With reverence and devotion, the king bowed to the eternal sacrificial man—majestic, with splendid tusks, whose eyes are the Moon and Sun, whose belly holds the two solstices of the year, whose body hair is sacred darbha grass, and whose power is the fuel of sacrificial fires. He acknowledged that the Lord’s vast form pervades the space between heaven and earth and stretches across all directions; the king praised Janārdana, the source of all worlds, offering his obeisance always. He recognized that, throughout the cycles of ages, for the victory or defeat of gods and demons, the Supreme Lord—beginningless and without end—creates his own primordial body, embodying sacrifice itself. The king worshipped him who, formed of fierce energy and illusion, wields the shining discus for victory and holds in four arms the mace, sword, and the bow Śārṅga. To that embodiment of sacrifice, the king bowed again and again. He marvelled at the Lord’s many forms: sometimes bearing a thousand heads, sometimes vast as a mountain, sometimes so minute as a speck of dust. To this eternal sacrificial man, he offered his respects. He praised the four-faced creator, who holds the wheel for protection and, for destruction, becomes the fire at the end of time. He saluted the Lord who is worshipped for the movement of the wheel of worldly existence, who is all-pervading and ancient, meditated upon by yogis, immeasurable in his glory. The king declared that he had truly offered his mind to the Lord. When the Lord’s true nature was clearly seen in his own form, the king’s mind became steady, knowing nothing else existed. He prayed for the preservation of his pure devotion. As these prayers were uttered, a radiant flame appeared before the king, like the fire’s own brilliance. Fixing his mind upon it, the king entered into that radiance and attained dissolution in the embodiment of sacrifice. Then, the Earth herself asked, “After Vasu and the excellent Raibhya had their doubts removed, O Lord, what did the two do, having heard the words of Āṅgirasa?” Śrī Varāha replied: Vasu, who knew all dharma, ruled his kingdom with wisdom and performed many great sacrifices, bestowing abundant gifts. The king, seeing Hari Nārāyaṇa as non-different from himself, propitiated the Lord of the gods through ritual acts. After a long time, having enjoyed the pleasures of sovereignty, the king’s mind came to the end of duality. He then installed his best son, Vivasvat—foremost among a hundred brothers—upon the throne, and departed to the forest of ascetics. There, he journeyed to Puṣkara, the holiest of sacred sites, where Keśava, known as Puṇḍarīkākṣa, is worshipped by the devoted. At Puṣkara, the royal sage Vasu, king of Kashmir, undertook intense austerities, causing his body to waste away. With devotion, he recited the supreme hymn to Puṇḍarīkākṣa, seeking to please the sinless Lord Nārāyaṇa. At the end of his hymn, the best of kings attained union with the Lord. The Earth then asked, “O Lord, how is the supreme hymn to Puṇḍarīkākṣa remembered? What is it like? Please tell me truthfully.” Śrī Varāha answered: “Salutations to you, Puṇḍarīkākṣa; salutations to you, Madhusūdana; salutations to you, Lord of all worlds; salutations to you, wielder of the fierce discus. I bow to Puṇḍarīkākṣa, the universal form, mighty-armed, bestower of boons, radiant and all-pervading, the Lord who is both knowledge and ignorance. I bow to Madhusūdana, the primeval God, the great Lord, master of the Vedas and their limbs, profound, Lord of all gods. I honor the lotus-eyed one, the universal form, the great form, the embodiment of knowledge, the triple-formed protector of all gods. I bow to the Supreme Lord, the thousand-headed God, thousand-eyed, mighty-armed, who pervades and stands throughout the universe. I bow to Viṣṇu, the eternal, victorious God, the refuge and protector, whose appearance is like a dark raincloud, who bears the discus. I bow to Hari, pure, all-pervading, eternal, of the form of space, ancient, free from existence and non-existence. O Acyuta, I see nothing apart from you; I see all this, moving and unmoving, as pervaded by you.” As he was speaking thus, a person of form emerged from his body—dark as a raincloud, fierce and terrifying, with red eyes and a short stature, his luster like a burnt pillar. Standing with joined palms, he asked, “O king, what shall I do?” The king replied, “Who are you? What is your purpose here? Why have you come? Tell me, O hunter; I wish to know.” The hunter answered, “O king, in a former age, during the Kali Yuga, you were a king in the southern region, born of perfect righteousness, illustrious and wise, dwelling in Janasthāna. Once, surrounded by horses, you entered the forest to hunt wild beasts. There, driven by another desire, you struck down a sage disguised as a deer with your staff from a distance, causing him to fall to the ground. As soon as the Brahmin died, you rejoiced, thinking, ‘This deer has been killed by Hari,’ while you beheld it as a deer. Seeing him, your senses and mind were disturbed; you returned home and told someone else about it. Then, after a few days, fearful of the sin of Brahmin-killing, you pondered at night, ‘What should I do for atonement, so that I may be freed from this sin?’ Thereafter, you meditated upon Lord Nārāyaṇa and, on the pure Dvādaśī day, observed a fast. On an auspicious day, declaring, ‘Nārāyaṇa is well-pleased with me,’ you gave a cow according to the rite; but the one who had died suffered immediately from a pain in his belly. The reason why the Dvādaśī vow was not fully observed, I shall tell you: your virtuous wife, named Nārāyaṇī, was the cause. Because she uttered with a choking breath, your fate was that for one kalpa you were born in Viṣṇu’s city. And I, dwelling in your body, know everything without end; the terrible affliction of Brahminicide tormented me—so I thought.” Thus, the king’s journey through devotion, penance, and the revelation of past deeds unfolded, guided by the wisdom of the Lord, and culminating in union with the Supreme, the embodiment of sacrifice.