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... wer’s gifts — fingers tracing the rune of that transcendent blade-skill in his mind — when the air around the dojo changed. Not gradually, but like someone had pinched the world and held it: sound thinned, the smell of steam and old tea dulled, everything folding into a tight, eerie void.
His gaze snapped to the bodhi tree. Empty. No Lin Huang sprawled in meditation beneath the leaves. No Li Mei humming some anxious tune while sweeping. The small signs of life he’d grown used to were gon ...
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