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... just outside the outer sect living quarters. At fifty years old, he was no longer the strong, sharp young man who first arrived in this strange world. His face was lined, his hair streaked with gray, and his belly had softened beneath loose, faded robes. Thirty years of frustration and slow progress weighed on him like a heavy cloak.

Thirty-five thousand spirit stones was the fortune he had stumbled upon by chance, hidden in the remains of a fallen cultivator on his very first day here. ...

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Can't a man maintain his dignity while preparing for the end of the world? Is that too much to ask?

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