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... unshed tears.
Twelve urns, carved from dark jade, sat in a solemn row upon the high altar.
Each bore a name, a reminder of what it once was.
Fang Yuan stood before the assembled mourners, his figure a pillar of stark black against the grey stone.
His voice, when it came, was not loud, but it carried through the cavernous hall with the weight of finality, echoing off the tablets of countless ancestors who bore witness.
"Fang Guo," he intoned, the name hang ...
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