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... e blood tendrils missed by mere inches, embedding themselves into the marble floor where he had been standing. The ground cracked under the impact, but Petne was already moving, his shadowy form dancing through the room as if he were a part of the darkness itself.
"Too slow," Petne said, his voice calm and collected.
Sanguine snarled, the blood tendrils retracting and splitting into dozens of smaller whips, each one lashing out in a chaotic storm of strikes. The room was consumed ...
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