Urged on by Mahadeva, the fierce personification of fever surged forth, assailing Krishna’s army. The foremost among Krishna’s warriors, struck by this fever’s burning force, were quickly overwhelmed; broken in spirit and body, they scattered in flight. Krishna saw his followers thus afflicted—yawning with exhaustion, writhing in pain, tormented by the fever’s relentless grip. Greatly enraged by their suffering, Krishna summoned forth his own power and created the Vaishnava fever to counter the onslaught. A terrible and even more dreadful battle erupted between these two mighty fevers, each more fearsome than the other. They raged against one another, their conflict spreading throughout all the worlds, yet nowhere could they find peace or rest. At last, in search of relief, both fevers plunged into the sacred waters of the Shipra river—and there, at once, they attained supreme peace. The Vaishnava fever, too, upon arriving at the Shipra, performed immersion in its holy waters. From that moment onward, the river became a destroyer of all fevers; its waters gained the power to dispel illness instantly. Those who, with focused mind and devotion, immerse themselves in the Shipra are freed from every ailment. This truth was spoken then, O Vyasa—by Brahma, Hari, and Hara themselves. And those who listen to this divine story with concentrated mind are blessed. Thus ends the forty-ninth chapter, “The Favor to Fever,” in the section on the glory of Shipra, within the Avanti region, in the fifth book of the great Skanda Mahapurana. Now, O scorcher of foes, hear briefly another tale. In ancient times, during the Kṛta age, there was a king named Damanona, O Vyasa. He strayed from every righteous path, reviling cows and Brahmanas, seizing the wealth of his subjects, and violating the sanctity of others’ wives. He captured cows, broke into cities, imprisoned people, and took delight in the company of criminals. Abandoning the virtuous, he favored the wicked, constantly disparaged dharma, and found joy in unrighteousness. He showed contempt for the gods, the Vedas, and sacrifices, striking at their images with his feet. One day, this wicked king wandered into a dreadful forest, hunting wild animals. But he found no game, and as hunger and thirst gnawed at him, night fell—terrifying and filled with horrors. He tied his horse to a branch and sat down alone, when suddenly something strange approached. Wondering what it was, he tried to ward it off with his hand, but was bitten. Distressed, the king fell to the ground and, in that very moment, became a ghost—cast into a dreadful accumulation of hells. The attendants of King Yama rejoiced at his arrival. Meanwhile, Vyasa, his corpse was devoured by flesh-eating creatures. Rising into the sky, he carried meat in his beak, wandering until he came to the banks of the divine Shipra river, rich in waters. There, his body fell into the sacred river. At that moment, the three-eyed Shiva, with matted locks and clad in a tiger skin, appeared. The messengers of Yama, beholding this wondrous form, were struck with awe and reverence. “Hear, O great king! O Lord of Dharma, homage to you!” they cried. “This ruler of the Kīkaṭas is dull-witted, most sinful, and lord of outcastes. Whatever sins there are—even those as grave as Brahmin-slaying—he has committed. He breaks all boundaries, harms those who rightly follow their caste and stage of life. This sinner delights in Yama’s rod and increases our joy.” Thus, the story unfolds, revealing both the sanctity of the Shipra and the consequences of unrighteousness, as told in the Skanda Purana.