As the knight opened his eyes, he let out a tired sigh. He slowly stood up, dust falling from his battered armor, which once shone brighter than the sun. His eyes scanned the battleground, eyes which once contained a raging fire that was now reduced to a dim flicker. His gaze landed upon his sword, dull and chipped in places. He grabbed the hilt to pick it up only to be overcome by an unwillingness so powerful that he dropped to his knees. He was tired. Both physically and mentally. He had lost. He had lost so many times that he doesn’t even remember whether he lost count or didn’t care enough. But every time he did lose, he wished it was his last. But it never was, and it never will be. In his early days, he would come back with a stronger will to reach victory. But years of betrayal, backstabs, heartbreaks, and losses slowly drained his will to fight. So much so that he even lost his will to live. Once he wanted to win. Now he wants to die. But even death seemed like a reward locked behind an unwinnable victory. Hope, to him, was a strategy designed to disappoint. Expectations, he deemed, were an aphrodisiac for the champions. His life had become a burden bound to him by chains of fire. A burden, he finds no reason nor joy to carry.
He stood up, a visible reluctance in his movements. He started walking. As he quickened his pace, he charged toward the monsters with guns and grenades. He tried to clutch his sword tightly but lacked the energy. As he neared the monsters disguised as humans, he hoped. Not of victory. But of an easier, more tolerable loss. For he would inevitably have to stand up again and charge through this grey field of broken dreams.
But despite being a hollow husk of bone, blood, and flesh, there was a dim flicker. A belief that somewhere in this vast expanse of gloom and grey, hid a battle that might be won.
And with this cursed belief, the immortal knight charged. From one loss to another. Again, and again. For as far as the horizon stretched. For as long as the fabric of time kept weaving.