As the king of weapons was unleashed, the two mighty warriors engaged in a battle of unparalleled ferocity. Their strength and valor were matched, and after a tumultuous clash, they reached a truce, each recognizing the power of the other. In the heat of the moment, a blazing weapon was released, swiftly reducing the chariot to ashes. The fire raged on, devouring the surrounding forest, and then, like a lion emerging from its cave, it surged toward the nearby river. The river, close at hand, rose up to counter the fiery weapon with the Varuna weapon, quelling the flames. The warrior, abandoning his ruined chariot, leapt to the ground, sword and shield in hand. In a flash, he struck with his sword, slicing through the hooves of his enemy’s chariot horses as easily as one cuts through lotus stalks. Viduratha, his own chariot lost, armed himself with shield and sword. Both warriors, equally eager and well-equipped, began to circle each other, each ready for the next attack. Their swords met with such force that they became like saws grinding against each other, and the people watched in awe, as if witnessing the grinding of teeth in a fierce contest. Suddenly, Viduratha seized a spear and, casting aside his sword, hurled it with all his might. The spear thundered through the air, roaring like a great calamity or a bolt of lightning striking the ocean. It struck his opponent’s chest, not fatally, but causing blood to flow in a steady stream, like water from a wounded serpent. Seeing her husband wounded and weakened—like darkness dispelled by the rising moon—Taddeshalila, radiant and joyful, began to speak of her past playfulness. She exclaimed to the goddess, “See—our husband has been slain by Narasimha! The demon Sindhu, with his mighty neck, was torn by the lion’s claws, sharp as a thousand spears. Blood pours from his chest with a sound like sharp arrows, just as the roaring wind stirs a lake where the king of serpents dwells.” She lamented, “How terrible! The chariot has been brought for Sindhu to ascend—it is golden, like the crest of Mount Meru, swirling like a lotus whirlpool. See, goddess, his chariot has been shattered by the mace, as a golden city is crushed by a whirling mountain. My husband, who set out and brought the chariot to mount, is struck down, as if by Indra’s thunderbolt or the club hurled by the ocean. Deceiving with his charm, he swiftly mounted the chariot—see, my husband shines forth exceedingly in battle!” Her distress grew as she cried, “How terrible! That Sindhu has forcefully seized the prince’s chariot, like a monkey climbing a cliff or swinging through the air. Look, my husband, as he climbs, is struck on the shoulder by a sword, and like a mountain of ruby, he pours forth blood in brilliance. Alas, alas, how dreadful! By this Sindhu wielding a sword, my husband’s legs are cut, as a tree is severed by a saw. I am slain, I am burned, I am dead, I am destroyed; my husband’s two knees are cut, like lotus stalks severed.” Having spoken thus, overwhelmed by fear for her husband’s fate, Taddeshalila fell fainting to the ground, like a delicate vine cut by an axe. Meanwhile, Viduratha, his knees severed, still struck out at his enemy but soon collapsed onto the chariot, like a tree felled at its roots. As he fell, the charioteer whisked him away in the chariot, but in that moment, the agitated horse struck Viduratha’s neck. With his neck half-severed, he was pursued by the horse and entered the palace in the chariot, just as Lakshmi enters a lotus. Yet, the house, endowed with the power of Sarasvati, could not be entered by him, intoxicated and wounded as he was, like a fly unable to pass through a blazing fire. His body, thin and stained with blood from the wound in his neck, his garments smeared red, the charioteer left him near the goddess, entered the house, and lay on the bed of death, having barely escaped his enemy. The cry arose: “The king is slain! The king is slain by the rival king in battle!” At this, terror seized the entire kingdom. The people, burdened with their possessions and household goods, fled in panic. The city, filled with the wailing of wives, became a fortress in flight. As the populace scattered, the streets echoed with desperate cries. Wives were snatched away, and the chaos of mutual plundering swept the city. Triumphant foreign soldiers filled the air with their shouts, and the city was left without rulers, elephants, horses, spies, or messengers. Doors were thrown open, treasure chests were unlocked, and enemy soldiers wrapped themselves in countless silken garments looted from the city. The palace courtyard was stained with the intestines of the dead, torn out by daggers, and heaps of outcaste and dog-eater corpses lay in the royal inner chambers. Commoners, desperate for food, saw their meals stolen from their homes, while children lay on the ground, their limbs crushed by the feet of bands of gold-laden thieves. Young women of the inner apartments had their hair disheveled by the assault of strangers, and the streets were littered with priceless jewels dropped by fleeing thieves. The circle of vassals was thrown into turmoil, their horses and chariots colliding in confusion, while the chief ministers hastened to prepare for the royal consecration. Master architects stood on the slopes, constructing the royal city, and the king’s favorites fell from wells, windows, and balconies in the chaos. The city resounded with hundreds of victory cries, was filled with multitudes of warriors, and was surrounded by countless hosts of its own kings, standing firm like an ocean. Yet, the king’s favorites fled as villages were overrun, and plundering spread to towns and neighboring territories. The roads were blocked by endless thievery and harsh words, and the heat of day was intensified by the presence of powerful people, dazzling like jewels. Amidst it all, the cries of those mourning their dead mingled with the sounds of musical instruments and the heavy, indistinct noise of horses and elephants, creating a cacophony that filled the ruined city.