Behold now the battle wherein Angada, scion of Vali and prince of Kishkindha, blazed across the field like fire through a locust swarm, consuming demons as flame consumes dry grass. His wrath stirred fear, dread, and troubled thoughts in the heart of Vajradamstra, that merciless commander of Rakshasa hosts, who forthwith advanced to duel the lion-hearted prince. With him came countless demon warriors, armed with weapons of steel and fire, intent to break the simian line and isolate Angada from aid, to fall upon him as wolves upon the lone calf. Yet the Vanaras, perceiving the guile of the foe, gathered stones and shattered the demon ranks without regard for strategy or form. From heaven to earth flew the wealth of demon arms—arrows, axes, tridents—raining injury upon both friend and foe alike, for in chaos, the weapon chooses no master.
Thus did the fight dissolve into madness, demons slaying their kin, Vanaras falling beneath their weight of fury. Stones and tree-trunks hurled by monkey hands fell upon chariots, elephants, horsemen, crushing life before a cry of pain could escape. The hosts of Sugreeva, swift and precise, rained terror upon the Rakshasas, yet suffered grievous loss. Blood soaked the field, heads rolled, trunks lay mangled, the wrath of battle wielding its judgment upon both sides. From all corners of the sky came eagles, foxes, and vultures, gathering for their feast. Some, overtaken by the wanton rage of the fight, fell prey themselves, yet nature’s law prevailed—they feasted not on allegiance, but only the dead.
Limbs severed, torsos cloven, still many lived, moaning amidst the gore, their suffering unmeasured. Then, at Angada’s behest, the mightiest of Vanaras assembled and fell upon the Rakshasas, their fists and boulders bringing ruin. Vajradamstra, dismayed and infuriated, let loose a storm of arrows, his voice a tempest of threats. His bow sang death, tearing through the monkey lines, and they fled to Angada, even as gods once sought refuge in Brahma. The prince beheld their fear, then turned his gaze to Vajradamstra, whose arrows now struck him. Thus did the two champions meet—like lion and elephant in mortal struggle.
Angada cast the demon to the ground and struck with a mighty trunk, but Vajradamstra’s arrows flew swiftly. A stone shattered his chariot and steeds, but he leapt forth with mace in hand. Rushing upon the prince, he swept aside all who barred his path. Angada rose, seized a hill-like rock and flung it down, smashing Vajradamstra beneath its weight; flesh torn, bones ground, and blood oozed from the stone’s corners. His warriors fled into caves and shadows, only to be hunted and destroyed. The prince’s valor now rivaled that of Indra, for he had slain Vajradamstra—the ruthless, the fearsome, the trusted general of Ravana.
When word reached the demon king, grief became rage, for Vajradamstra was one who had struck terror into gods and Gandharvas, into Kinneras and all wild tribes. To fall by a monkey’s hand—this Ravana could not abide. At once, he summoned Akampana, the master of black arts, the trainer of armies, fierce, cunning, and learned in all weapons. To him was given the charge of the battle. Loyal beyond death, feared even among Rakshasas, Akampana chose warriors to match his fury. His command: do not die, kill; do not defeat, destroy; no rules, no mercy, no code—only death and dominion. Thus began the march of terror.
His chariot rolled like thunderclouds, the bells upon it ringing with ominous rhythm. None in heaven or hell had ever shaken him in war. Among Rakshasas, he shone as Aditya among gods. Yet omens rose against him—the horses stumbled, his left eye twitched, his skin paled, the wind turned violent, beasts howled in fear. But pride, forged in trial and blood, cast aside these portents. Into battle he rode, his army’s roars matching the ocean’s cry. The sight of him struck dread into simian hearts.
The demons, vast in form and boundless in zeal, charged with fury. The Vanaras met them with equal might. The earth trembled, dust clouds rose, veiling all in blindness. Vision gone, fury ruled. Both sides, unable to discern friend from foe, slew without pause. Blood and flesh turned the ground into a mire, and weapons clashed—iron tridents and axes clanged against boulders and trees. Battle raged with no cause but the need to destroy.
Then as dust cleared, Akampana unleashed a storm of arrows, shattering the Vanara spirit. Yet heroes rose—Kumuda, Nala, and Mainda—like lions pouncing upon deer. Their strikes sent shock through the demon lines, breaking order, sowing fear. What unfolded was no mere war, but a contest of truth and treachery, virtue and vice. The tide turned slowly, drawing all toward a fated end—the triumph of righteousness, and the fall of dark might.
