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... ething moved against the current of the battle.
Not with desperation.
But with control.
Aren spotted it first.
A lone man in tattered red robes, gliding through the smoke like it didn’t touch him. No shield. No armor. His hands were bare, fingers curled slightly like talons at rest.
He didn’t parry. Didn’t brace.
He flowed.
And then he struck.
A single palm collapsed a soldier’s chest, sending him flying like a rag doll. A sweep of ...
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