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... sense; no wet mulch or slow-turning leaf litter, but the kind that came from imbalance. The kind that followed Cheng with every step, like the plague itself was shadowing his footprints.

He coughed into the crook of his elbow, breath catching mid-chest. When he pulled his sleeve away, the spatter was no longer flecked but soaked; thick, violet-black, like bruised wine.

His meridians felt like threads spun from splinters. Every attempt to cycle qi sent a chain of pain through his ...

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