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... wing.
The hand that held the pickaxe bore calluses. Even before one wound could heal, another would form and leave an unsightly scar. It was the hand of a laborer.
The morning air cooled the sweat on his forehead, but it was not entirely pleasant. By afternoon, the scorching sun would surely turn his entire body into a furnace.
Yet, Conrad had to keep swinging the pickaxe relentlessly.
With every strike, the burdens of reality would fade.
He wouldnt feel t ...
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