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... nd in overlapping layers, as if the earth itself had been painted in grief. Atlas Von Roxweld stood at the center of the carnage, the butcher in a waltz written by war.
His golden eyes blazed with too many emotions layered into one expression: rage, exhaustion, clarity. His black hair clung to his scalp, soaked in sweat and gore, the ends crusted with dried mana that hissed faintly whenever it brushed the dust-laced air. His limbs screamed with fatigue, his skin hummed with fever. The vi ...
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