The rain of steel from the walls of Pasargadae ceased.
But the echo of the roar of Persian thunder still reverberated across the plain.
The Median army, which moments before had been advancing like a roaring flood, had now turned into a terrified and shattered mass of men and horses.
They stared at the city walls with eyes wide with terror.
As if they expected another lightning bolt to strike them down at any moment.
This hesitation, this chaos, was exactly the opportunity Kourosh had been planning for months.
From the watchtower, he looked at Arash.
And for the last time, he raised the crimson flag of attack.
Arash, upon seeing the signal, drew his short sword from its sheath.
Its gray blade reflected an ominous light amidst the dust.
He turned to his army; an army whose morale had now risen from the ashes and, like a fiery phoenix, was ready to burn.
He roared with a voice that trembled with excitement and anger:
"Persians! Did you see? The gods are with us!"
"Our enemy is drowned in fear and doubt!"
"Now is the time to attack!"
"For Pars! For Kourosh! Charge!"
A coordinated and willful cry rose from twenty-five thousand throats.
A cry in which there was no longer any trace of fear or doubt.
The Persian army, no longer that tired and retreating force, began its final counter-attack like an orderly and ruthless killing machine.
The corps, in cohesive formations and dense shield walls, began to move towards the heart of the terrified and chaotic Median army with pounding, synchronized steps.
They were no longer defending.
They were hunting.
The clash of the two armies, this time, was completely different.
The Medes, who were in shock from the celestial attack and whose military formation had completely disintegrated, could not resist this moving wall of steel.
The hand-to-hand combat began.
And it was here that the true superiority of the new Persian weapons and tactics was revealed.
The Median soldiers, with their long swords and large shields, were cumbersome and slow in this dense, close-quarters engagement.
In contrast, the Persian soldiers moved like dancers of death.
With their small, round shields, they easily deflected the blows of the long Median swords.
They would strike the opponent's face with the iron edge of the shield, dazing him for a moment.
Then, with the short and deadly cast-iron sword, from a close distance, they would deliver swift and fatal blows to the enemy's chest, abdomen, or throat.
This was a ruthless, fast, and incredibly efficient fighting style.
A style that the Medes had never faced before.
Arta fought amidst the enemy with roars of joy.
He parried the sword blow of a Median soldier with his small shield, struck his knee with the same shield, and when the soldier bent over in pain, he finished the job with his short sword.
He shouted to Bahram, who was fighting beside him:
"This is real power, brother! They have no chance against us!"
Bahram, too, dispatched a Median soldier with agility and replied:
"This is the power of wisdom, Arta! The wisdom of Prince Kourosh!"
The Persian soldiers, with the tactics they had practiced for months, were reaping their confused and terrified enemy.
The ten-man units, with perfect coordination, attacked small groups of Median soldiers, surrounded, and destroyed them.
Their iron discipline against the absolute chaos of the Medes was like a rock against a broken wave.
The lines of the Median army collapsed, one after another, in the face of this steel counter-attack.
Terror spread through the Median army like a contagious plague.
They saw their comrades falling easily before these swift and ruthless warriors.
They heard the roar of the magical weapons from the city walls.
They were no longer fighting; they were just trying to stay alive.
Suddenly, someone shouted, "Flee! These are not men! They are demons!"
This cry broke the last of the resistance.
The Median army, that fifty-thousand-headed beast, quickly began to flee.