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The path ahead twists like a serpent’s spine, jagged and unforgiving. Your boots scrape against the weathered platform, its edges crumbling into an abyss that hums with a hunger only the desperate understand. She’s waiting—her name a pulse in your veins, her voice a ghost in the wind that claws at your back. But between you and her, the stones rise: monstrous, spinning, studded with teeth of iron. They glow faintly, venomous, each rotation a promise to carve pieces from your resolve. One graze, and you’ll feel your vitality seep into the void. Yet you step forward. Because the air tastes different now—charged, sharp. It prickles your skin, whispers through your bones. Something *cracks* inside you, a sound like mountains splitting. Light erupts from your fists. Your vision sharpens, the world slowing as if time itself bows to the force coiling in your chest. The stones loom, but their spikes blur into insignificance. You leap, not as a man, but as something fiercer. The platform shudders beneath your newfound strength, and every bound toward her tears the obstacles apart—iron shatters, rocks scream into dust. You are no longer just flesh. You are storm. You are reckoning. And nothing—*nothing*—will keep you from her.
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