As the sun sank into golden twilight, Ardashir marshaled his valiant warriors, leaving behind all cumbersome baggage. When midnight cloaked the earth in pitch blackness, the Sovereign approached the encampment of the Kurds. He found the entire plain covered with sleeping foes, blissfully unaware of their impending doom. Drawing his radiant blade, Ardashir loosed his charger's reins and struck. The swords of Iran fell like lightning, carpeting the plain with severed heads and limbs until the very grass was crowned with blood. Countless enemies were taken captive, their arrogance and foolishness completely humbled. Ardashir granted the spoils of the enemy lands to his army, bestowing purses of gold upon his soldiers. So absolute became the peace and justice under his reign that even if an old man walked the wilderness carrying a basin of gold upon his head, no person would dare cast a covetous glance upon it. Yet Ardashir felt no pride in striking sleeping foes; proudly he returned to the ancient city of Istakhr, ordering his troops to refit their weapons and strengthen their steeds, ever vigilant for the battles yet to come.