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... ipened, and the season of harvest had arrived.

Ange was toiling away, his sharp scythe sweeping high and low as rows upon rows of crops were severed at the root and neatly fell to the side, with a precision that seemed as if an invisible hand were arranging them.

This was the result of untold years of ceaseless labor. The scythe in his hands moved as if it were alive. He cut where and how deep he wanted to, setting up the ideal conditions for the crop sorting to come.

In the ...

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