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... battlefield—a room of illusion that slowly formed itself around his body. The space was not made of metal like other parts of Narthrador. Instead, it consisted of erasure: faint lines floating, contours of a world without texture, resembling an unfinished sketch. Within it, time seemed to stop—curving and spinning, trapped in eternity.

In the center of the room, the Third Saint awaited with a presence that sent shivers down his spine.

Her face rapidly shifted between 0 and 1, cre ...

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