With burning fury, the mighty Rostam spurred Rakhsh into a swift gallop, closing the distance behind the retreating Turanian king, Afrasiab. Encouraging his fiery steed, Rostam called upon Rakhsh to hold firm so he might stain the battlefield with the enemy king's blood. Rakhsh bound forward like a creature of flame, so fast it seemed wings had sprouted from his flanks. Unfastening the royal lasso from his saddle-bow, Rostam coiled and cast it through the air, encircling the crest of Afrasiab's helmet. Yet the Turanian warlord ducked beneath the loop with desperate agility, and his fiery horse lunged forward with explosive speed, allowing Afrasiab to slip out of the tightening rope—gasping for breath, his tongue parched, and his body drenched in sweat.
With their sovereign in headlong flight, the Turanian host dissolved into utter ruin. Two-thirds of their fighters never saw their encampments again, remaining either slain upon the field or wounded and captive in Iranian hands. Countless spoils—golden-trapped steeds, gilded helmets, swords in jewel-encrusted scabbards, and treasures untold—fell to the victors. The Iranian champions sought no further blood, choosing not to pursue the fleeing survivors, but retired to the hunting grounds in opulent triumph. They dispatched a victory scroll to King Kay Kavus, announcing their absolute triumph and that no noble hero had perished—save for Zavareh, who had merely been unseated from his horse. For two full weeks, the champions lingered upon that blessed plain in high celebration, and on the fifteenth day, they returned to the royal court of Kay Kavus. Such is the way of this fleeting realm, where hardship and ease alternate in turn; thus the wise set not their hearts upon its transient glory. And so concluded this grand narrative, setting the stage for the heroic tragedy of Rostam and Sohrab.