The embrace of Zakar and his daughter Anahita was a moment of deep, unexpected silence in the midst of the mountain night, interrupting the tense standoff. But this silence was deceptive. Zakar, the stern leader of the Order of the Serpent Catchers, held his daughter with one hand, while his piercing gaze, full of unspoken questions and barely restrained fury, was fixed directly on the Lord. It conveyed an expectation of immediate explanations.
The Lord felt all the attention in the camp instantly shift to him. His warriors, though they did not understand all the nuances, realized that the situation had changed dramatically. Green and Father Tuk also looked at him, their faces a mixture of anxiety and anticipation—they understood that his every word would carry weight. The Spear of Longinus, which had been calm until then, now began to vibrate faintly, as if anticipating the unfolding events.
The Lord took a step forward to show his lack of hostility, while remaining fully prepared for any turn of events. His stance was firm.
"Leader Zakar," he began, his voice even and calm, without a trace of apology or weakness. "Your daughter is safe. She is not a prisoner, but a guest whom we freed from the hands of Sultan Achim after we took his city."
The Lord let his words hang in the air, giving him a moment to process them.
"Sultan Achim," the Lord continued, "has fallen." "His harem, like all his wealth, fell to the victors. We took only what we deemed valuable." "And your daughter, Anahita, was among those we 'liberated' from the fate of a slave in his palace." "We did her no harm. Moreover, she was under my personal protection, and she was treated in a manner befitting her station."
"We were on our way back to the 'Honey Mug' when your arrival interrupted our journey," the Lord shifted his gaze from Anahita to Zakar. "She can confirm my every word. If we had wished her harm, she would not be here."
Zakar's eyes studied the Lord, weighing every word, every intonation. His gaze flickered over the Spear of Longinus, then returned to the Lord. He saw his determination and, perhaps, sensed the sincerity in his words, or perhaps he simply assessed the balance of power and the disadvantage of a conflict at that moment. Anahita, still clinging to him, looked from the Lord to her father, as if awaiting a verdict.
Finally, Zakar nodded. It was not a gesture of agreement, but rather an acknowledgment of the fact, a gesture of ultimatum delivered with dignity.
"Very well," he said, his voice firm again, but now without a trace of hostility, only the implacability of a leader. "Then I will take my daughter back. She is a child of the desert and a free woman." "She has no place in the harems of sultans, and no place among your... warriors." He gently pushed Anahita away but continued to hold her by the shoulders.
The Lord, of course, agreed. To argue over one concubine, even one as "valuable" as this one—who, moreover, turned out to be the daughter of a leader as influential as Zakar—would have been the height of folly. Especially now, when a much more serious problem lurked beneath them.
"She is free," the Lord replied, making a gesture with his hand, inviting him to take her. "She has always been free." "We merely showed her the path to freedom from the Sultan's slavery. I am glad she has found her father."
Anahita, hearing his words, raised her head, and a flicker of gratitude appeared in her eyes. Zakar nodded to him, a shadow of the respect he had carefully concealed before now appearing on his face.
"Thank you," he said, and something akin to gratitude, though fleeting, sounded in his voice. He hugged his daughter tighter and took a step back.
Now that this matter was settled, Zakar looked toward the catacombs, his expression growing dark and focused.
"I feel it," he said, his voice low, as if coming from the depths of the earth. "The Serpent has awakened. You have stirred what has slept for centuries."
The Lord nodded. "We encountered the Cult of the Serpent below. They are performing a ritual to awaken something." "We had to retreat; there were too many of them. And their ritual..."
"Their ritual feeds it," Zakar finished, his gaze becoming even more piercing. "They are fools." "They think they can control an ancient power. But the Serpent knows no worship, only hunger." He glanced again at the Spear of Longinus, and a new expression appeared in his eyes—a mixture of awe and deep anxiety.
"And this Spear... it calls. It draws what sleeps. It is the key. To its release." "Or to its imprisonment."
The possibility of an alliance, or at least a temporary truce, cut through the tension. Zakar and his Order of the Serpent Catchers were clearly familiar with the nature of the threat. And they seemed to be on their side in this battle against the ancient evil. This was far more important than any concubine.
Zakar, having assured himself of his daughter's safety and received the Lord's assurances, turned to him. His gaze was serious, and his voice now held not only wisdom but also a warning. He looked toward the catacombs, where the ancient evil was stirring.
"You have stirred what has slept for centuries," Zakar repeated, his voice low. He shifted his gaze to the Spear of Longinus, which now glowed steadily in the Lord's hand, as if in response to his words.
"The Cult of the Serpent is trying to awaken it," the Lord said, confirming his words. "Their ritual, their chanting... It feeds this entity."
Zakar nodded. "Their foolishness is great. They think they can control an ancient power." "But the Serpent knows no worship, only hunger." He looked at the Spear again, and a new expression appeared in his eyes—a mixture of awe and deep anxiety.
"The Serpent can be freed without the Spear," Zakar said, his words sounding like a sentence, "but it can only be imprisoned with the Spear."
These words struck the Lord like a hammer. In an instant, everything fell into place, and the picture of what was happening became crystal clear. His Spear of Longinus was not just a powerful artifact or the target of the Cult of the Serpent. It was the only key to stopping this ancient evil. If the cultists succeeded in their ritual, the world would be doomed unless the Spear was used to seal it away. They were not just fighting for survival; they were fighting for the fate of the world.
Green, hearing Zakar's words, let out a soft groan. "So we can't just leave. We have to stop them. We are... the only chance."
Father Tuk, who had been listening intently, nodded, his face pale but resolute. "This is our burden, Lord." "The Spear has chosen you. And now it points to your duty."
The Lord felt the Spear of Longinus in his hand flare with a bright, determined light. It was not just reacting to the evil—it was demanding action. Now he understood. The journey home had been delayed for a reason. This was his destiny.
"We are going back," he said, his voice firm and not open to debate. "And we will imprison this Serpent back in its prison. Forever." The Lord raised the Spear of Longinus, its light illuminating their faces in the darkness of the night. This was not just a battle; it was a mission. And they were the only ones who could accomplish it.
They immediately gathered in the largest tent in the camp, which quickly became a makeshift headquarters. Muffled sounds of battle readiness could be heard from outside—the Lord's warriors, though tired, were on high alert, and Zakar's Bedouins kept a respectful distance, as if they too were awaiting their next move. Hasan, still weak, was left under supervision, his mad dance in the catacombs having been both terrifying and life-saving.
The tent was stuffy and hot from several oil lamps that cast bizarre shadows on their faces. The air was electrified with tension and the gravity of the moment. Besides the Lord, the tent held Green, Father Tuk, and Zakar, who, having left his daughter with some of his men, had joined them. He did not stand on ceremony, getting straight to the point.
"So," the Lord began, looking around at everyone, "the situation is clear. The Serpent has awakened." "The Cult of the Serpent is trying to free it. And the Spear of Longinus is the only tool that can imprison it again." "We cannot delay."
Green, anticipating the Lord, spread a crumpled map of the mountainous terrain on the ground and sketched a diagram of the catacombs based on their observations. "Head-on is suicide," he repeated, pointing to the marked hall. "There are hundreds of them." "And their ritual chanting... it's not just sound. It affects the mind, weakening our will." "This is not just a battle; it's a war of souls."
Father Tuk nodded. "Their ritual feeds it. The longer they chant, the stronger the entity becomes. We must interrupt it. Break their concentration."
Zakar, his piercing gaze fixed on the map, spoke: "My people have watched this place for centuries." "Legends say that the Serpent possesses not only the power of destruction but also the ability to distort reality, to create illusions." "And its followers, the cultists, can use these abilities." He pointed to the central altar. "What you saw on the altar is not the entire Serpent." "It is most likely its avatar, or a part of its essence that the cultists are trying to materialize." "The Serpent itself is much larger, and its body may extend deep underground, touching the ancient roots of the world."
"So, the target is the altar. Or what's on it," the Lord concluded. "And the Spear." "We must get the Spear there. And use it for the sealing."
"The problem is how to get there," Green interjected. "Through the main passage is a slaughterhouse." "And the chanting."
"I can try to drown out their chanting," Father Tuk offered. "My prayers, my faith... I can try to create dissonance in their ritual, to weaken their mental attack." "But I will need time and concentration. And protection."
"What about flanking routes?" the Lord asked, recalling Green's words. "You mentioned niches and side passages on the way here. Is there a chance they lead to other entrances to this hall?" "Or to weak points?"
Green squinted, studying the map. "There are a few. Narrow. Impassable for large units. But possible for small groups." "A risk, but perhaps the only chance. If they lead past the main cultist forces."
Zakar, who had been silent until then, listening intently, slowly nodded. "My people know these mountains like the back of their hands." "And some of the passages. We can help you find a way. But it will be dangerous." "The Serpent feels any movement in its domain."
A plan began to form. First, a diversion. A portion of the forces, perhaps the "Legion of the Dead," would create a diversion at the main entrance, drawing the attention of the majority of the cultists. This would buy them time. Second, a breakthrough team. A small but elite unit, consisting of the Lord (with the Spear of Longinus), Green, Father Tuk, a few rangers, and possibly a few experienced Serpent Catchers led by Zakar, would attempt to enter the hall through one of the hidden, flanking paths. Third, mental defense and disruption of the ritual. Father Tuk would use his prayers to weaken the mental impact of the chanting and create chaos in the ritual. Finally, a precision strike. The target—the altar and the entity on it. The Lord would have to bring the Spear of Longinus to the target and use it to imprison the Serpent.
"We will need all our strength and cunning," the Lord concluded, looking up. "But we have a goal, and we have the Spear. We will not retreat." The night was just beginning. Ahead of them lay a battle that could decide the fate of the Mountain Empire and, perhaps, the entire world.
While the cramped tent buzzed with discussion of the plan of action, Anahita bent over Hasan. Her father, Zakar, was absorbed in tactical diagrams, but his daughter, it seemed, had found her calling in this unusual situation. Hasan, still pale and occasionally shuddering from the nightmare he had experienced, lay on a camp bed. Anahita, the child of the desert, as Zakar had called her, and a former concubine of the Sultan, showed unexpected skills. She did not stand idle.
As soon as she heard about his condition, she immediately set to work, using knowledge likely gained from the shamans or healers of her nomadic people, or from the knowledge available in the Sultan's harem. She was tending to Hasan:
From a small, beaded pouch that she apparently always carried with her, Anahita produced several clay vials and bundles. She began to methodically rub his temples and wrists with some kind of fragrant herbal tincture, which gave off a sharp but pleasant smell of steppe herbs. Then she carefully applied a soothing, cool ointment to his forehead and chest, murmuring some ancient, melodic words under her breath.
Despite his delirious state and periodic shudders, Hasan seemed to respond to her touch. The trembling in his body subsided a little, and his breathing became more even. She did not say a word, completely focused on her task, her movements precise and confident, as if she had done this many times before. Her presence and actions brought a rare, almost unearthly calm to the camp amidst the chaos and tension. She was a child of the desert, who knew its secrets, and now this knowledge was helping the "unpredictable source of benefit" to recover.
Green and Father Tuk, who occasionally glanced in Hasan's direction, nodded in approval. Anahita's skills in herbal medicine and healing were another unexpected but very useful asset.
The morning greeted them with a cold, piercing wind and a gray, cheerless sky. The final preparations were complete. The warriors of the "Legion of the Dead," clad in their heavy armor, were like monoliths, standing motionless in the pre-dawn darkness. Their lifeless but resolute faces were visible from under their visors. Their task was to hold back the onslaught of the fanatics, to distract them from the main objective.
The Lord approached their commander, a heavily armored knight whose eyes burned with an otherworldly light. "Hold the position. Not a step back. Distract them. Let them think it's a regular assault." "But do not engage in a suicidal battle. Your task is to tie up their forces."
The commander of the "Legion of the Dead" merely nodded, his gaze utterly fearless. They were ready to make sacrifices if necessary, but the Lord's goal was to minimize them.
At dawn, they moved toward the catacombs. The "Legion of the Dead" took up a position at the main entrance, their ranks spreading out, preparing for a frontal assault. On the Lord's signal, they were to begin a show of force, perhaps using a few grenadiers as a diversion to create the appearance of a powerful frontal attack.
Their group—the Lord with the Spear of Longinus, Green with his rapier, Father Tuk with his mace and prayers, a few of the most agile and silent rangers, and Zakar with his Bedouin trackers—moved toward the hidden paths. Zakar and his men, thanks to their deep knowledge of the mountainous terrain, easily found the flanking routes that they had only glimpsed during yesterday's reconnaissance. They descended into a narrow crevice that quickly turned into a winding tunnel, full of sharp rocks and slippery patches. This was a path clearly not intended for frequent passage, but it promised to lead them directly to the rear or flank of the main forces of the Cult of the Serpent. The air here was as heavy and foul as in the main passage, but there was no sound of chanting—yet.
"Be ready," the Lord whispered as they delved deeper into the darkness. "They will sense us." "The Spear calls to them just as they call to their Serpent."
The Spear of Longinus in his hand had already begun to pulsate faintly, its silvery glow the only guide in the pitch darkness. The battle was just beginning, and now they were heading straight into its heart.
They crept silently, like shadows, through the narrow and winding tunnel. Zakar and his Bedouin trackers proved to be true masters of stealth, leading them along paths that seemed impassable for any human. The air grew increasingly stuffy, filled with the smell of ancient darkness and the growing echo of the cultists' ritual chanting. The Spear of Longinus in the Lord's hand pulsed ever stronger, its silvery glow becoming almost dazzling in the pitch darkness of the tunnel, as if it anticipated the imminent encounter with what awaited them ahead.
Finally, Zakar gave the signal to stop. They cautiously peered out from behind the last bend in the tunnel, which led them directly into the huge hall, but not from the main entrance, but from the side, almost at the cultists' rear. They stopped as soon as they saw the altar. It was right in front of them, the pulsating mass on it looking even more repulsive up close. The cultists, their backs to them, continued their unholy ritual, their choral chanting filling the hall, drowning out all other sounds. They were completely absorbed in their worship, unaware of the presence of the Lord and his squad at their rear.
At that moment, the Lord raised his hand, giving the prearranged signal. Their plan was set in motion. Now it was the "Legion's" turn. Somewhere far away, at the main entrance, the commander of the "Legion of the Dead" was supposed to have seen the Lord's signal—a flash of light from the Spear, reflected in a small mirror held by one of the rangers.
A moment later, a thunderous, clanging sound of heavy armor, accompanied by the shouts of grenadiers, came from the main passage. "For the Lord! Attack!" a powerful, muffled, but discernible battle cry echoed through the catacombs. It was a feint, but it worked.
The cultists' choral chanting was instantly cut short, replaced by a cacophony of surprised cries and furious roars. Dozens of heads turned toward the main entrance, and the crowd of fanatics began to regroup, preparing to meet a frontal assault. Their leader at the altar straightened up abruptly, his silhouette freezing, and then he turned toward the main entrance, his furious cry of "Outsiders!" shaking the walls once again.
The diversion had worked perfectly. The cultists were caught off guard, their attention completely diverted to the "Legion of the Dead." The moment had come for the Lord and his squad.
The sudden crash, the grinding of heavy armor, and the powerful battle cry of the "Legion of the Dead" shattered the unholy chanting, filling the vast hall. The cultists, seized by initial confusion, immediately turned toward the source of the noise, their fanatical gazes fixed on the main entrance where the "Legion of the Dead" had appeared. They were met by a wall. Not just a wall of warriors, but a wall of shields and spears, unshakeable, monolithic. The "Legion of the Dead," clad in heavy armor, moved forward, showing no trace of emotion. Their faces, hidden behind the heavy visors of their helmets, wore a uniformly emotionless expression, as if hundreds of dead eyes were staring at the madmen of the Cult of the Serpent. They were warriors who had "died" to the world and knew no fear, and this was their main weapon against the fanatical onslaught.
As the first ranks of cultists, like snakes, rushed forward, a low, guttural chant erupted from the ranks of the "Legion." It was their motto, their creed, proclaimed by hundreds of voices, drowning out even the lingering echoes of the cultists' chanting:
"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"
This motto was not just words. It was a shield, deflecting the enemy's madness, and a blade, piercing their spirit. The "Legion" knew no fear, just like the fanatics themselves, but their fearlessness was of a different nature. The cultists were seized by an ecstatic madness, their lives meaning nothing to their "deity." The "Legion of the Dead," on the other hand, was fearless by virtue of its existence—they had already passed through death, and they had nothing left to lose. Their fortitude was not an emotion, but a state of being.
The first clash was deafening. The cultists' curved blades shrieked as they struck the polished steel of the shields, but they could not break the "Legion's" formation. Long spears thrust forward, piercing the bodies of the fanatics, who, despite their wounds, continued to press on like mad waves. Behind the heavy infantry, grenadiers were already preparing to throw, and archers were drawing their bowstrings, ready to unleash a storm of arrows on the enemy's flanks. All the fanatical zeal of the Cult of the Serpent was directed at this impenetrable bastion of steel and dead bodies. While they clashed in a furious, senseless battle, the Lord's path to the altar was clear. Now it was their turn to strike.
While the "Legion of the Dead" fought the fanatics at the main entrance, creating the necessary diversion, the Lord and his squad moved toward the altar. Every step was careful, calculated to avoid attracting the attention of the cultists, who were focused on the frontal assault. They moved quickly, using the shadows and natural cover of the huge hall. The goal was near—the pulsating, slimy mass on the altar, the source of the ancient evil.
And then it hit them. It was not a physical impact, but something far worse—a direct invasion of the mind, a wave of madness and despair, seeming to emanate from the Serpent itself or from the now-amplified, unholy ritualistic presence of the Cult. The choral chanting, though muffled by the retreat, now sounded not from the mouths of the cultists, but directly in each of their heads. It was not words, but a cacophony of images: ancient horrors, forgotten fears, promises of unimaginable wealth and eternal oblivion.
The Lord's brain groaned in pain. His will, it seemed, was beginning to crumble. The Spear of Longinus in his hand flared with a dazzling silver light, trying to push back the mental attack. It vibrated so intensely that it seemed it would tear him apart, but this vibration was also a defense, creating an invisible shield around his consciousness, allowing him to maintain clarity of thought through the haze of madness.
Green fell to one knee, his rapier clattering to the floor. His face was contorted in pain, his hands clutching his head. The Lord saw how his analytical mind, so accustomed to logic and order, was desperately trying to resist the chaos and madness, but the mental wave was too strong. He was on the verge.
Father Tuk, however, showed incredible resilience. His eyes closed, but he did not fall. Through clenched teeth, he began to shout prayers—not quiet murmurs, but loud, resolute words in an ancient, forgotten language. His voice, amplified by unwavering faith, was like the tolling of a bell in the midst of a storm. An invisible ripple seemed to form around him, repelling part of the mental assault. He was their anchor.
Zakar was also affected, but differently. He stopped, his body tensing as if he were fighting an invisible opponent. His eyes were wide open, and the Lord saw in them a flicker of inhuman horror and deep wisdom, as if he not only felt but understood the true nature of this attack. He made no sound, but his body trembled. His Bedouin trackers, though hardened warriors, were also struck, some clutching their heads, others staggering, their movements becoming sluggish.
For a second, it seemed they were trapped. The cultists, though fighting the "Legion," were beginning to sense their presence. Some of them, those closer to the altar, turned in their direction, their eyes, filled with madness, burning even brighter, as if their power was being fueled by the suffering of the Lord's squad.
This was the critical moment. The mental storm was their last line of defense, aimed at breaking them before they reached the altar. They had to break through it.
The mental storm raged in their minds, unleashing waves of terror and madness. Green fought against it, gritting his teeth. Father Tuk stood like a rock, his prayers the only bastion against the rising chaos. Zakar, though struck, remained vigilant, his eyes glowing in the gloom, reflecting ancient knowledge.
The Lord felt the Spear of Longinus in his hand pulsating with incredible force, its silver light piercing the darkness, trying to repel the mental attack. It was not just a weapon; it was the key, and its energy was fighting the Serpent's energy, creating a field of tension. Zakar's words echoed in his mind: "The Serpent can be freed without the Spear, but it can only be imprisoned with the Spear."
The time had come to act. Very slowly, with incredible effort, the Lord began to bring the Spear toward the altar. Every centimeter was gained with immense difficulty, as if he were pushing through a dense, invisible substance. The air around him felt as thick as tar, resisting his every move. The hand holding the Spear trembled with strain, but he would not give in.
The mental storm intensified, concentrating all its power on him. Nightmares flashed in his mind: images of twisted flesh, writhing shadows, voices whispering promises of limitless power if he retreated, and eternal pain if he continued. It was an attempt to break his will, to force him to drop the Spear before he reached his goal.
The Spear of Longinus, however, was his shield and his guide. Its silvery glow became almost unbearable, driving away the most horrific visions. The Lord felt its ancient power, which protested against the Serpent's evil, fighting it on a mental level.
Sweat streamed down the Lord's face. His muscles ached with strain. Every step forward was an act of pure will. He saw the cultists at the altar, those who had turned toward them, begin to utter guttural, enraged cries. Their leader, standing by the pulsating mass, fixed the Lord with a look of fury and disbelief, as if he could not believe that anyone could resist his power.
The Lord knew he had to keep going. A few more meters. A few more centimeters. The fate not only of them but of the entire world depended on it. The Spear and the Lord, merged into one, were slowly but inexorably approaching the heart of the ancient evil to put an end to it.
The mental storm roared, tearing his consciousness apart, bombarding him with invisible blows. Every neuron in his head burned with hellfire. The voices of the ancient evil whispered promises and curses, trying to break his will. But the Spear of Longinus, his extension, his shield, his guide, resisted with him. Its silver light pulsed like a heart beating in unison with his own.
The Lord fell to one knee but did not stop moving. The right hand in which he held the Spear trembled, his muscles ached from the incredible strain, but he held it tight. His body was just a shell, his will a steel rod that would not bend under the pressure. Every centimeter was gained with colossal effort, as if he were pushing through a wall of molten lead.
"Father Tuk!" the Lord forced out through gritted teeth. His prayers were a salvation, creating a ripple in the invisible field, weakening the grip of the mental storm. Green, still on his knees, was trying to recover, his face a grimace of struggle. Zakar watched, his eyes glowing with understanding and, perhaps, terror.
The Lord focused on the altar, on that pulsating, slimy mass from which all this agonizing energy emanated. This was the heart of the Serpent, its physical manifestation. And the Spear of Longinus, he knew, was the only thing that could pierce it.
"Only forward!" the Lord roared, channeling all his remaining strength into his arm. It felt as if every nerve in his body had been torn out and was twitching in the wind. The evil felt him approaching. The storm intensified, trying to throw him back, to pin him in place. But the Lord of the North was not one to retreat. He would not break.
Another inch. And another. The Spear of Longinus glowed ever brighter, its ancient power gathering for the decisive blow. The target was now within reach.
The mental storm roared at full force, crashing down on the Lord like a tsunami of nightmares and madness. Every nerve in his body screamed, and his head was splitting from the unbearable pain. The Spear of Longinus, his only anchor in this raging sea of mental chaos, burned in his hand, its silvery glow becoming almost blinding, but even its ancient power seemed to be failing under such pressure.
The Lord's hand, holding the Spear, went numb, but he did not let go. His strength was leaving him, drained by every millisecond of confrontation with the invisible field emanating from the altar. Now the fight was for every millimeter. It was not movement, but torture, an endless overcoming of a resistance that seemed to be the very embodiment of ancient evil.
The Lord could see through the haze of pain and shimmering visions: the altar was only a few feet away. The pulsating, slimy mass on it seemed so close and yet so unattainable at the same time. A pulse of darkness emanated from it, in sync with the mental storm, and this was the cause of his torment.
Green, lying nearby, was gasping for air, his eyes closed, fighting his own demons that the Serpent was whispering into his mind. Father Tuk, standing with incredible resilience, his prayers had become hoarse, but he did not stop, his aura of faith, though weakened, still repelling some of the impact. Zakar, pressed against the wall, watched the Lord with an expression that mixed terror and awe, knowing that the fate of the world was being decided now.
The Lord gathered the last crumbs of his will, squeezed out the last remnants of his strength. Every millimeter, every microscopic movement forward was an act of defiance. The Spear of Longinus seemed to respond to this effort, its light flaring once more, gathering all its ancient power within it. The Lord could feel the core of the Serpent's power right in front of him, and only one push separated him from his goal. This was the moment when everything would either be saved or lost forever.
The mental storm raged, tearing the Lord's mind to pieces, and every cell in his body screamed in pain. He was on one knee, his strength failing him, the fight was for every damned millimeter. The altar, the pulsating mass, was just inches away, but the invisible field of resistance was impenetrable, draining the last dregs of his will.
And then, at the most critical moment, when it seemed that the Lord was about to break, he suddenly caught sight of another figure in his peripheral vision. It was... Hasan.
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