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... er above, let’s hope this wretched weather doesn’t suddenly turn," Moder, who had been tracking the livestock hoof prints and cart ruts, muttered, making a sign of the cross as he eyed the increasingly gloomy sky.

One couldn’t expect a disorderly mob of bandits to possess much anti-tracking awareness; they hadn’t even thought of concealing their tracks. After all, the knight to whom this village belonged was either already dead or had fled.

If he had fled, it would be impossible ...

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