About a Dating Sim Where Dating Is Impossible Chapter 92

The development was nothing short of perfect.

Even Murad, who possessed keen insight and tenacity, had ultimately been deceived.

How many sacrifices had been made to achieve this? Of course, it was gratifying. The surge of triumph was undeniable. At last, as the battlefield unfolded according to his will, the prince nearly lost even his greatest weapon—his negative judgment. He even entertained the thought that perhaps now was the time to put an end to this battle.

To reach this point, he had concealed his very survival, even from his own soldiers. He had deliberately discouraged his people, sending them into Murad’s hands to preserve his remaining strength. Not only that, but to divert Murad’s attention in a direction far from the main force, he had sacrificed hundreds of soldiers as mere pawns.

Even that had not been enough. To exploit Murad’s suspicion of feints, he had deliberately initiated the first attack with a feeble arrow volley. He had even delayed the encirclement of the Sipahis on purpose, drawing them into the fight.

He had fought so hard for victory.

Just once—just this once—could he not claim a great triumph?

But excessive greed only invited disaster.

Tearing himself away from the lingering temptation, the prince turned his gaze to the battlefield—a place where life after life was coming to an end. Only then did he steady himself, calmly resuming his command.

“Relay to Ivania to push the troops forward. We must not give them a chance to rescue the Sipahis.”

The infantry under Ivania’s command served as the anvil to pin down the enemy’s main force. Now was the moment when the ferocious assault on the extracted Sipahis was taking place. They could not afford to allow the enemy to regroup and withdraw without gain.

And now, the immense resources poured into equipping his troops were paying off. How could he not feel proud to see his soldiers standing their ground against the mighty Ottoman army, an accomplishment no one in Europe had easily achieved?

A formation of pikes, reinforced by heavy infantry guarding its vulnerable flanks—a simple, steadfast strategy. Yet, the stronger the soldiers’ training and the higher the quality of their equipment, the more formidable this formation became.

The Ottomans, mostly light infantry, had been caught off guard by the ambush and were unable to fully leverage their numerical advantage. This was a historic day—the first time the Morean army had gained the upper hand in open battle after enduring nothing but retreats and defeats.

Yet, despite the infantry’s success, the most crucial role in this battle still belonged to the knights.

The Sipahis had been created precisely to counter Western Europe’s powerful knights. Even the mighty Ottomans had been forced to acknowledge the martial prowess of these warriors. It was only fitting to use the knights against them. And now, with the Sipahis entangled, soldiers wielding massive, scythe-like weapons closed in, accelerating their attrition.

Ordinarily, the prince himself would have clashed with the Sipahis. But this time, another figure had taken his place.

“I told you to bow your heads, you infidel scum!”

A bold knight, tossing aside his broken lance and drawing his sword. A man with an easy confidence, one who called the prince his cousin without hesitation, now demonstrated his courage on the battlefield. Just before speed clashed against speed, he twisted his blade with skillful precision, beheading his enemy with effortless ease—his wealth of experience evident in every motion.

Just keep going.

A rare smile crossed the prince’s lips, unable to suppress his satisfaction. If things continued as they were, crushing the mighty Ottoman army in a decisive victory would no longer seem impossible. Even the prince himself briefly allowed such a thought to take root—let alone the others.

However, ever aligned to danger, the prince swiftly noticed the subtle shifts in the battlefield.

Ivania’s advance had slowed compared to the initial ambush. The Ottomans, who had previously been in complete disarray, were now forming ranks. Their movements were becoming precise, like interlocking gears turning in perfect coordination. The prince trembled, his shoulders quivering as he gazed up at the moonless night sky.

“Even a single victory, gained by a mere stroke of luck, is not permitted…”

A commander forced to retreat from a battle that seemed all but won—what greater disgrace was there? Cursing himself, the prince clenched his reins. Not yet. But once the Ottomans had fully regained control, even the opportunity for retreat would be lost. Now, while they still held the advantage, while they could still be sure the enemy would not give chase—this was the perfect moment to withdraw.

One final strike—then a swift retreat.

Unlike before, the prince donned his bloodstained helmet, raising his lance high as he bellowed from the depths of his chest:

“We launch our final assault now. We will drive them back in one decisive strike and then withdraw! Adriano on the right flank must remain alert for any possible ambush!”

His teeth ground together in frustration, the sound grating in his ears. Though his helmet concealed his expression, everyone understood his feelings.

Even so, his voice remained firm.

“And I shall lead the final charge.”

A roar erupted in response, and with that, the prince spurred his horse forward. Having kept himself in reserve precisely for such a moment, there was no allied force blocking his path. Like a force drawn irresistibly into the enemy’s flank, the prince and his knights surged forward. He caught a glimpse of their shocked expressions, but he did not hesitate. His lance was already leveled at them.

—BOOM!

Piercing through multiple bodies, the prince cast aside his broken lance and drew his sword. With a single swing, another head was sent flying.

The imperial banner had long since been raised high. The twin-headed eagle, symbolizing both the empire and his lineage, now fluttered in the midst of battle—a message in itself. The same message Murad had once sent when he deceived them by concealing his elite guard and his banner.

If you can do it, so can I.

The battlefield resounded with cries of panic. The return of the supposedly dead prince shattered the enemy’s morale. The Ottomans, who had barely managed to restore their ranks, faltered once more. Seeking to deepen their disarray, the prince scanned the battlefield for the enemy commander’s banner.

And at that moment, his gaze locked onto a man exuding an undeniable presence.

A figure clad in garments adorned with disciplined luxury, radiating the confidence of a true warrior. Even in this dire situation, he remained calm, surveying the battlefield with keen eyes, adapting and commanding with unwavering composure.

Among all the men the prince had ever known, only one could display such unshakable resolve.

And the prince immediately recognized him.

“Murad…!”

The prince found himself in a dilemma.

Should he charge at Murad now, gambling everything on a decisive strike? Or should he retreat as planned, waiting for his trap to tighten further?

The answer was already decided.

The prince stared at Murad for a while before finally turning his horse around and withdrawing. At the same time, shouts carrying his intent echoed across the battlefield.

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

It was around this moment that another presence emerged beneath the dark night sky. Knowing exactly who they were, the prince felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Even as he oversaw the rear guard of his retreating army, ensuring they wouldn’t be pursued, he couldn’t help but let out a sigh.

“So this is the limit after all.”

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

The call repeated over and over, urging those reluctant to abandon their victory to withdraw. The prince watched for a long time as the new forces in the distance approached before finally raising his voice himself.

“The battle is over! Retreat! I command all of you—retreat!”

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

Like an echo bouncing off unseen walls, the order eventually moved the soldiers. Setting aside their lingering regrets and unfulfilled hopes, the Morean army slowly began its withdrawal. Though the surprised Ottoman forces hurriedly reorganized and attempted pursuit, their shattered Sipahi and scattered infantry were insufficient for the task. Even Murad seemed to recognize this and refrained from sending the Sipahi after them.

Fortunately, the newly arrived forces did not recklessly close in. Realizing that the right wing, led by Adrianos, remained intact, the  Greeks merely kept their distance and steadily moved to join the Sultan’s camp. Watching them, the prince muttered to himself in a low voice.

“One day…”

One day, I will return before you all as a brilliant hope—one that no one will ever doubt.

—”Retreat! Retreat!”

The final cries rang out for the last of the lingering soldiers. Only then did the Morean army fully let go of their longing for victory.

Only one man, the prince himself, still held onto the embers of his burning passion despite the grim battlefield.

The battle was over.

But the war was not.

With that thought repeating in his mind, the prince finally turned his back on the battlefield.

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