Piran Viseh, the consummate strategist of Turan, returned once more to the pavilion of the elephant-bodied champion Rostam. Dismounting his steed, he showered the Iranian hero with high praises, invoking divine blessings upon his frame in hopes of softening his resolute heart. Piran claimed he had conveyed Rostam's demands to both the young and old within the sprawling host—composed of Turanians, Sogdians, Khotlanese, and the armies of China. Yet, he reported that the allied kings and chieftains refused to surrender any transgressors save Afrasiab, declaring themselves eager for battle. He warned Rostam that even the King of Hind was prepared to engage him with bow and tempered Indian steel.
Rostam, however, pierced through Piran's veil of deceit with blazing righteous fury. He thundered against the Turanian commander, exclaiming, 'O wretched man! How long will you stand upon trickery and lie? King Kay Khosrow warned me in secret, and old Goudarz revealed your hidden snares—now I see with my own eyes that you are falsehood from head to toe!' Rostam admonished Piran for remaining bound to the cursed soil of Turan when he could have sought refuge in prosperous Iran, where the just King Kay Khosrow would have honored him like a father. Instead, Piran chose armor and leopard-skins over royal silks, reaping the bitter harvest of his own sowing.
Sensing Rostam's unyielding resolve and mounting anger, Piran skillfully feigned submission. He praised Rostam's incomparable wisdom and requested a single night's reprieve to deliberate with his assembly. With deceit on his tongue and vengeance in his heart, he retreated to the dark vanguard of his host, leaving the earth trembling like a boiling cauldron beneath the marching legions.
Left with the inevitability of war, Rostam turned to the Iranian warriors, girding his waist for battle. He recounted the ominous prophecy of astrologers, who foretold a colossal clash between two mountains—a day of doom where iron maces would melt like wax and world-renowned heroes would perish. Rostam exhorted his troops to discard attachment to the fleeting, transient world, reminding them that enduring honor and glorious fame were the only treasures worth keeping. Inspired by his immortal spirit, the Iranian host swore to fight until the Day of Resurrection under his banner.
When the two massive armies collided, it was as if a dark, tempestuous cloud overspread the sun, raining down steel arrows and flashing blades. The battlefield transformed into a pitch-black sea of blood and smoke. Spearheads glistened crimson, cow-headed maces crashed down like hail from the heavens, and the soil absorbed the blood and brains of fallen champions. Warriors and armored elephants collapsed side by side like felled towers. Even the venerable Goudarz declared that in all his long years of manhood, he had never witnessed or heard of a slaughter so immense and terrifying.