In the solitude of the tent, Kourosh came face to face with the greatest enemy he had known to that day.
Himself.
The heavy curtain of the tent had separated him from the outside world, from the reproachful glances and the moans of the wounded, but it could not hide him from the merciless court of his own mind.
His flawless books and maps, spread upon the table, now mocked his defeat like silent specters.
Every tactical diagram, every precise calculation, and every line he had drawn on the map with confidence now testified against him like a heavy accusation.
His shattered pride flowed like a cold poison in his veins, and his heart was clenched by the chill of regret and shame.
He was sitting on his wooden chair, staring at an unknown point.
But in reality, he was returning to yesterday's battlefield, again and again.
He was there, on the command hill, watching the nightmare of his army's collapse with open eyes, over and over.
The faces of the young soldiers who had gone to their deaths with faith in his plan paraded before his eyes.
Their screams echoed in his ears.
The word "child," which he had heard from the lips of the commanders, was now repeated in his mind in his own voice.
He was a child.
A child who had played with fire and been burned.
After hours of drowning in this dark sea of self-blame, his analytical mind, that part of his being that never slept, slowly took control.
He rebuked himself.
Emotions were not a balm for this wound; only ruthless logic could show him the way.
He rose and stood before the map table like an impartial interrogator.
For hours, he replayed the battle in his mind again and again, but this time not with emotion, but with meticulous precision.
He mercilessly analyzed every mistake, every hasty decision, and every moment of negligence.
He saw his first mistake clearly: underestimating the enemy.
He had believed so much in his own technological and tactical superiority that he had ignored the experience and intelligence of the Median generals.
Mazares's pincer movement was a classic and predictable move, but pride had blinded his eyes.
He had expected a foolish and thoughtless enemy and, instead, had faced an experienced hunter.
The second mistake: over-reliance on training.
He had assumed that a few months of practice could replace years of combat experience.
He had forgotten that in the real chaos of battle, discipline alone is not enough, and instinct and experience play a vital role.
He remembered the book that was the epitome of all the military knowledge of history, "The Art of War" by Sun Tzu.
He remembered how he had explained its principles to his disciples with excitement.
But now, those words had a different meaning.
A meaning that was written in blood.
He understood that war is not just science and formulas; it is a ruthless game of psychology, deception, and exploiting the enemy's weaknesses.
With his entire being, he contemplated the deepest concept of that book:
"All warfare is based on deception."
This sentence flashed in his dark mind like a bolt of lightning.
He had not deceived.
He had gone to the field with all his strength and with complete honesty.
He had tried to overcome chaos with logic and order.
But now he understood that to defeat chaos, one must sometimes become a part of it.
One must lure the enemy to a place he does not expect.
One must deceive him with his own strengths and, at the moment he feels victorious, deliver the final blow.
This defeat transformed him from a theoretical genius who played with lifeless pieces into a realist commander.
He no longer looked at the map as a flawless path.
He now understood that the map is only a starting point, and a true commander is one who can find his way in the midst of the storm.
He no longer looked at the soldiers as tactical units; he now knew that he had to strategize with the blood and flesh, the fear and courage, and the hope and despair of human beings.
He rose from behind the table.
The terrified and regretful child was gone.
His face was pale and tired, but in his eyes, a cold and dangerous fire was burning.
He looked at the map, but this time, not at the lines and symbols, but into the mind of his enemy.
Azhidahak was now at the peak of his pride.
He had defeated a child.
He had humiliated the Persians.
And this pride, this overconfidence, was his greatest weakness.
The interrogation of the self was over.
And now, Kourosh was ready to build the greatest victory in history from the greatest defeat of his life.