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The rain in Xuan Qiong Continent always carries a rusty smell. Lin Xuan knelt on the bluestone outside the ancestral hall, letting the cold autumn rain soak into his coarse linen clothes. Rain dripped down his forehead, scratched a fresh wound on his brow bone, mixed with blood, and flowed into the corner of his mouth. Salty and astringent, just like the taste he was used to in the past fifteen years.

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