It seemed he had always been struggling in this place, as if there were no existence outside of this hellish land. He could not recall who he had been before he had come here, if he had been anyone, and somehow he could not imagine an end to his presence on this field. This place had always existed, it seemed, as he had always existed within it. Perhaps it was not that it was infinite, though. Perhaps it was only a finite existence which looped itself continuously like a broken record. He did not know, and the chaotic circumstances of his present situation left little time for contemplation. Strange objects fell from the sky, fire and lightning scorched his skin, and his adversaries died and were resurrected like momentary Messiahs. He suspected that he, too, had died many times, only to return to this place as the record skipped again. He also suspected, with some comfort, that he had many times over been the cause of others’ deaths. This pleased him, and he did not know why. He thought of this triumph and suddenly wanted very much for another victory. The constraints of his existence became a paltry afterthought, and the fire and lightning his only concern.

Drawing his sword, Marth turned and faced the green-clad warrior who stared him down. Yes, he wanted very much for another victory.

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