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Cracks split the earth like open wounds, glowing red with slow-moving lava. Each step sent dust rising into the air—ash mixed with the stench of rot and old fire. This land had died once. Now it refused to stay dead.
The man stopped first.
Broad-shouldered, scar-lined, twin swords crossed on his back like silent vows. His jaw tightened as his dark eyes scanned the horizon. Shapes moved in the haze—too many, too slow, too hungry.
“They’re waking up,” he said.
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