Amidst the chaos and crimson dust of the field, the central corps, under the command of Arash, still resisted like an island against the storm.
In the heart of this steel island, Cambyses, King of Anshan, fought like a wounded lion.
With every move, his cast-iron sword carved a path of death among the Median soldiers, and his war cry filled the hearts of his men with courage.
He and his honor guard had formed a human wall against the waves of enemies.
But their numbers were endless, and fatigue, like a deadly poison, was creeping into the king's muscles.
Suddenly, from the midst of the dust, a group of elite Median horsemen descended upon them like a lightning bolt.
Their bronze armors were gleaming, and their lances were long.
They broke through Cambyses's tired guard.
With a swift turn, Cambyses deflected a rider's lance with his shield and, with his sword, tore open the flank of another's horse.
But in a moment of carelessness, a long lance from another direction struck his shoulder with crushing force.
The lance pierced through his leather armor and sank into his flesh.
A cry of pain and rage erupted from Cambyses's chest.
The blow was so severe that it knocked him off his horse.
He fell onto the dusty, bloody ground, and for a moment, the world went dark before his eyes.
His honor guard, seeing this scene, frantically formed a circle around him, creating a barrier with their own lives to get their king off the field.
But the news, like an ominous wind, swept through the battlefield:
"The king has fallen! The king is wounded!"
This news, like a bolt of lightning, struck the command hill where Kourosh stood.
He, who until that moment had been staring with soulless eyes at the collapse of his plan, came to his senses upon hearing this news.
All that terror and helplessness, in an instant, turned into a sharp, burning pain in his heart.
His father...
His only pillar of support in this cruel world was now lying on the ground.
For the first time, emotions overcame his cold logic.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to charge into the field.
He wanted to tear the entire Median army apart with his small hands.
But his mind, that analytical and ruthless mind, would not let him go, even at the peak of his pain.
He quickly assessed the situation.
His father was wounded.
The flanks had collapsed.
The center of the army was under crushing pressure.
Continuing this battle was no longer even a gamble; it was sheer suicide.
To continue meant the complete annihilation of the army, the deaths of thousands more soldiers, and the certain capture or death of his father.
He thought about the enemy's casualties.
The scattered reports that came from the messengers spoke of a great slaughter among the Medes. Their superior weapons had done their job.
But this tactical victory had no value in the face of a strategic defeat.
His army was severely damaged and no longer had the strength to continue the fight.
A deep pain clenched his heart.
This pain was not the pain of defeat; it was the pain of the responsibility that now weighed on his shoulders.
The responsibility for the lives of thirty thousand men and the fate of a nation.
He closed his eyes.
All that pride, all that confidence, was scattered like ashes in the wind.
He had made a mistake.
He had underestimated his enemy.
He had underestimated war.
And now, his men were paying the price for his mistake with their blood.
A hot tear streamed from the corner of his eye.
The first and last tear he would shed on the battlefield.
This tear was not out of weakness, but to wash away his pride and for the birth of a true commander.
He opened his eyes.
There was no longer any sign of terror or doubt in his gaze.
Only a cold, steel-like resolve surged in it.
He turned to the horn player beside him; a young man with a pale face who was staring at the field in disbelief.
Kourosh placed his hand on his shoulder.
The young man flinched.
Kourosh's voice, when he spoke, was calm and emotionless, but each of his words landed like a heavy hammer blow.
"Sound the retreat."
The horn player stared at him with wide, astonished eyes. "But... but my lord... we..."
Kourosh cut him off with certainty. "That is an order, soldier."
Then, his voice trembled with a sob for a moment.
"The command is bitter... but execute it!"
The horn player, in the face of that unwavering authority, bowed his head, brought his bronze horn to his lips, and with all the strength in his chest, blew into it.