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... oods. Clad in rough robes, with no hint of qi or cultivation, he held an axe over his shoulder. A beard clung to his chin, and his hair flew wild around his face, untamed. Mud streaked his legs where his feet kicked it up, and worn shoes and bramble-pricked clothes spoke to a long time slogging through the forest in search of the perfect log. He whistled to himself as he walked, unaware of the cultivators fighting far overhead and away toward the mountain. By a mortals senses, their battle cries ...

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