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It’s a punch.
Bright lines of law, like colorful lightning beams, clinging to fists, they radiate a radiant glow.
The sword just shrouded, such as the mans in the back, the sword against the throat, the shovel did not dare to shake.
But this punch makes the iron scorpion fly away. The vast atmosphere is as clear as the sea, but the air in the whole room seems to be solidified, the dust can't afford it, the waves are not born, the lines of the law are staggered, and the ...
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