As the battle raged, the bodies of the demons—lacking deep, lasting impressions and stability—were swiftly cleansed of their violent inclinations, as if swept away by a mighty force. Their aggression faded quickly, leaving them anxious and uncertain. Troubled by the thought, “How can we remain secure in this world?” they fell into deep dejection, like lotuses deprived of water. Among them, those who clung to their own sense of self sought comfort in food and drink, remaining fiercely bound to worldly existence and the cycle of birth and death. Fear gripped them in the midst of battle, making them dependent, like helpless deer surrounded by a herd of intoxicated elephants. Consumed by the thought, “We will die, we will die,” their hopes wounded, they wandered slowly and sluggishly across the battlefield, as if caught in the wrath of Airavata, the celestial elephant. For those who desired only bodily existence and were fearful, death arrived as a calamity, placing its dreadful step upon their heads, exploiting their weakness. Their strength faded, and they found themselves unable to slay the foremost warrior, just as a fire depleted of fuel cannot consume the offering. As the gods struck, the demons grew incapable of fighting; wounded and battered in every limb, they stood powerless, appearing as ordinary men. What need is there for many words? Terrified by the prospect of death, the demons fled the battlefield as the gods advanced. They scattered in every direction, running among the mountains of the demons and into the renowned abodes of the asuras called Dama and Vyala. Like a net of stars swept away by the wind at the end of an age, their army dissolved, fleeing and falling in all directions. Their desperate flight took them to the mountain valleys of the gods, across peaks and rocks, to the shores of oceans, and through layers of clouds. They hid in whirlpools of the sea, in chasms and rivers, in deserts, at the ends of the earth, and in burning forests. Some sought refuge in emptied treasuries of battlefields, in villages and cities, in forests haunted by fierce yakṣas, and in deserts ablaze with wildfires. Others fled to the edge of the Lokāloka mountain, to lakes and mountains, and to distant cities such as Andhra, Drāmiḍa, Kashmir, and Persia. They scattered among the waves of various oceans, in the 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 and feet shattered, arms and hands broken apart. Entangled in branches, their entrails spilled out; streams of blood flowed freely, bodies and heads scattered, their eyes glaring in wrath as life departed. Their armor, shattered by their own weapons, and their garments, torn and scattered, fell in diverse ways from afar. Helmets clung to their throats, the harsh clatter instilling terror, while fragments of their bodies hung pierced by sharp rocks. Breastplates were impaled upon the sturdy spikes of silk-cotton trees, and 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 vanished in all directions, like water absorbed by the ocean. Amidst this devastation, Shambara, ablaze with wrath like the fire at the end of an age, burned fiercely against the Dāmavyālakaṭa demons. Fearing Shambara, the Dāmavyālakaṭa demons abandoned their host and fled to the seventh subterranean realm, where they remained. There, the servants of Yama, known as Kukuhā—capable of frightening even ghouls—stood as guardians of the ocean of hell. Like worries taking the form of dense clouds, the demons gradually gave their daughters in marriage. Together with the executioners, they spent their time there, their minds seized by relentless, destructive tendencies, for a span of ten thousand years. Bound by false attachments and affection—thinking, “This beautiful woman is mine, she belongs to me, I am her master”—their days passed in delusion. Then, at some point, the Lord of Dharma arrived in that place by chance, investigating matters concerning the great hells. The three asuras did not recognize him; they did not bow, mistaking him for an ordinary servant, and thus brought about their own destruction. By the command of Vaivasvata, they were placed upon blazing, fiery grounds, their brows set in grim determination. There, together with their dear friends, wives, and relatives, they wailed in anguish, burned up like trees consumed by a forest fire. By their own cruel tendencies, they were born again in similar forms—as executioners, hunters, and royal servants. Then, abandoning those births, they were born as crows among the Suhmas; after that, as vultures, and then as herons. Their minds, twisted and crooked, led them to become corpses among the Trigartas, sheep among the Barbaras, and insects among the Magadhas. Here, one experiences a bewildering succession of births. Today, O Rama, some exist as fish in the marshes and forests of Kashmir. Scorched by forest fires, stuck in shallow, muddy filth, they neither die nor live, worn out and decayed like rotting moss. Having undergone countless kinds of births, they arise and vanish again and again, like waves in the ocean. Carried for long by the winds of their own tendencies, they have entered the ocean of existence, bearing bodies as fleeting as waves of grass. Even now, O Rama, they have not attained peace—consider the dreadful power of tendencies as truly immense. Indeed, it is due to the pursuit of non-discrimination that the mind, by its own play, embraces such calamity, leading to endless suffering.