As the Iranian vanguards returned from the edge of the defensive trench, they heralded the arrival of the Roman Caesar's envoy, coming with a heavy heart and seeking royal clemency. The ambassador entered the imperial court accompanied by forty wise Roman philosophers. Upon beholding the glorious crown, throne, and towering majesty of Khosrow Anushirvan, a cold breath escaped the envoy's chest, recognizing that such supreme kingship was indeed worthy of the monarch. The Romans proffered thirty thousand gold dinars as tribute to the sovereign, yet trembled like leaves before the stern radiance of the Shahanshah. Khosrow, displaying magnanimity, comforted them and assigned them an honorable lodging. The chief envoy then spoke, explaining that the new Caesar was a inexperienced youth whose father had passed away, unversed in the subtleties of statecraft and the ways of the world. He pleaded that Iran and Rome should not be rent asunder by warfare, reminding Khosrow that all monarchs—from the Khaqan of China to the King of India—revere the Persian throne. Khosrow smiled at the envoy's artful rhetoric, replying that if the Caesar was indeed a youth, his seasoned advisors should not have lacked wisdom; for whoever breaches solemn covenants shall see their prosperous realm reduced to ash. The envoys kissed the dust of the threshold, offering ten cow-hides filled to the brim with gold dinars and accepting whatever terms the King decreed. Khosrow entrusted the detailed accounting to his chief minister, who demanded an additional annual tribute of one thousand gold-woven silk garments to serve as royal robes of honor. The terms settled, the envoys bowed in gratitude. Shahanshah Khosrow appointed a trusted scribe-warrior to oversee the collection of Rome's tribute and set out with his triumphant army toward Ctesiphon. The host marched with silk banners fluttering, jewel-encrusted belts, and golden harnesses, turning the vast plains into a glittering field of light. As the monarch approached the capital, the grandees, commanders, and common folk dismounted, walking on foot to offer praise and blessings upon their righteous king. Following his grand return, the epic pauses for reflection upon the inexorable wheel of time and the transience of mortal life—a fleeting inn where high fortune and deep abysses fade into the dark earth. Here, the venerable poet, having crossed sixty-one years of age, offers a heartfelt prayer to the Almighty for enough time and vitality to complete this grand historic chronicle from the ancient Kayanian monarchs down to Yazdegerd, creating an immortal garden of words for generations to come.