The two goddesses, radiant and resolute, entered the vastness of the sky and the world shaped from sky within the cosmic egg, slipping through as delicately as an ant might enter a ripe wood-apple through a small hole. Moving through realms unseen by mortal eyes, they traversed other worlds, glided past mountains and the expanse of mid-space, until at last they reached the earth—a realm crowded with mighty mountain ranges and encircled by great oceans. Upon their arrival, their gaze fell upon Jambudvipa, splendidly adorned by the golden Mount Meru at its heart, its interior divided into nine petals like a celestial blossom. Within this sacred land, in the region of Bharata, lay the kingdom of Lila’s husband. At that very moment, in this resplendent realm, a king whose authority reached the farthest borders of his land was engaged in a great act of conquest. The excitement of battle drew together beings from all three worlds, crowding the sky above with eager onlookers, so densely packed that the heavens themselves seemed overflowing. The two queens, undaunted and serene, arrived amid this celestial throng. They beheld the sky filled with hosts of divine beings, their presence as splendid as the gathering of monsoon clouds. There were Siddhas, Charanas, Gandharvas, and Vidyadharas, all surrounded by heavenly nymphs, each eager to claim the victorious heroes for themselves. Among the crowd danced spirits, demons, and ghouls, their mouths stained with blood and flesh, while Vidyadhara maidens scattered showers of flowers from their hands. Encircling the scene were Vetalas, Yakshas, and Kumbhandas, respectfully observing the duels, and even mountain peaks had been seized as shields against the rain of falling weapons. Within this tumultuous sky, weapons flashed and flew, spirits fled in terror, and the space was illuminated by the radiant warriors and the shining soldiers of Indra. The mighty elephants of the world-guardians, adorned for the occasion, approached the battlefield, while groups of heroes gathered and Gandharvas and Charanas looked on with anticipation. Noble warriors found themselves the focus of passionate glances from celestial women, and the throngs of spectators were stirred by the fever of the heroic contest. The air was thick with the tumult of fierce battles, the shouts and talk of warriors passing from one to another, while beautiful women, skilled in playful laughter and graceful gestures, waved yak-tail fans to cool the champions. High above, the greatest sages chanted auspicious hymns for the righteous side, and the wives of many lords of the worlds sang fresh songs of praise. Hosts of women, longing for the embrace of heroic arms, gathered, and the radiant glory of the brave shone so purely white that even the sun seemed pale, as if transformed into the moon. A question arose in that sacred air: “O venerable one, what kind of warrior is truly called ‘heroic’? Who in heaven is adorned, and who is said to be slain by the ḍimbāha?” The answer came: He who, following the conduct prescribed by scripture and for the sake of his lord, dies or is victorious in battle—he alone is called a hero and attains the world of heroes. But if a man is slain in battle with his limbs severed, he is said to be killed by the ḍimbāha and is destined for hell. If one fights for wealth with conduct contrary to the scriptures, death in such a battle brings endless torment. Yet, he who acts according to the possible meanings of scripture and the customs of the world, fighting with devotion and righteousness, is truly called a hero. One who strives to protect the cow, the Brahmin, a friend, or acts out of pure intention for those who seek refuge—such a person, dying in their defense, is adorned in heaven. It is always the king’s duty to protect his own land; if he dies for this cause, he is a hero and attains the realm of heroes. But those who perish fighting for a king whose intent is rooted in harming the people are bound for hell. When battle is conducted in righteousness, even those intoxicated by destruction cannot disturb the order by which people are freed from fear. Though it is said by the ignorant that any slain warrior attains heaven, the scriptures proclaim that only the righteous warrior is truly a hero. Those who endure the sword’s edge for the sake of the virtuous are called heroes; the rest are merely shield-bearers. For these true heroes, in the sky of battle, divine maidens—beloved of the great souls who have become gods—stand waiting with eager longing. The celestial festival above is as if the heavens themselves are dancing, with rows of radiant planes where gods and siddhas recline, surrounded by proud women garlanded with mandara flowers, and filled with the sweet, gentle songs of the Vidyadharis. Amidst this celestial celebration, as the heavenly nymphs danced with longing for the greatest hero, Lila—endowed with wisdom—stood in the sky and observed all that unfolded below. On the earth, in the Surashtra region ruled by Bhartṛpāla and covered with dense forests, there stretched a vast wilderness, fearsome and boundless, like a second sky. There, two great armies, calm and undisturbed, faced one another—each as immense and steadfast as a tranquil ocean, each led by a noble king. Prepared for the coming battle, the warriors stood well-armored and ready, like fire kindled by sacred offerings. Their eyes were restless, watching the first movements of assault. They brandished spotless, unsheathed swords, and the field shimmered with the flashing of axes, spears, maces, and shields. The ground shook with the rush of warriors, as if a forest tossed by the mighty wings of Garuda, and the gold armlets of the combatants glinted in the rising sunlight. Weapons were raised in anger as the warriors faced each other, their fierce gazes locked, as if painted upon the canvas of a marvelous mural. Their ranks were set in long, drawn lines of formation, and the air reverberated with the thunderous, inescapable clamor of their gathering. In the early hours, as the drums had long since fallen silent, the battle formations stood fixed—unmoving and tense. The two armies were separated by only the span of two bows, with a single bridge of empty space between them, divided only by the wind of imagination—like a single ocean made wild by a hidden current. In the midst of this tension, the lord of the land was overwhelmed by anxious thoughts about the crisis at hand. His heart was fragile and restless, like the croaking throat of a frog exposed to the sun. Yet around him stood countless soldiers, ready to sacrifice their very breath, and archers with bows drawn, arrows poised at their ears, eager for the battle to begin. Thus, the stage was set—earth and sky alike filled with anticipation and the promise of valor, as the eyes of gods, sages, and mortals watched the unfolding drama of heroism and fate.