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... if invisible strings were tugging at him from every corner of his body.

Each step was heavy, yet compelled, as though his legs moved on their own, guided by some unseen force.

His heart thumped unevenly in his chest, echoing the rhythmic beeping of the monitors around them, each sound amplifying the surreal intensity of the moment.

He slowed as he approached the bed, eyes fixed on the young man who mirrored him in every conceivable way—down to the smallest details of his ...

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Zhang Ping’s eyes turn red—I curse your ancestors for eighteen generations!

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