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... not echo; no tree dared repeat the command. The swords accepted it with hungry delight: their runes flared white‑hot, then shifted instantly to a deep, furnace red.

Mana flared.

The corrupted tree answered with violence. Scarlet and ebony tendrils shot from the ruptured trunk—dozens, then hundreds, each a serpentine lash of burning corruption. They writhed in erratic arcs, clawing for any life to cling to, shrieking in a voice that was felt, not heard—a banshee‑pressure inside t ...

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