For thirty-five years, a relentless war raged between the gods and their foes—a conflict marked by self-pity, fierce weapon-battles, and sudden disappearances. Throughout this long struggle, time slipped by in cycles of years, months, and days—ten, eight, five, and seven—affecting not only the warriors but also the trees, fires, weapons, waters, food, and even the mountains themselves. During this era, through constant, unyielding practice, the bonds and attachments of the asuras grew ever stronger. Their minds, consumed by obsession, became firmly convinced of a single idea: “I am.” This sense of ego, born from repeated reinforcement, took root deeply within them. Just as a mirror, when pressed closely, seems to be nothing but the image it reflects, so too did their ceaseless practice cause them to fully embody the state of egoity. Conversely, just as a distant object cannot be seen in a mirror, so too, without repeated practice, the impression of an object fails to arise in the mind. As these bonds and attachments matured, the sense of “I” gave rise to thoughts of “my life” and “my possessions,” and thus, misery entered their hearts. Overtaken by fear, struck down by delusion, and bound by the cords of hope, they fell into wretchedness. The very notion of “mine” sprouted in their minds—superimposed upon reality, just as one imagines a snake on a rope, haunted by the lingering marks of the cord-snake. Clinging desperately to their bodies, from head to foot, they longed for stability—this pitiable craving led them only to dejection. “Let my body endure, let my wealth bring me happiness”—such thoughts bound their minds, sapping their courage and resolve. Lacking deep impressions and true stability, both their bodies and their enmity toward the gods quickly faded, as if swept away and cleansed. Anxiety gripped them as they wondered, “How can we remain secure in this world?” and, like lotuses deprived of water, they drooped in sorrow. Among them, those most attached to their own sense of self sought pleasure in food and drink, remaining entangled in worldly existence, fierce and bound to the endless cycle of birth. Fearful amidst the battle, they became as timid as deer surrounded by a herd of drunken elephants. Overwhelmed by the thought, “We will die, we will die,” their hopes wounded, they wandered slowly and sluggishly, as if caught in the wrath of Airavata himself. For those who desired only bodily existence, death loomed over them, bringing calamity upon their heads due to their weakness. Their strength faded; they could no longer slay the foremost warriors, just as fires with little fuel cannot consume the offering. As the gods pressed their attack, the asuras became incapable of fighting back. Wounded and battered in every limb, the once-mighty warriors stood as if ordinary men. What more need be said? Terrified by death, the demons’ minds broke, and they fled before the advancing gods. Scattering in every direction, they ran among the mountains of their kind, seeking refuge in their famed strongholds—Dama and Vyala. The demon army, defeated, dispersed like a net of stars scattered by the wind at the end of an age. They fell everywhere: in the mountain valleys of the gods, upon peaks and rocks, on ocean shores, and even among the clouds. Some tumbled into the sea’s whirlpools, chasms, and rivers, others into deserts, to the ends of the earth, or into burning forests. They lay in emptied treasuries of battlefields, in villages and cities, in haunted forests, and in wild deserts ablaze with fire. Some fell at the edge of the Lokāloka mountain, on other mountains and lakes, and in distant cities—Andhra, Drāmiḍa, Kashmir, and Persia. Others found themselves among the waves of various oceans, in the sacred water-pots of the Ganges, on remote islands, and in the groves of Jambū trees. Everywhere, these enemies of the gods fell like mountains, their limbs shattered, arms and hands broken. Entrails tangled in branches, streams of blood flowed freely, bodies and heads lay scattered, and eyes glared in wrath as life ebbed away. Their armor, shattered by their own weapons, and their garments, torn and scattered, fell in all directions. Helmets clung to their throats, the harsh clatter striking terror; fragments of their bodies hung pierced by sharp rocks. Breastplates were impaled upon the sturdy spikes of silk-cotton trees; their heads, split in a hundred ways, struck hard against stone slabs. All the demon chiefs, armed in every way, perished instantly upon falling, their dust vanishing in all directions like water absorbed by the ocean. Among the asuras, Shambara blazed with wrath, like the fire at the end of an age, burning fiercely against the Dāmavyālakaṭa demons. Stricken with fear of Shambara, these demons abandoned their kin and fled to the seventh subterranean realm, where they remained. There, the servants of Yama, fearsome enough to terrify ghouls, known as Kukuhā, stood guard over the ocean of hell. Like worries taking the form of dense clouds, the asuras gradually gave their daughters in marriage. With these executioners, the asuras spent their days, their minds seized by relentless, destructive tendencies, for a span of ten thousand years. Bound by false attachments of affection—thinking, “This beautiful woman is mine; she belongs to me; I am her master”—their time passed in delusion. Then, at some point, the Lord of Dharma arrived there by chance, seeking to investigate matters concerning the great hells. The three asuras, however, did not recognize the Lord of Dharma; they did not bow to him, mistaking him for an ordinary servant, and thus they brought about their own destruction.