Kourosh's mind, now emerged from under the rubble of pride and regret, was like a plowed field ready for sowing.
In the solitude of his tent, amidst the heavy silence of the fortress, he took refuge in history.
He remembered the great battles of the past, the commanders who had pulled victory from the heart of defeat.
In the midst of this mental review, the story of the Battle of Pasargadae from the history of the Persians themselves suddenly sparked in his mind.
In that story, the Persian army was defeated and was fleeing towards Pasargadae.
But at the moment of despair, the Pasargadaean women, with their cries and reproaches, had driven their men to return and fight, changing the course of the battle.
As a result of this cry from the women, the lost morale of the Persians was restored, and they charged towards the scattered Median army and defeated them.
He thought of his enemy, Azhidahak.
He knew his grandfather well. He knew that right now, celebration and revelry were underway in the Median camp.
Azhidahak, who had always been in fear of the shadow of this genius grandson, had now defeated him.
He had humiliated a "child."
This victory had satisfied his pride to the point of madness.
He no longer saw Kourosh as a serious threat; he saw a defeated rebel who would soon be crushed.
He would become careless and reckless.
Suddenly, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Kourosh's mind.
This inspiration was like a bolt of lightning that illuminated the absolute darkness of the tent for a moment.
He jumped to his feet.
The first defeat was not just a catastrophe!
This defeat was his greatest weapon.
He could use Azhidahak's pride against him.
He could turn his enemy's greatest weakness, his overconfidence, into his deathbed.
The plan took shape in his mind with stunning speed.
He was no longer thinking of another head-on battle on this border plain.
He was thinking of a trap; a trap the size of all of Pars.
A long tactical retreat.
Not a chaotic flight, but a calculated retreat to lure the arrogant Median army into the heart of Pars, to a plain of his choosing, to Pasargadae.
He wanted to draw the enemy away from his supply bases.
He wanted to tire and wear him down in unfamiliar lands.
And then, at the moment the enemy thought the final victory was in his hands, to deliver the final blow.
He thought of the story of the Pasargadaean women.
This was no longer a historical story; it was a part of his plan.
He could recreate this story.
He could use this historical memory as a psychological weapon.
He could, with a deceptive retreat, create a similar scene and, at the appointed moment, with a pre-designed cry, raise his army's morale to its peak and crush the surprised enemy.
Suddenly, a short, bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"The inertia of history..." he whispered under his breath. "How powerful it is."
In all these years, he had tried to change history with his modern knowledge.
But now he understood that sometimes, the smartest path is not to resist the flow of history, but to ride its wave and guide it towards a new destination.
He had to use the very event that had happened to Cyrus the Great in the original history to his own advantage.
This laugh was not the laugh of a child.
It was the laugh of a commander who had found the brightest path to victory from the heart of the darkest defeat.
He was no longer that proud genius.
He was no longer that terrified child.
He was now a ruthless and calculating hunter, setting his trap for the greatest hunt of his life.
He went to the table, picked up a new scroll, and with hands that no longer trembled, began to draw the lines of his new plan.
The plan for the "Pasargadae Trap."
Outside the tent, Hirad, Harpagus's son, despite the complete exhaustion of his body, stood guard like a loyal shadow.
He had not blinked since last night and, with his sword in hand, was determined to protect the life of his crown prince against any danger, whether from the enemy or from the despondent soldiers of his own side.
He did not dare to disturb Kourosh's solitude, but the heavy silence of the tent clenched his heart with worry.
Suddenly, the sound of a short, bitter laugh reached his ears from inside the tent.
Laughter? At this moment of defeat and despair?
The blood in Hirad's veins froze.
Had the prince lost his mind from the pressure and sorrow?
He anxiously squeezed the hilt of his sword, distraught and nervous, but he knew there was nothing he could do but wait in this darkness full of doubt.