There never was any chance of victory. Not really. No fortress can hold the line against the Dark Lord. No siege can last forever. No army, no matter who backs them, their righteousness, and their strength, can do anything more than provide a temporary setback for the forces of the World Empire, under the rule of the Dark Lord. His mages are more numerous, more disciplined and well-trained. His gryphon-riders outmatches every aerial force that the dwindling forces of the light can muster. His agents turn the population against us with ease. In every conquered kingdom, resistance is futile. In every city, the Dark Lord wins the loyalty of the conquered by being, on a purely socio-economic level, a better ruler than the old order. He knows the value of merit, over the mere accident of birth, he knows the strength in letting people rise to the occasion, rather than keeping them in their place. Perhaps, if we had not been blinded by our arrogance, by our ancient bloodlines and our stratified feudal lives, we would have had the loyalty, resources, and people, that is now held firmly in the iron grip of the Dark Lord.

So as kingdom after kingdom falls, one can say that the Dark Lord is undefeatable, and we might as well give up. Surrender now while we can. But that is not right. Sure, life is better for the people under the rule of the Dark Lord, but they have no notion of his final goals. Of unseating the gods themselves, of taking the mantle of power from the devils and demons. Of assuming a position atop a golden throne that will allow him to win forever. There will be no freedom, except what he gives. There will be no chance at a life without his enduring rule. If he wins, then the future of the universe itself is his iron will dominating everything forever. A safe future, but one without freedom. Without hope. We are not perfect. Our side is not without its flaws, but there were a chance of a better future, when the forces of light held dominion over the universe. That one day, the races of the world would unite and free themselves from the old order, and establish a world free from tyrants.

It is similar to what he is doing, but he is simply exchanging tyrants that are, with less horrible tyrants to come. True freedom, where all mortal races are equal, and free to make choices on their own, is not what he wants. Is he the Dark Lord, who crushes empires, butchers nobles like cattle, breaks the walls of the elven cities with his own hand, burns ancient palaces to the ground to make room for his own projects, crushes his enemies, see them driven before him, and hears the lamentation of their spouses? Yes. Is he the same Dark Lord who builds hospitals, schools, orphanages, and social housing, feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, and cares for his subordinates? Yes. After all, a benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant. His good deeds do not wash out the evil he does. In fact, it makes them worse. How can someone care for the orphans, provide homes for the homeless, encourage schooling, and at the same time lead Dark Legions that topples the gilded thrones of the world, killing thousands, maybe millions?

That is why I have no choice. That is why my blade even now carves through his infernal armies. Why my sword glows with a light that cannot be extinguished, that the darkness cannot destroy. That is why despite the unending legions that he has at his commands, I will keep fighting. I will not stop even as dark spells try to crush me, only for my own unending will to turn them aside; I have no choice but to try anyway, no matter how bleak the battle, no matter how futile the fight. Is there any other choice as I ram my blade into the skull of one of his demonic generals. As I hold aloft my blessed banner inspiring my fellows around me. Is there any other choice than to keep fighting? To stand against this unimaginable force, who may have had good intentions, and may do good deeds, but will in the name of progress and a better future, create a world where good is mired in bad deeds and evil wills, until all that is good will be done in his name, and will be done upon a foundation of bones and blood. As my holy shield breaks in my hand, against a cavalcade of orcish knights charging at me, I keep fighting. Because I have no other choice. As my dead comrades rise around me, raised by the necromancers under the Dark Lord's command, I keep fighting. Because I have no other choice.

Even as the Dark Lord's personal guards go against me, these captains of battle, who have proved themselves on a thousand battlefields, I don't stop. I cannot. These, who have slain worthy knights of great renown, elven warrior-kings of endless prowess, and powerful archmages beyond count; together they could tear down the armies of many kingdoms on their own. I cannot slay them, but I can hold my own. I swing my blade with precision and accuracy that is almost inhuman. Perhaps even now the gods of war are riding my body like a man rides a horse, making me into an instrument of carnage. I parry with effortless movements, just the same as my opponents. They must be opposed. If they, and their master wins, they will make a world of order and progress that will never be free. Because it will be so good, like a gilded cage, where the people shall want for nothing, and never rise up against their masters. Under the old lords, things were bad, but the anger was building. We were on the cusp of revolution. Of change. And instead he came, as he does now to the circle in the middle of the battlefield, where I am surrounded by his elites. He took charge, aroused the people to anger and rage, and made himself an emperor, where we needed none.

Even now as I stand before him, I feel his charisma. I feel his will, greater than my own. It is almost enough to make me bow before him. To pledge my sword and life to him, as many champions have done before. But I manage to steel myself. To gather unseen strength, allowing me to instead strike at him. Instead of dodging he simply catches my blessed blade in his hand. And with a single movement he disarms me, and looks curiously at the blade, as if he is admiring the craft. I have nothing left. My spells are used. My bow was broken early in the fight, and I seem to have misplaced my dagger in the eye of a cyclops that was under his sway. He turns to look me in the eyes. I see how easily he took charge, in those eyes. His will itself is radiating out of them, like a spell that makes you understand him as an authority. I want to look down, to apologise for staring into those beautiful orbs of his. And yet I am defiant. He must be opposed. The Dark Lord must under all circumstances be opposed. And I will not break. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

''Your will is strong.''

His voice is full of pure power. Of raw dominance. Of fatherly love even. Less the voice one would use to speak to an enemy, more the voice of an impressed teacher, if anything. I can only nod. If I were to speak, I do not know if I could resist bowing, but I must keep resisting. No matter what, I have only one option, only one choice, resistance.

''Were you to bow down before me now, and swear me your loyalty, I would grant you the rulership and position in my empire that a person of such indomitable will deserves. Few have come this far, and remained loyal to themselves. I can respect that you do not bend the knee with ease.''

I say nothing, nor do I move an inch. His every word drips with power. His every movement was that of a true leader. Even now, staring into those deep dark eyes, I could feel a part of me desiring to bow, to obey, to join him and perhaps act as a force in his regime that would lessen the severity of the dark acts he will do. And yet, I remain loyal to myself. I have no other choice. Not if I want to remain myself. Remain free.

''On the other hand, I can grant you a worthy death. A battle against me. One-on-one. Your many wounds healed by my flesh-menders. Your strength restored completely by spell and potion. Your blade against mine. You will not win. My victory is inevitable. But your death can be a glorious one. Your body will be buried with honour, as if you had been one of my own closest and most capable officers. I would grant you that, should you prefer it to bowing before me.''