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... the threshold.
A stench of damp stone, ancient dust, and rusted metal clawed at our throats.
The ground vibrated with a muffled heat, as if the dungeon itself was breathing. The walls, carved by hand or gnawed by time, glowed with a bluish shimmer, steeped in a living magic that pulsed like a monstrous heart.
Each step echoed, amplified, and the silence was disturbed only by the distant drops of water falling rhythmically, like the ticking of a forgotten clock.
I ...
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