The long, mournful sound of the retreat horn, like the wail of a wounded giant, echoed across the battlefield.
For a moment, time stood still.
The Persian soldiers, who were fighting for survival in the chaos of the field, froze for an instant upon hearing this sound.
This was a sound that, in all the months of training, had only been mentioned as a bitter possibility; the sound of defeat.
But behind this initial shock, the discipline that was engraved in their minds and muscles awakened.
This was no longer a blind flight; this was a tactical command.
In the heart of the field, where the central corps still stood like a rock against the waves, Arash raised his sword to the sky.
He roared, with a voice clearer than any horn:
"Sadbods! You heard the Prince's command!"
"Moving shield wall formation!"
"The center holds fast! Open a path for our brothers to retreat!"
This command, like a spark in a powder keg, brought a new order to the chaotic army.
Ten thousand soldiers of the central corps, with a movement born of thousands of hours of training, turned and formed a steel wall of interlocked shields and outward-facing spears.
A moving fortress that began to retreat slowly, step by step.
The courage of Cambyses's honor guard, who were now carrying the wounded king's body on a shield, was inspiring.
They had formed a human ring around their commander and, with their short cast-iron swords, cut down any Median soldier who dared to approach.
They were no longer fighting for victory; they were fighting to save the beating heart of Pars.
This sacrifice gave the shattered units of the flanks the opportunity to regroup and join the safe haven that Arash's corps had provided for them.
On the other side of the field, Mazares, the experienced Median general, watched this scene in disbelief.
He had expected a full-scale slaughter.
He had expected the Persian army to completely break apart after hearing the retreat horn and become easy prey for his horsemen.
But instead, he was witnessing an organized retreat.
He shouted to one of his commanders, "What magic is this?"
"They are defeated, but they retreat like conquerors!"
"Send the cavalry! Crush them!"
Thousands of Median horsemen, with cries of victory, charged towards the moving Persian shield wall.
But they were met with the same horrific scene their infantry had experienced.
The long cast-iron spears jutted out from between the gaps in the shields, piercing the chests of horses and riders.
The Persian archers, who had taken refuge in the rear ranks, rained their arrows down on the attackers with flawless order.
This retreat had turned into a deadly trap for the arrogant Medes.
Suddenly, from both ends of the shield wall, ten special Persian scythed chariots that had been hidden among the infantry until that moment, burst forth like two lightning bolts.
The long, steel blades attached to their wheel axles began to spin at a dizzying speed and, with a sound like a deadly wind, crashed into the heart of the light Median cavalry.
The result was a horrific slaughterhouse.
The blades mercilessly reaped the legs of horses and the bodies of riders, carving a path of blood and chaos among them.
The Median riders, who had never faced such a terrifying weapon, scattered in terror upon seeing these steel beasts.
The flanks of the Persian army were saved from the crushing pressure for a few vital moments.
Arash, who was guiding this complex retreat like a skilled rock climber, adjusted the speed of the movement with short, precise shouts.
"One step back! Spears ready!"
"Another step! Archers, fire!"
He knew that any moment of hesitation meant a breach in the wall and complete annihilation.
His soldiers, with blind faith in their commander, acted like the limbs of a single body.
They were no longer thinking of victory; they were only thinking of surviving and protecting their brothers.
The Medes, who were worn down by this stubborn resistance, after half a league of fruitless pursuit and taking more casualties, gave up the chase.
Mazares, seeing this scene, approached Azhidahak, who was watching from a distance.
"My king, they are not fleeing. They are luring us."
"This is a trap."
"Let us return to the camp. We have won. We will finish them tomorrow."
Azhidahak, who was not satisfied with this incomplete victory but was also wary of more casualties, reluctantly agreed.
The Persian army, though defeated, reached the gates of the border fortress with astonishing order.
The gates were opened for them, and the last soldier entered before the heavy gates were closed.
Outside, the Median army was returning to its camp to celebrate its victory.
But inside the fortress, although a silence full of sorrow reigned, a spark of pride also shone in the heart of every soldier.
They were defeated, but not destroyed.
The hard training of the past few months, their steel-like will, and the genius of their commanders had saved them from complete annihilation.
This was a defeat, but a defeat that tasted of victory.
They were now soldiers who had been bloodied.
Like steel that has been tempered.