The ancient forests trembled and fell, their trees and creatures shattered by the immense violence, breaking apart like delicate threads stretched beyond their strength. Crowds of warriors surged upon the chariots, whose wheels stood upright amidst the chaos, while the heads of their riders were either buried beneath the wreckage or raised high, resembling clouds crashing upon forested mountains. As the tumult pressed deeper, the armies reached dense groves of sal and palmyra, which became thickets overrun with people—a wild place where arms were severed and upraised trunks of trees mingled with upraised limbs. Amidst this devastation, the beautiful women, intoxicated by youth, found joy in the gardens and groves upon Mount Meru, protected by the foremost of heroes. Yet, the lofty forest of warriors blazed with the tumult of battle-cries, until the enemy overran it, consuming all like a world-ending fire. Some, their weapons seized by the Huns and joined by fierce demons, having struck down their foes, fled for safety to the lands of the Karnas and Dasharnas, just as birds flee to water. The proud warriors of Kashi, their voices broken and their splendor dimmed by the might of the Tajika troops, withered away like lotuses in a dried-up stream. Encircled by belts of arrows, spears, lances, and maces, they were driven into a hell known as the domain of Karkota. The Kurukshetra warriors, surrounded by ascetics disguised as fighters, found themselves powerless, as virtues are overcome by the wicked. In a swift and ruthless assault, the Dravidians took the heads of the banyan-tree dwellers with arrows and fled as quickly as plucked lotuses. Yet, just as Sarasvati and Aditya had triumphed from beginning to end, so too did these warriors, undisturbed and undefeated, like learned scholars prevailing in debate. The gates of the battlefield became blocked by heaps of broken debris and small mounds, and the supreme brilliance of the warriors seemed to fade, like fires extinguished for want of fuel. Who could describe the full measure of this carnage? Even Vasuki, the serpent king, would be unable to recount the entire glory and horror of the battlefield. Thus raged the exceedingly tumultuous battle, fierce and unrestrained, filled with the loud and harsh clamor of warriors. Stones rained down in showers, rivers were churned by volleys of missiles, and the field was strewn with rows of lotuses scattered by the din. In the sky, fruits, arrow-tips, and sparks of fire flew, while rivers of arrows fell far and wide. The battlefield became an ocean, its waves swirling with severed heads, feet, and the wheels of chariots, filled with streams of weapons and groups of Mandakini rivers. At the gates of battle, dense clouds of powdered weapons were stirred by the wind, tormenting the bodies of even the accomplished, and causing pain to monkeys and tortoises alike. Amidst this chaos, the hero’s form, sweetened by valor but diminished by countless blows, shone with only a fraction of its former brilliance. The horses were exhausted, the foremost weapons shattered, and the armies, like the sun at dusk, faded in their splendor. Finally, after consulting with their ministers, the commanders of the armies sent messengers to one another, declaring, “Let the battle be ended.” Worn by fatigue, their arrows and weapons wielded weakly, all agreed to cease fighting at that time. At the edge of the armies, beneath lofty banners and great chariots, one steadfast warrior ascended, standing alone and immovable. He waved a cloth in all directions, its motion like a long beam of moonlight in the sky, signaling the end of battle. The drums fell silent, their echoes fading in all directions like the stillness that follows the dissolution of the world. The streams of arrows and weapons, which had filled the sky, began to dry up like autumnal rivers. The furious movement of warriors’ arms gradually ceased, like trees trembling after an earthquake or the ocean’s waves stilled when the wind dies. Both armies withdrew, receding from the battlefield like floodwaters returning to the ocean at the end of time. The army, once agitated like the churning of the ocean of milk by Mandara mountain, slowly settled into the stillness of peace. Soon the battlefield became utterly desolate and dreadful, like the gaping belly of death itself or the ocean drunk dry by sage Agastya. It was filled with heaps of corpses, and a great river of blood flowed, resembling a haunted forest echoing with the cries of birds and jackals. The broad stream of blood roared with the tumult of waves, crowded by the cries of the wounded, the desperate calls for help, and the frantic efforts of those seeking rescue. Torrents of blood poured from heaps of the dead and half-dead, creating a terrifying sight where the twitching of corpses atop the living struck fear into the heart. Fragments of clouds rested atop piles of elephants and corpses, and the shattered chariots formed a vast forest of broken parasols. A river of blood flowed, carrying away chariots and elephants, crowded with arrows, spears, lances, maces, and swords. The ground was covered by fallen armor, the ends of canopies, and shields, while corpses lay hidden beneath heaps of banners, yak-tail fans, and cloth strips. The wind rustled through thick quivers and broken bows, and the lords of the slain seemed to sleep atop beds of arrows and shields. The field was strewn with crowns, necklaces, armlets, shining discs, bows, and arrows, while long cords of entrails were dragged away by jackals, wolves, and birds. The battlefield echoed with the gnashing of teeth from the few survivors, and living men struggled, half-submerged in the muddy blood. Coins and heaps of shells were scattered, eyes protruded from hundreds of severed heads, and dreadful rivers of blood flowed, carrying masses of arms and logs. Thus ended that terrible battle, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation and sorrow.