Even though the mantras called out to them, all the gods, their minds clouded with confusion, refused to offer the share meant for auspiciousness, intent instead on rejecting it. When their own words—truthful and proper—proved fruitless, those dull-minded deities abandoned the place and departed for the eternal realm of Brahma. Then, the chief of Shiva’s hosts, addressing the gods with Vishnu at their head, spoke with sternness: “You have not honored the mantras, proud and secure in your own strength.” He continued, “Because we have been so dishonored by you in this sacrifice, I shall now remove your pride—along with your very lives.” Having spoken thus, the Lord, his anger blazing, unleashed fire from his eye and split the great altar of the Yakshas, just as Hara had done in ages past. All the mighty leaders of Shiva’s hosts, their forms immense as mountains, uprooted the sacrificial posts and bound them around the necks of the priests with ropes. They shattered and crushed the many vessels of the sacrifice, seized the offerings, and hurled them into the rushing stream of the Ganga. There, within the waters, appeared heaps of divine food and drink as vast as mountains, rivers of milk flowing with nectar, and rich, creamy curds. Meats of every kind—both coarse and fine—were piled high, along with fragrant dishes, flavorful drinks, and all manner of things to lick and chew. The fierce heroes devoured these with their mouths, plundering and scattering them, wielding thunderbolts, discs, mighty spears, darts, nooses, and clubs. With pestles, swords, spikes, splitting rods, and axes, they attacked all the gods and the guardians of the worlds. These powerful warriors, born from the body of Virabhadra, struck, broke, hurled, and swiftly destroyed, shouting, “Cut! Break! Throw! Tear! Rend!” Their cries—“Strike! Attack! Split! Uproot!”—rose up, harsh and terrifying, filling the air with the cruel sounds of their fury. Wherever the lords of Shiva’s hosts appeared, ready for battle, some stood with eyes wide open, others with lips, teeth, and palates bitten in rage. They dragged away those dwelling in hermitages, killed ascetics, snatched their ladles, and cast fire into the waters. Pots were smashed, jewel-encrusted altars shattered, all to the sound of singing, shouting, and laughter. The foremost among Shiva’s attendants drank blood-wine and danced in wild abandon, having crushed the gods and Indra himself—these leaders of the hosts, fierce as the chiefs of bulls, serpents, and lions. They performed many incomparable deeds, their hair bristling with delight; some rejoiced, some struck, some ran, some babbled. Some danced, some laughed, some leaped—such was the strength of the Pramathas. Some tried to seize the clouds, others leapt to grasp the sun, still others raced along with the wind; the fierce Pramathas stood in the sky. Snatching up mighty weapons, they moved like Garuda among great serpents; even the gods fled before them, as these warriors soared through the sky like mountain peaks. Some tore up houses, complete with latticed windows and railings, and hurled them into the waters, roaring like storm clouds. With doors, walls, and balconies overturned and destroyed, the sacrificial enclosure lay in ruins—like a statement emptied of meaning, abandoned. As the houses were uprooted, the women cried out in despair: “O protector! O father! O son! O brother! O mother!” Overwhelmed by terror and panic, the principal gods—led by Vishnu and Indra—fled the scene. Witnessing the gods attacked, though their own bodies were blameless and the guilty unpunished, the foremost leader of the hosts became inflamed with anger. He seized his trident, which subdues all powers, his gaze uplifted and his mighty arms ablaze, flames pouring from his mouth. Like a lion scattering a herd of elephants, he drove away even the gods. As he advanced, his movement was strikingly beautiful, like a maddened one in Varanasi—a spectacle to behold. The powerful one disturbed the great army of the gods, displaying many colors—blue, pale, and red—like a wild leader of elephants in a great lake. He wore a tiger skin garment adorned with golden stars and moved among the assemblies of gods, noble as fire in a forest, speeding here and there with his trident. All the gods saw him as if he were a thousand, and Bhadrakali, enraged and intoxicated by battle, advanced at his side. With her blazing trident, she pierced the gods in combat; the noble one, born from Rudra’s wrath, shone fiercely. Bhadrakali’s radiance flickered, smoke-darkened like fire at the end of an age, terrifying the gods and scattering them in fear. Then, as the worlds are consumed by the flames of Śeṣa’s fire at the end of a cycle, Bhadrakali, foremost among the Rudras and their hosts, attacked the Sun as he rode his horse. Swiftly, she struck the Sun’s head with her left foot in playful fury, assailed Agni with swords, and pierced Yama and his consort with spears. She struck the Rudras with a sturdy trident, battered Varuṇa with heavy maces, beat Nirṛti with iron clubs, and wounded Vāyu with a sharp-edged weapon. With effortless might, the heroic Lord of the Gaṇas shattered in battle all the hosts of gods and sages who stood against Śambhu. Then, with the tip of his fingernail, the god cut off the beautiful tip of Sarasvatī’s nose, and likewise that of the mother of the gods, marking the final humiliation of the divine assembly.