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... p> His breath grew cold as the image resurfaced:
The golden baby.
The tiny figure emerging from the cracked cocoon.
An executioner being born.
The fountain, the spiraling threads of existence, the tendrils holding reality, all of it wasn't just a graveyard.
It was a manufacturing chamber.
A place where life was unmade, then remade, into executioners meant to keep balance.
Empty.
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