The Last Battle in Italy

The sun rose over the battlefield of Beneventum, casting a golden light over the gathered armies.

Pyrrhus sat atop his warhorse, his golden armor tarnished by years of battle, his eyes fixed on the Roman legions before him.

His army was tired. Depleted.

But he had one final chance.

Echecrates rode up beside him, his face grim. "The men know this battle is hopeless."

Pyrrhus smirked coldly. "Then they should fight as if they have nothing to lose."

A war horn sounded from the Roman side. Their disciplined formations advanced, shields locked, their gladiuses gleaming.

Pyrrhus raised his sword.

"For Epirus!" he roared.

The Epirote warriors charged, their war cries splitting the morning air.

The battle descended into chaos.

Swords clashed, shields splintered, men screamed.

Pyrrhus fought with the fury of a man who refused to lose, his blade a whirlwind of death.

But the Romans were relentless.

Slowly, his army was pushed back.

A soldier fell beside him. Another. And another.

Echecrates grabbed his arm. "Pyrrhus! We must retreat!"

Pyrrhus cursed, his heart burning with rage and frustration.

But he knew the truth.

The war was lost.

He turned his horse. "Sound the retreat."

The Epirote banners fell, and Pyrrhus fled Italy for the last time