Driven by a burning desire to avenge Zarer, the noble Esfandiyar saddled his golden steed and rode swiftly to the battlefront. There, he divided the Kianian host into three grand divisions: one wing he entrusted to the valiant youth Bastur, another to his hero brother Farshavard alongside the chieftains of Iran, and the third wing he reserved under his own roaring command, thundering like a dark storm cloud. Bastur and the sword-wielding Farshavard stood resolute before Esfandiyar, swearing a binding oath that even if the enemy's blades cleaved the earth, not a single warrior would turn back from the fray. With tightened girths and clad in gleaming armor, the Iranian champions charged in unison. The slaughter was immense; blood overflowed over hills and plains in torrents vast enough to turn watermills. When King Arjasp saw Esfandiyar thrusting his heavy lance through the bosoms of his elite champions of Yabghu descent, he realized no power on earth could withstand the prince's wrath. As twilight fell and his lines shattered, Arjasp turned his face toward the desert and fled in terror. The Iranians gave immediate chase to the retreating Chinese forces, putting countless enemies to the sword without mercy.