The battlefield was shrouded in a red glow, thick with the haze of twilight, its air heavy with the presence of accomplished beings and the silence of corpses. Garlands adorned the ground, mingled with the shed skins of serpents and cloths tangled in the rays of the setting sun. Creepers, torn and fluttering, hung like banners forming arches from the thighs of the fallen, while hands and feet lay scattered about, resembling a thicket bristling with arrows. The scene was dark, like a grassy field shadowed by the gleam of weapons, mingled with sand and broken blades. Chains of severed arms were strewn everywhere, wild and terrifying, as if the whole field were seized by madness. It resembled a grove of blooming ashoka trees, ablaze with the fires kindled by clashing weapons, echoing with such loud and dreadful noise that even the leader of the siddhas fled in fear. Amidst this chaos, the field bore the marks of golden craftsmanship, shining with weapons that gleamed like the young sun itself. Spears, swords, discs, javelins, and clubs filled the space, their clangor resonating through the air. But soon all the armies were destroyed, leaving the battlefield nearly empty, with only a handful of soldiers remaining on either side. The earth was littered with the broken and shattered, the dead and ruined, men scattered or fleeing in terror, and heaps of corpses piled high. Rivers of blood flowed through the mud, carrying away the bodies of the fallen, while arrows, spears, swords, and great stones crowded the ground. Headless trunks, severed by the blows of heroic weapons, lay strewn about, and the clamor of Vetala hordes echoed like the wild dance of palm trees swaying in a storm. In this blazing, empty field, two warriors stood out—radiant as the sun and moon moving across the sky—each upon a lotus-red chariot, shining like celestial omens. They were surrounded on all sides by thousands upon thousands of warriors, armed with discus, spear, club, dart, and other weapons. The two heroes roamed freely across the wide expanse, their chariot wheels grinding amid the cries of warriors, passing through the slain and the few who survived. With the ease of intoxicated elephants, their chariots crossed rivers of blood, the wheels soaked in crimson, entangled with clumps of hair and entrails. The force of their wheels toppled and shook maddened elephants, while the jingling of gems and the clatter of ornamented yokes rang out. Their banners, whipped by the wind, made a loud rattling sound, and they were followed by great heroes and countless frightened soldiers. Each bore heavy loads of spears, arrows, bows, lances, darts, spikes, and the shining brilliance of whirling discs. For a moment, surrounded by vast circles of warriors, the two stood face to face—like clouds of weapons confronting each other. Their hands, thickened from hurling volleys of arrows, each roared at the other like storm-laden thunderclouds. As these two lion-like warriors fought, their arrows became like stones and maces, spreading far and wide through the sky. Some arrows were shaped like sword-blades, others like hammers and clubs; some bore sharp disc-edges, and some had axe-like mouths. There were arrows tipped like spears, some razor-edged, others shaped like lance-tips or half-moons. Some had lion-faced heads, others trident-tips, and some massive, three-pronged faces like great stones. The stone-headed arrows flew about like showers of rocks driven by doomsday winds. In that moment, all was confusion, as if the tumultuous ocean at the end of time had arisen between them. Then the king, blazing with wrath, arrived before the ocean whose waves rose high, his fury spreading out like the midday sun. He drew his bow, and the sound thundered in all directions, like the world-ending wind blasting the slopes of the gods’ mountain. The mighty king released volleys of arrows, strung in his quiver like rays of the morning sun. From his bowstring, a single great arrow would emerge, but as it flew, thousands and hundreds of thousands rained down from the sky. He possessed the force and swiftness of the ocean, the radiance of the sun’s face, and the might of Vishnu’s bow belonged to both warriors. His arrows, called Musulā and shaped like clubs, roared as they filled the sky, appearing like mountains at the end of an age. Those golden-tipped arrows flashed in the sky, scattered by the storm of missiles, like stars falling at the world’s end. From Viduratha, streams of arrows poured forth ceaselessly, like floods from the ocean or rays from the sun, flying like flowers swept from a great tree by a fierce wind or like showers of sparks struck from red-hot iron. The arrows came like streams from a rain-cloud, droplets from a waterfall, or brilliant sparks from a great city fire. As the sharp crackling of the two bows echoed, the armies fell silent, as if the ocean itself had grown calm, watching in mute attention. A flood of arrows surged through the sky like the swelling Ganges rushing to meet the ocean, its tumult like the roar of yakṣas. From the cloud of bows, an unceasing rain of golden-tipped arrows poured forth, mingled with the dreadful cries of the dying, thundering across the battlefield. From her window, the lady of the city watched with playful curiosity as the river of arrows advanced, threatening to flood the ocean. Beholding the mass of arrows and anticipating her husband’s victory, her lotus-like face blossomed with joy as she spoke: “Victory, O goddess! Our lord triumphs—look! Even Mount Meru would be reduced to dust by this torrent of arrows.” As she spoke, her voice thick with deep affection, the two goddesses nearby watched intently, their faces bright with laughter, feeling a tender, human warmth in their hearts.