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... n like fevered breath, saturated with rust and decay. Every inhale tasted like iron and rot, like a battlefield that hadn't stopped bleeding.

Above, the canopy writhed—black trees twisted like bones, their gnarled branches clawing at a moon that bled light through the leaves in sickly streaks. This wasn't a forest. It was a throat. A maw.

And they had already stepped into its gut.

Ishigo moved without a word. His boots sank into moss that squelched beneath him, soft and h ...

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