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... he heavens and casting a pall over the battlefield. A grotesque behemoth, it was covered in slick, sickly flesh that seemed to pulse and writhe with a life of its own.

The cultivators, already battered and bloodied from the relentless assault of the Rakshasa, stared up at the oncoming horror with a mixture of awe and despair.

Victory felt like a distant dream now, a cruel illusion that had been dangled before them only to be snatched away. Every ounce of blood and sweat they had ...

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