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... one carrying a strange, mournful tone as it spread through the valley.
Cho didn’t translate, which meant there was no specific meaning behind the sounds. But in my ears, they felt like a sorrowful funeral dirge.
The yellow mist curling up like incense, the rhythm of the Locust King’s wings—it all felt like a ritual farewell.
It made sense.
Anyone caught in that golden fog would certainly die.
If it were poison, there might at least be an antidote. But thi ...
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