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... iving ink. Shadowy tendrils clung to his skin, disguising him so thoroughly that even the faintest beam of torchlight wouldn't betray his form. Every step was a delicate dance, each movement taken with mindful grace. Debris littered the courtyard, shards of glass and collapsed statues scattered across the once-majestic walkway, but he navigated them with an almost eerie precision, guided by that subtle hum of mist within his body.

<Surveillance indicates nine hostiles patrolling the i ...

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