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... he twisting cobblestone streets of the Lower Ring, and even in the bronze-crowned balconies of the middle districts, the same name passed from lip to lip.

The demonblade.

Whispers carried his tale like disease.

A man who could not die.

A shadow who fought with twin daggers made from a beast’s bones.

He bled black, they said.

Drank the essence of every man he killed, they claimed. Even children spoke his name with awe and fear, mimicking his imagine ...

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