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... l gunshot was absolute. It wasn’t the peaceful silence of a sleeping forest; it was a heavy, suffocating vacuum that felt more deafening than the explosion of the weapon itself.

Dayat stood frozen in the pitch-black heart of The Wailing Woods, his boots sunk deep into the sulfurous mire. The matte-black SMG in his hands—a masterpiece of terrestrial logic—didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, it began to fray at the edges, its solid form dissolving into a swarm of golden-purple particles. T ...

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