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... was now just a memory, replaced by a strange sensitivity, as if his ribs had become fragile glass. He could breathe, walk, even attempt a swift movement without the world tipping into white agony. But the fatigue was still there, visceral, hollowing out his face and weighing down his limbs. A healing, yes, but not a restoration. He was a tool hastily repaired, functional but marked by the break.

The others were in a much worse state. Armin stumbled with every step, his arm still useless ...

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