The winds began to howl, swirling fiercely and carrying with them cool showers that broke through the grandeur of the clouds. Their touch was noble and refreshing, and they seemed adorned with garlands of scattered spray. Amidst this, sudden flashes of lightning tore across the sky, darting like startled golden serpents or like the wild, upward glances of demon women. The mountains themselves trembled, their echoes mingling with the thunder, and the sounds were as mighty as herds of elephants, lions, and bears roaming through the forests in all directions. Then the heavens opened, releasing torrents of rain that fell in relentless streams, harsh as the gaze of Death, and crashing against the earth with the force of iron striking iron. At first, a hot, mountain-like vapor rose from the ground, as if the clouds from the netherworld had been stirred up for battle. The sky was thrown into confusion, with the clouds whirling chaotically. In an instant, all mirages vanished, disappearing just as worldly desires fade when the mind is filled with the nectar of supreme knowledge. Soon, the entire earth was covered in unmoving mud, overflowing with streams pouring forth, like a vast ocean unable to contain its waters. At this moment, he released the wind weapon, which swept through the sky with terrifying force, dreadful and awe-inspiring, like the destructive dance that marks the end of an age. Winds raged, their bodies struck by thunderbolts, sending shattered fragments of rock flying through the mountain caves. These fierce gusts, marked by ominous signs, battered the warriors, leaving them grim and scarred. The winds twisted the mist, scattering dense foliage, and shook the trees so violently that whole groves were uprooted and hurled to the ground. Forests were torn apart, cliffs split asunder, and even Viduratha’s chariot was tossed about by this exceedingly fierce wind. He was thrown around like a battered branch in a raging river. At last, Viduratha, master of great weapons, abandoned the mountain weapon. The wind, which had seemed intent on thickening the very sky, was subdued by the force of the mountain weapon. With the wind now calmed, tranquility returned, and the rows of suspended trees fell gently to the earth. In the midst of the various battle formations, countless crows gathered, filling the air with cries, shrieks, and howls in every direction. The uproar of the wind-torn trees sounded like incoherent babbling, and the warriors saw mountains falling from the sky as easily as leaves drop from branches. Rivers surged up here and there, swelling like the ocean, and even the mountains Mainaka and others seemed to rise. Then, a blazing thunderbolt weapon was unleashed, and the thunderclouds roared in response. Like wildfires consuming mountains, the thunderbolt shattered peaks and mountain cities with countless blows, splitting the summits as fierce winds scatter fruit. To pacify the thunderbolt weapon, Viduratha invoked the Brahma weapon. When both the Brahma and thunderbolt weapons were subdued, Sindhu unleashed a new terror: the dark, ghastly demon weapon. Instantly, lines of ghosts arose, bringing endless fear. As if twilight itself had descended, the day turned dark and dreadful. These ghosts seized the world in a grip of darkness, resembling pillars of ash moving with wild gestures. They appeared in great and terrifying forms—sometimes graspable by the fist, yet insubstantial. Some had hair standing on end, thin bodies, and beards; others were dirty and emaciated, wandering the sky like villagers. In the assembly, their eyes were dull, their deeds wicked and aimless. They were wretched, gluttonous, and cruel, resembling rural folk—unstable, with empty homes at the ends of muddy streets and beneath trees. Some licked their lips, appearing as the dead, their bodies black as dog-eaters, seizing and intoxicated by the remnants of the enemy’s force. Nearby soldiers grew disturbed and terrified, abandoning their weapons and armor, stumbling in their panic as they fled for their lives. The ghosts’ distorted eyes, limbs, faces, and feet caused terror; some stripped off their garments and loincloths, naked and laughing wildly. Defecating and urinating as they danced madly, the king of the goblins approached the king, who stood not far off. But the wise king recognized this illusion for what it was—a magical display conjured for battle by the goblin king. With this illusion, the goblin king sent his army against the enemy; his own soldiers remained unharmed, while the opposing warriors were transformed into goblins. Angered, the king unleashed another magical weapon—the form-changing missile. From earth and sky, form-changing beings arose, their hair stiff and upright. They appeared naked, with terrifying eyes, sagging hips and breasts; some were old yet bursting with unnatural youth, some plump, others emaciated. Some had natural, others grotesquely unnatural hips, their genitals exposed in wild dances; with human heads and lotus-hands, their bodies shone blood-red. They chewed half-eaten flesh, licking blood and marrow from their palms, twisting and turning their many limbs, raising and lowering their faces. Their arms, faces, thighs, breasts, sides, and hands were streaked with veins as they beat on the corpses of children, dragging out entrails like ropes. With faces like dogs, jackals, and owls, sunken mouths, jaws, and bellies, they seized the weaker goblins as if they were helpless children. That army of goblin-like beings became united—naked, dancing, with faces, limbs, and eyes turned wildly upward. They attacked one another, terrifying each other, their great tongues protruding as they displayed various distortions of face. Each carried burdens of corpses, dragging away limbs of the dead, their shining bodies rising and sinking in pools of blood.