The plain of Pasargadae had turned into a hell of chaos and flight.
The great Median army, that fifty-thousand-headed beast that had made the earth tremble with its pride, had now turned into a terrified and headless herd.
They were blindly fleeing for their lives.
The steel counter-attack of the Persians had pierced the heart of their army.
The fiery rain of the ballistas had crushed their will.
They were no longer fighting; they were just fleeing.
And in this flight, they trampled friend and foe under their horses' hooves.
The crimson dust was mingled with the screams of terror and the moans of the wounded.
A perfect tableau of a military collapse.
At the peak of this chaos, Arash, who was leading the central corps in pursuit of the enemy, reached the top of a hill.
He knew the appointed moment had arrived.
He signaled to the standard-bearer beside him.
The crimson flag with the image of the golden lion was lowered.
And in its place, another flag was raised.
A flag that no one had ever seen before.
On a cloth the color of night, the image of a defeated winged lion with lifeless eyes and a broken neck was engraved.
This was the pre-arranged signal for Harpak.
A silent message that, amidst the deafening clamor of the battle, only one person would understand its meaning.
Half a league away, in the rear sections of the Median army, Harpak and his ten thousand loyal soldiers had deliberately fallen behind the main body of the army.
They were watching this slaughter.
They had not participated in this frantic flight and had maintained their military formation.
Harpak was staring at the horizon with keen eyes.
He was waiting.
Upon seeing the flag of the defeated winged lion waving in the wind, his heart stopped for a moment.
This was the moment he had awaited for months in his nightmares and dreams.
The moment of revenge.
He turned to his soldiers; men who had fought with him for years and had a blind faith in him.
He did not need to give a speech.
He only raised his sword to the sky.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm but full of an anger that rose from the depths of his being.
"The appointed time has arrived!"
"For the future of Media!"
"For the rightful king!"
Then, an event occurred that would change history forever.
Harpak drew his sword toward the Median troops.
With this move, his ten thousand loyal soldiers, simultaneously, drew their weapons on the Median troops with a formidable, coordinated sound.
This sound, like another thunderclap, for a moment overcame the sound of the battle.
Then, from ten thousand throats, a single cry rose that sank like a dagger into the heart of the fleeing Median army:
"Long live Kourosh, the rightful king!"
This open betrayal in the heart of the army completely broke the back of the fleeing Median army.
The soldiers who were fleeing looked back in terror upon hearing this cry from behind them.
They saw the largest and most orderly part of their own army with its weapons drawn on them, shouting the enemy's name.
This scene was beyond their endurance.
If the most loyal generals had surrendered, what hope was left for them?
The last particles of hope and will to flee were extinguished in their beings.
A soldier, then an officer, and then a commander, threw down their weapons.
They fell to their knees.
This surrender spread through the entire plain like a contagious plague.
The Median soldiers, tired, terrified, and leaderless, gave up resistance group by group and surrendered themselves to the Persians.
The complete collapse had begun.
There was no battle anymore.
Only the pursuit of a few desperate fugitives and the capture of thousands of surrendered soldiers.
Harpak, paying no attention to these scenes, had his eyes fixed on one target.
The royal horse of Azhidahak, who was on a distant hill, preparing to flee.
He signaled to his loyal guard.
"Bring me Azhidahahk!"