As night descended, the great city seemed cloaked as if within a womb, its darkness thickening—an enveloping shadow swelling like ignorance in the heart of youth. The familiar clusters of lamps faded away, vanishing like stars at dawn, and in their place, the restless hosts of night-beings gathered, growing in strength and anticipation. Amidst this ominous gloom, two maidens stood witness to the unfolding battle, their hearts trembling with awe and fear, yet their vision stretched wide, blessed with divine sight by the goddess herself. Within the houses, the sharp clamor of weapons arose, echoing like the roar of fires surging through a single, overflowing ocean. The king, resolute and mighty, drew the enemy army toward him with volleys of arrows. Propelled by his own power, he plunged into the opposing force as Mount Meru would sink into the ocean’s depths. Then, the distinct sounds of the warriors’ qualities crackled sharply through the night, while rows of arrows—like clouds fashioned by their own will—formed a ship sailing the storm of battle. Weapons of every kind soared into the sky, as varied as flocks of birds, illuminating the mists in every direction with their brilliance. The clash of arms sent sparks flying like torches, and the clouds of warriors thundered, pouring down relentless streams of arrows. Cruel missiles, swift as vultures, darted toward the bodies of heroes, while others fell with sharp, crackling sounds, crushed by weapons even as they battled in the sky. The darkness that had so quickly gathered was now driven away by the shining flames of weapons, and the entire army appeared as if covered in the fine, delicate hair of young maidens. Headless bodies rose up in a ghastly dance, while demon maidens sang loudly of the treacheries and betrayals of war. The army of elephants, maddened and colliding, trumpeted furiously as rivers, intoxicated by the chaos, carried hurled stones through the sky. Chariots crashed down like dry leaves falling from a forest canopy, and red rivers of blood flowed from the mountain of battle, raining the bodies of the dead. Dust clouds, darkened with blood, were subdued by the fires of weapons, and the sounds of battle—focused solely on destruction—struck terror into all, foretelling the certainty of death. Only a tumultuous, discordant uproar filled the air, churned by the waves of swords, while the clouds above remained untouched, serene. The clash of armies was like the rattling of funeral biers, and the crackling of arrows fell like a torrential downpour. The meeting of mighty weapons rang out sharply, but in the darkness of night, all seemed veiled, as if the world itself had fallen into uneasy sleep. While this dreadful and tumultuous battle raged on, the goddess of Knowledge, with a playful smile, addressed her own manifestation standing before her: “Goddess, why is it that our lord neither wins nor loses in this battle? Tell me, even as you are pleased, in this war where even the elephants flee in terror.” She replied, “For a long time, this king Viduratha has worshipped me, but not for the sake of victory. Therefore, only he is victorious; Viduratha does not prevail. It is this awareness, this inner consciousness, that determines all outcomes, according to its own timing.” “Whatever he prompts me to do, I accomplish swiftly. However one invokes me, I grant the fruit accordingly. I do not act on my own, just as fire does not possess heat by itself; I am honored by him with the thought, ‘May I have victory in battle.’ By taking on the form of an image, he attains the result in that way. Viduratha, not considering this, was instructed by me.” “And with this, I resolved that I would be liberated; therefore, Viduratha, having obtained that body together with his wife— And by you, in due time, the young one will also be liberated. His enemy is the king named Sindhu; after slaying him upon the throne of the earth, he will become victorious and rule the kingdom.” As the night wore on, masses of darkness shifted like armies in the form of Bali. Lifeless bodies were cast forth, and in the twilight, the stars once again appeared in the sky. Gradually, the battlefield’s mountainous terrain grew grim and foreboding, while the world shone strangely, as if lifted from an ocean of black ink. The sun’s rays, beautiful like streams of gold, fell upon the mountains and noble warriors, resembling the glow of blood spilled in battle. The sky and the battlefield alike appeared adorned—arms scattered like wandering serpents, radiance flashing like scattered gold. Gems from earrings lay strewn across the field, and severed heads floated like aged lotuses in a pond. The sky was pierced with weapons, and arrows filled it as if it were a herd of deer. The battlefield glowed red in the dense twilight, filled with accomplished warriors and corpses, adorned with garlands, scattered serpent sloughs, and cloths tangled with rays of light. Banners fluttered like creepers, forming arches from the thighs of fallen warriors, and hands and feet were strewn about, resembling a thicket of arrows. The field was dark as a grassy meadow, gleaming with weapons mingled with sand and fragments of blades, wild chains of arms scattered everywhere, terrifying as if the field itself had gone mad. It resembled a grove of blooming ashoka trees, set aflame by the clash of weapons, resounding with such loud noises that even the leader of the siddhas was driven away in fear. Everywhere, golden craftsmanship shone—spears, swords, discs, javelins, clubs, all gleaming like the young sun, filling the air with the clangor of battle. Yet, as the carnage reached its peak, all the armies were destroyed. The battlefield became empty, save for a handful of soldiers remaining on either side. The ground was littered with broken, shattered, dead, ruined, and fleeing men—heaps of fallen corpses, mud flowing with rivers of blood. The river of blood carried away the heaps of corpses, crowded with arrows, spears, swords, and great stones. The field was strewn with headless trunks, severed by the blows of heroic weapons, and resounded with the wild clamor of Vetala hordes, like the frenzied dance of palm trees in a storm. In the empty, blazing battlefield, the two—radiant as the sun and moon in the sky—were seen moving upon their lotus-red chariots, shining as celestial signs amidst the devastation.