In the games I came from, progress mattered.

You didn’t just play – you saved. Every win, every loss, every mistake written onto a tiny piece of memory that proved you’d been there. And sometimes, when things went wrong, when the screen froze or the system tried to crash… you learned something important.

Some save files refuse to be deleted.

At Wrestle Heroes, I ran that game from the first bell to the last. No pause button. No reset. One opponent after another, pushing through damage, fatigue, and doubt. I made it all the way to the final screen – one button-press from the World Title, one heartbeat away from finishing the story the right way.

And that’s when the overwrite attempt hit.

Warlord Mars. Santiago Siniestro. Dr. Cube.

Three inputs at once. A forced corruption. Mars came crashing down from the sky, moonsaulted me, flattened me like a pancake – and War Machine tried to erase everything I’d earned with brute force and numbers. They tried to corrupt the Memory Card.

But their attempt failed.

I didn’t walk out with the World Title. That’s true. But the record still shows what happened next. Second place logged. Progress saved. Gift of the Gods Championship unlocked. Proof that I belonged in that match, and proof that no amount of interference could wipe my run clean.

And when things could’ve gone worse… when the corruption could’ve spread… Edward Newton pulled the plug just in time. Took the Memory Card right out of the slot. That wasn’t weakness. That was recovery. That was preserving the file so the story could continue.

Now War Machine thinks they finished something. Mars thinks flattening me ended the level. But this isn’t a broken cartridge, blowing the dust out isn’t required – it’s a protected save.

And now we’re loading back up into a Warzone.

No factions. No interference. No exploits. One-on-one, manual save only. This is where brute force meets persistence. Mars comes from a world where everything ends – scorched earth, no mercy, no future. He fights like the only way forward is to burn what’s left behind.

But I come from games where the hero gets knocked down and stands back up because quitting isn’t an option.

You don’t beat those games by panicking. You don’t beat them by smashing the console. You beat them by learning, adapting, and pressing forward until the system finally accepts you won.

Mars fights like a delete key. I fight like a save icon flashing in the corner of the screen.

And when the Warzone match ends… when the dust settles and the leaderboard updates… the world will see what I already know.

You can knock me down. You can try to overwrite me. You can try to erase me out of existence as many times as you like. But PixelShift isn’t something you erase.

I’m something you load again. And again. And again.