Citragupta, mighty-armed and ever mindful of the welfare of all worlds, stood at the center of a gathering storm. Before him assembled the Rākṣasas—beings of fierce and varied forms, flesh-eating and terrible to behold. They wore armor fashioned from bound iguana skin and wielded a multitude of weapons, their eyes glinting with anticipation. Rejoicing in the prospect of battle, they called out, “Command us swiftly, O Lord!” Hearing their eager words, Citragupta addressed them with a commanding voice: “Ho, ho! Brave Mandehakas, guardians of my will! Go forth—slay and bind the offenders, then return as before. Destroy those evildoers who act contrary to my wishes.” But the Rākṣasas, in their turn, replied, “It is the ministers alone who should be recognized as your true servants, though their numbers reach into the hundreds of thousands. You yourself, O great-souled one, have marked these for destruction. Yet, as they have arisen, all of them now contemplate righteousness. Let there be no false promise from you, who are devoted to dharma. Rescue us, O hero, for we are your mighty attendants.” As these words were spoken, a host of terrible diseases—capable of assuming any form at will—manifested upon the field. Some rode elephants, others horses, and some thundered forth in chariots, their strength formidable. Still others appeared with deer, jackals, buffaloes, tigers, and sheep as their mounts. All were equipped with diverse vehicles and brandished a dazzling array of weapons. The air resounded with the tumult of drums, the blare of trumpets, and the clamor of warriors. In the midst of this deep darkness, a great and dreadful battle erupted. Severed heads, adorned with earrings, cast an eerie illumination across the earth. Spears, javelins, staffs, tomaras, and swords flashed and struck, as a tumultuous, hair-raising conflict raged. Warriors grappled in fierce hand-to-hand combat, arms entwined and hands seizing at hair. Soon, the Rākṣasas began to falter under the onslaught of messengers of terrible valor. The piśācas, too, fell and retreated from the battlefield, battered and afflicted by the fury of war. Amidst the chaos, shouts rang out: “Stop, stop! Where are you going?” “I will not go; stand firm!” Others taunted, “Fool, you did not hurl a weapon at me that could cause me pain!” and, “What are you saying, O wicked-minded one? It is I who have crossed over in battle!” Suddenly, new terrifying flesh-eating Rākṣasas appeared, intensifying the carnage. Yet even these shape-shifting Rākṣasas, both visible and invisible, were broken in the fight. That army, shrouded in darkness, beheld the trident-wielder—he of deformed eyes, the destroyer of all living beings. Urged on by Citragupta, the hosts began to devour and strike with renewed ferocity. Cries went up, “Today, O greatly fortunate one, protect us, Lord of the world!” Then, Fever himself, enraged and radiant, swept into the fray, attacking thousands of warriors with his burning brilliance. He dispatched men blazing like fire, commanding, “Burn these sinners quickly, with your power and might!” At Fever’s command, all his followers, roaring like thunderclouds, struck with many weapons and shining arms. At last, Yama himself released the full force of battle, and the terrible conflict raged on, shaking the worlds.