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... ble before Xun Wei. The ink was old, the brushstrokes elegant and deliberate, like the poem had been written not just with words, but with intention.

Xun Wei began to read silently.

[ "Steel falls like rain upon the mountain,

Yet the mountain does not bleed.

One sword splits a thousand shadows—

But which is the true strike?

When the wind retreats and silence reigns,

What does the blade still defend?" ]

Xun Wei read it once, then aga ...

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