, O lord, and are afraid; you alone are our refuge—protect us who have come for shelter.” Thus praised and appeased, the lord released the gods from bondage and brought them before the god of gods. There, the blessed lord stood in the sky with his attendants, the all-pervading Śarva, the great lord of all worlds, radiant and supreme.