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... led the assault, cutting through the air and leaving a streak of bubbling, seared glass in its wake. A compressed wind-edge followed straight from the front. And from behind — a cone of flame-charged pressure twisted forward like a scythe of heat.

There was no time.

Rejection flickered weakly — instinctive, automatic. Barely a shimmer.

The crowd didn't cry out.

They watched.

Because everyone wanted to know:

Could the one who made the prince bleed ...

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