Seeing the two great arms of the Median cavalry outflanking the field, Bagpat, Kourosh's young and fiery-tempered cousin, felt his blood boil.
He, who commanded the right flank of the Persian light cavalry, saw this move as a blatant insult to his and his men's courage.
He roared, "These cowardly old men don't dare to face us directly! They want to scare us!"
He ordered the horn player beside him to sound the charge.
"We will not wait for them to embrace us!"
"Follow me! For Pars!"
Five thousand agile Persian horsemen, with a cry that rose from the depths of their souls, at the command of their fearless leader, charged towards the eastern arm of the Median army like an arrow released from a bow.
They charged forward bravely, hoping to break the enemy's formation with their speed and agility before it could fully form.
But this was exactly what Mazares, the experienced Median general, was waiting for.
With a cold smile, he signaled to his commanders.
Suddenly, from the heart of the dust, a wall of lance-wielding Median horsemen appeared, waiting for them.
The Persian riders, with their light horses and leather armors, were met with a heavy barrage of lances.
The result was a catastrophe.
The lances of the Median horsemen easily pierced the Persian riders and their horses.
The light Persian cavalry, which was trained for swift and harassing battles, was drowned in a moment in the ocean of experienced Median riders' lance barrage.
The dream of a lightning charge had turned into a bloody slaughterhouse.
At the same time, the other arm of the Median cavalry, having passed through the weak barrier of the Persian riders on the left flank, reached the rear of the infantry corps.
These corps, mostly composed of warriors from the mountain tribes with less experience in orderly plains battles, suddenly found themselves surrounded from two sides.
The relentless pressure of the Median infantry from the front and the surprise attack of the cavalry from the rear shattered their iron discipline, which had been achieved in months of training, in an instant.
The phalanx lines on the flanks began to bend and break.
The sound of breaking wooden shields, the terrified screams of soldiers being attacked from behind, and the neighing of horses charging through the infantry ranks created a hell of chaos.
A young Sadbad from the Maraphii tribe, his face covered in blood, shouted, "Do not retreat! Hold the wall!"
But no one was listening to his voice anymore.
The soldiers, out of fear, turned their backs on the enemy and fled towards the center of the army.
In the heart of the field, Arash, who stood like a rock with his central corps, watched this rapid collapse in disbelief.
The communication system of drums and flags had become meaningless amidst the dust and clamor of the battle.
He could only see fragments of the disaster.
Suddenly, a dusty and terrified messenger, his horse bleeding, reached him.
"Commander! The right flank is collapsing! Bagpat is surrounded! We need help!"
Arash, with a pale face, looked around.
He could send a Hezarbod from the reserve forces to help, but that would mean weakening the center; the center that was the only remaining hope to prevent a complete defeat.
He shouted, "How long can they hold out?"
The messenger replied with a voice trembling with despair, "Commander... they can't hold out any longer."
"They are being crushed."
At that moment, another messenger arrived from the left flank.
His message was the same: "Commander! They have outflanked us! The lines are broken! Give us the order to retreat!"
The tension in the command staff had reached its peak.
Arash slammed his fist on his horse's saddle.
Their flawless plan, their superior strategy, and their new weapons were all fading away in the face of the enemy's brutal experience and sheer numerical superiority.
He looked towards the command hill, where Kourosh stood, hoping that that peerless mind would find a solution to this nightmare.