The Panel collapsed inward, leaving Harold alone in front of a new projection.

An overhead map of the Ashen Steppe—windswept plains, scattered outcrops, and winding dry riverbeds rendered in perfect detail. A faint red marker pulsed where the Marauders' fortress squatted like a scar in the land.

He reached out and the map obeyed instantly, tilting beneath his fingertips. He pulled it close enough to see the shadows of the Marauders' patrol routes, then pushed it back to take in the terrain for miles around.

High ground was useless here—they couldn't hold it. Not against two hundred. What they needed was movement. A battlefield that let them sting and fade, trap and vanish.

Harold's eyes tracked the contours of the land, following the dry riverbeds like veins. One in particular snaked toward the fortress from the northeast—narrow, choked with boulders, and flanked by ridges perfect for hidden fire. It opened into a basin scarred with old landslides, the kind that could be encouraged with the right push.

He zoomed out further, tracing a second approach—a low ravine to the south, wide enough for a warband but broken by sudden drops and blind curves. A killing ground if you knew where to stand.

The map shimmered, marking each of his selections in a faint gold glow. No advice, no hints. This was his alone.

He tapped both approaches, locking them in, and the prompt appeared:

[Sites Selected: Northeastern Riverbed / Southern Ravine] Build Points Available: 250 Open Construction Interface? [Yes]

He selected Yes.

The map rippled and lifted into a three-dimensional projection, the Ashen Steppe now laid out in miniature before him. The northeastern riverbed and southern ravine pulsed faintly, his chosen sites waiting.

A simple prompt hovered in the corner:

[Build Points: 250]

No prefab structures. Just raw land, ready to be shaped.

Harold's eyes roamed the miniature battlefield, tracing every ridge, slope, and choke point like a carpenter running his fingers over raw timber. The Marauders would come with numbers—overwhelming force in a direct clash. So he'd never give them one.

The northeastern riverbed was Kelan's kind of ground: solid rock underfoot, narrow approaches, and enough vertical wall to turn into a landslide with a single good strike. Harold could already see Kelan's axe biting into a weakened seam, sending tons of stone roaring down.

The southern ravine was Hal's hunting lane—tight curves, blind drops, uneven footing. A place where speed and sudden violence mattered more than armor. If the Marauders came that way, Hal could vanish around a bend and be on them from behind before they realized he'd slipped their sight.

He built contingencies in his head as he studied the terrain. If they sent scouts first, false openings in the ground could swallow them whole. If they brought cavalry, broken footing and hidden ditches would rob them of speed. If they advanced in mass, he'd choke them into narrow kill pockets where even a handful of defenders could cut through them like meat.

And if—when—they pushed past the traps? He'd already marked fallback routes, places to bleed them a second time before slipping away. The point wasn't to hold ground. It was to make the Marauders spend men like water just to reach him, and by the time they did… they'd be too bled-out to matter. Ferin or a ranged attacker would be great to have here.

Harold zoomed into the riverbed first. Sheer cliff walls flanked the narrow channel, the perfect place for… yes—he pinched two fingers together over the western wall, thinning it. The rock face took on a pale gold sheen where he'd altered it, and the points counter ticked down by five. A little more thinning farther down—another ten points gone. He could already see Kelan wedging a pry bar into the weakened seams, bringing the whole wall down on anyone caught below.

He slid to the southern ravine, tracing one long, twisting curve with a fingertip. A ridge on the inside bend—he hollowed a section beneath it, leaving the top stable enough to walk on, but ready to cave with the right push. Seven points. He made the slope steeper beyond that, forcing anyone who passed through to bunch up, easy targets for fire from above.

Back to the riverbed—he widened a section, then choked it again suddenly, creating a false sense of escape. That one cost twelve points. Perfect for driving them into a kill pocket.

The cost meter ticked down with each adjustment, the map reshaping in real time. He cut shallow, hidden ditches in the open stretches (three points each), just enough to break charge lines and make cavalry stumble. Near the ravine's southern mouth, he "salted" the ground with uneven rock clusters, the kind that could hide a quick foot snare. Another eight points.

He wasn't building a fortress. He was setting a board where every move they made fed into the next trap. By the time he pulled back from the map, only a thin band of points remained—fifteen in all. He spent them reinforcing the weakest spots in his altered ground so it wouldn't collapse too early.

When he was done, the projection showed two natural approaches that looked untouched to the untrained eye… but Harold knew better. Every turn, every stretch of open ground, every climb and drop had been shaped to bleed the Marauders dry.

He stepped back. "That'll do."

The map shimmered once and flattened again, locking the changes in place.

The world snapped into motion.

Wind howled first, rushing past Harold's ears as the staging room's white vanished in a single blink. The smell of blood hit next—iron, sweat, and smoke carried on the air from below.

He stood on a small plateau, the land dropping away sharply before him. From here, the Ashen Steppe rolled out toward the dark bulk of the Marauders' stolen fortress, its gates hanging open, the walls blackened from the fight they'd just won. Inside, the ground was littered with bodies—civilians and defenders alike—cut down where they'd stood.

The Marauders were still in the yard, celebrating in their ugly, loud way. Drinking from looted casks, waving captured weapons, shouting over one another.

Then the sky growled.

Clouds boiled into existence above, dark as stone and heavy as anvils. Lightning flickered inside them—first small, then blinding, tearing across the heavens in jagged veins. The storm wasn't just overhead; it was everywhere, swallowing the horizon in roiling black.

A single bolt slammed into the plateau's edge, molten-white and wide enough to blind. When the flash faded, Harold was standing where it had struck, one hand resting on his axe, the other loose at his side. The air still hissed and cracked around him, the storm answering to his presence like a living thing.

Below, the Marauders' celebration faltered. Heads tilted upward. Tankards paused mid-drink. Somewhere, a voice shouted—but it was swallowed by the next blast of thunder.

And then they stopped moving entirely. Each one stiffened, eyes distant for a fraction of a second, as the same invisible message reached them all.

A Calamity had come for them.

Harold's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.

Below, the Marauders began to move and organize. Not in a blind rush—these weren't green raiders—but with the hard-edged precision of a warband that had survived more than one counterstrike. Orders barked, small squads splitting off from the main body. Reinforced scouts—half a dozen in each pack, gear light enough to move fast, weapons ready for skirmish work. His perception barely enough to make out the broad strokes.

Signals flashed between them: a flare of light being sent into the sky with magic, a strip of red cloth waved twice, three sharp drumbeats from somewhere inside the fortress. Tight coordination. Each group vanished into a different route—ravine, riverbed, open plain—fanning out to find him. "These marauders are acting like an Army, not undisciplined rabblel" mused Harold.

Harold stayed where he was on the plateau, one knee bent, axe haft resting across it. From up here he could see nearly everything—the pale ribbon of the riverbed winding into shadow, the dark slash of the southern ravine, the dust trails where the scouts broke into the open. This was why he'd poured points into Perception: every flicker of movement, every pattern of dust and shadow fed into the map building in his head.

Oathsense whispered at the edges of his awareness—Kelan's slow, steady presence near the riverbed's choke point, Hal's restless energy waiting for release at the southern approach. Threads of connection tugged faintly in the back of his mind, ready to be pulled taut the moment he gave the word.

He let his breathing slow, drawing mana through him. The shaping work was still clumsy—edges too soft, control bleeding away if he held a form for more than a breath—but it was better than it had been. The storm above answered faintly to his shaping, threads of lightning gathering where he focused, only to scatter again when his grip slipped. Frustrating, but progress.

"Go," he said quietly.

Hal slipped from cover, fur blending into the dust and stone. His approach was a hunter's—silent, low, circling to catch the first scout pack from the side. Hit and run. Draw them into the kill pockets Harold had carved into the land. Force them to send more, to spread thin, to bleed before they even found the plateau.

From above, Harold watched it all, every movement feeding into a plan that was already unfolding.

The first scout pack moved fast along the southern ravine, their leader keeping to the inner wall where the shadows were deepest. They weren't careless—eyes flicking upward to check the ridgelines, steps measured on the uneven ground.

They never heard Hal.

A blur of white and gray shot from a narrow curve ahead of them, claws scraping for an instant before finding purchase on the lead scout's chest. The man went down with a grunt, bow clattering away. Hal didn't linger—his jaws snapped once on the scout's arm, then he was already gone, slipping back around the bend before the others could turn.

The pack scrambled to regroup, one man raising a small bronze horn to his lips—only for a loosened slab of stone above them to give way. It hit the ground with a sharp, ringing crack, startling them into scattering.

They cursed and reformed, the injured man pulled to his feet, blood bright on his sleeve. The leader barked orders, sending two ahead while the others searched the rocks.

Thirty seconds later, Hal hit them again—this time from behind. A rake of claws down a backplate, a shoulder-ram into the narrowest bend of the ravine that sent one scout tumbling over the edge. By the time they turned, he was gone again, tail vanishing into the dust.

From his perch, Harold tracked it all with Oathsense, The ability to track location was invaluable. Each movement Hal made, came through Oathsense in faint pulses of motion and intent. He could feel Hal's satisfaction with the hunt. He watched them slow down, bunch together, eyes snapping to every shadow. They were bleeding time and attention exactly where he wanted.

Harold's attention was on the riverbed, tracking a second scout pack slipping between the boulders there. He sent the mental tug down the bond, pulling Hal away from the ravine and toward the new prey.

The response came instantly, Hal began to move to the new target—a ripple of motion, then a jolt of surprise that caught Harold mid-breath. The emotion sharpened, hesitation threading through it, before surging into a rush of satisfaction that was almost electric.

Harold frowned, scanning the terrain, but Oathsense gave him no detail—only the steady pulse of Hal moving again, faster now.

He leaned forward on the plateau, eyes narrowing on the riverbed's mouth. The scout pack was emerging from the shadow, weapons loose but ready, eyes darting to every high ridge. They'd seen the southern signal—heard their brothers were under attack—and were tense enough to jump at shadows.

The first shadow they saw didn't give them the chance.

Something slammed into their flank with the force of a charging bull. Two wolves—ashen-furred, lean, and silent as ghosts—hit the line first, ripping the formation apart before anyone could raise a weapon. One went down under a set of jaws that crushed his throat in an instant; another staggered back screaming as teeth tore through his arm.

Hal came in a breath later, not for harassment this time but to kill. His claws raked across a man's helm, sparks snapping from steel before the blow sent him sprawling. He wove between the other wolves like they'd hunted together all their lives, each strike flowing into the next. When one forced a target to stumble, another finished the kill.

Steel rang once, twice—then only the wet, ragged sounds of men dying in the dust. The entire scout group was gone within 30 seconds, bodies cooling on the stone.

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From his perch, Harold felt the thrum of Oathsense—three threads where there had been one—strong, alive, and humming with shared intent. The two new connections were more muted than what he could feel with Hal. His brow furrowed.

"Well," he muttered, "that's new."

Far below the plateau, Kelan crouched at the base of a jagged outcrop in the riverbed's choke point. His axe rested across his knees, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep.

He wasn't resting.

Through Oathsense, Harold felt the quiet, steady pull of Kelan's intent—reaching for the Dao of Stone. The man's mind sank into the ground beneath him, mapping every fault, every seam in the rock. He was building familiarity, the kind that could turn a single strike into a collapse, the kind that made the earth itself an ally.

Kelan's hands brushed the grit at his feet, sifting it slowly before letting it fall. The faintest tremor ran through the ground where he sat—not danger, but readiness.

Harold left him to it.

From the plateau, Harold's eyes narrowed. This scout pack moved differently.

Six of them spread just wide enough to cover angles without losing cohesion. No lazy steps, no casual scanning—their heads turned in measured sweeps, hands never far from weapon grips. Even the way they shifted between rocks was cleaner, tighter.

Through Oathsense, he pushed a warning down the bond. Careful. This group's not like the others.

Hal's answering pulse came back steady, his pace slowing as he and the ashen wolves fanned out into a stalking arc.

Harold kept tracking them from above, adjusting the scene in his mind's eye with each movement. The scouts weren't rushing. They weren't distracted. These were the kind who'd seen trouble before—and survived it.

He leaned forward slightly, watching the gap close, tension coiling in the air like the moment before a spring snaps.

Hal and the ashen wolves closed in from three angles—silent, low, eyes fixed on the kill. The scouts were just stepping into the narrowest stretch between two bouldered ridges when one of them stopped dead.

The man in light lamellar lifted his head, turning sharply toward the right-hand ridge. His bow was in his hands before his feet even stopped moving, the motion so smooth it felt rehearsed. wind curled around him, pulling dust and grit into a tight spiral at his back.

Some kind of wind Dao or bow class.

Harold saw the string draw back, the arrow tip haloed in a shimmer of compressed air. There was no warning shout, no signal—just the release.

The arrow screamed as it flew, the air sharpening into a needlepoint around it.

Hal twisted hard, but not hard enough. The shot clipped along his flank, burning a shallow groove through fur and skin before snapping into the stone behind him with a sound like breaking bone. The bond flared hot with pain and frustration, but not panic.

The wolves pulled back instantly, vanishing into the rocks before the other scouts could lock onto them. The archer's head tracked their movement, another arrow already nocked, wind still curling at his shoulders.

From the plateau, Harold's jaw tightened. This wasn't going to be a simple bleed-and-run anymore. "We need to hit the next group before they warn each other."

As if on cue, a sharp flicker of light bloomed among the scouts below. Not from the archer—but from a robed figure just behind him, one hand raised, fingers splayed wide.

The glow swelled to the size of a fist, then pulsed once in a deep, angry red before vanishing.

A signal.

Harold's stomach sank. That's going to spread.

Already the formation was shifting—the scouts turning more defensive, their pace tightening as if expecting something to come at them from all sides. Somewhere out on the Steppe, the other groups would be seeing that same pulse in their mind's eye, feeling the warning slide cold into their thoughts.

.Harold's eyes swept the fortress beyond the scouts, catching movement on the open yard. Shouts echoed up from the walls, sharper now—orders, not celebration.

A knot of Marauders broke from the gate, twenty strong and moving fast. This wasn't another scout pack; their armor was heavier, shields slung on their backs, weapons already drawn. A quick reaction force—meant to crush whatever was harassing their patrols before it grew teeth.

They angled out across the Steppe in a broad arc. At first Harold thought they were going for Hal's position—but the curve kept tightening, swinging toward the narrow cut of the riverbed.

Toward Kelan but they couldnt know he was there, if they took that riverbed it would allow them to move quickly and get ahead of their scouts potentially trapping Hal. Someone over there could plan.

Through Oathsense, Harold felt that steady, stone-solid presence still rooted in place at his chosen choke point, the weight of it like bedrock underfoot. The man hadn't moved an inch.

"Here comes your test," Harold muttered, eyes narrowing. "Let's see what you've got, builder."

The marauder QRF closed in, their boots kicking up dust that drifted toward the canyon mouth like a creeping shadow.

From the plateau, Harold split his focus between two threads in Oathsense.

Hal's presence moved fast and low, flanked by the two ashen wolves, angling toward another scout group on the Steppe's far edge—one that hadn't yet caught wind of what was happening. The bond thrummed with their shared rhythm, that predator's pace Harold had come to recognize.

The other thread was Kelan. Unmoving. Steady. The kind of presence that didn't just sit in the ground—it was the ground.

The QRF hit the riverbed's outer lip at a jog, slowing only as they spotted the lone figure waiting for them. Harold could see it even from here: the dull, earthen gleam of Kelan's stone armor, plates fitted over his frame as if he'd stepped straight out of the canyon wall. His axe rested in his hands, but there was no tension in the grip—just readiness, like a builder standing before a structure he knew wouldn't fall.

The Marauders hesitated. Not long, just enough to feel the weight of the man blocking their path. They didn't rush in screaming; this wasn't a rabble. They began to spread, shields shifting forward, eyes on Kelan's chest and weapon. One man in particular, clad in half plate armor, moving forward to challenge Kelan.

Harold's jaw set. "Let's see how much stone can hold."

Hal and the two ashen wolves closed the last hundred yards to their target in a low sprint, weaving through broken terrain until they were nearly on top of the unsuspecting scouts. Six men—spread too wide, weapons carried loose, eyes scanning the wrong direction.

The wolves hit first, jaws locking on exposed legs and arms, yanking men off their feet before they could shout. Hal burst through the gap, claws raking down a man's chest as he bowled another aside. The fight was over in heartbeats—quick, surgical violence leaving only bodies cooling in the dust.

Through Oathsense, Harold felt Hal's pulse steady again, already turning toward the next hunt.

The riverbed was chaos. Kelan stood his ground in the choke point, axe sweeping in wide arcs that rang against shields and bit into flesh. His stone armor turned glancing blows aside, each step anchored like a pillar driven into the canyon floor.

The QRF pressed hard, shields shoving, blades flashing past his guard. Two tried to circle wide, but the canyon walls forced them into his reach. The smell of sweat and dust thickened as the press closed in.

Harold could feel Kelan's breath slowing—not from exhaustion, but from focus. The steady, rooted intent in Oathsense shifted, deepened, sank further into the ground beneath him.

One Marauder slipped past his guard, blade scraping stone along Kelan's shoulder. Another slammed into his side, driving him back a step.

Then the ground groaned.

Kelan's heel stamped once, hard. The weakened seam Harold had marked on the map shuddered—then gave way.

The canyon wall above the choke point split in a roar of falling rock, boulders crashing down in a choking cloud of dust and grit. The Marauders had no room to run; the collapse swallowed the front two ranks and shattered the formation in a single, brutal instant.

When the dust began to settle, Kelan was still standing—stone plates cracked but intact, axe dripping.

Then, he advanced.

The surviving Marauders were coughing, blinking grit from their eyes, scrambling to pull themselves free of the rockfall. Kelan didn't give them the chance. He moved forward in heavy, deliberate strides, each step crushing stone shards underfoot. His axe rose and fell in brutal arcs, breaking shields apart, splitting helmets.

One Marauder swung wildly, the blade skittering off Kelan's chest plate. Kelan's reply was a short, vicious chop that sent the man collapsing sideways into the rubble. Another tried to turn and run, but a backhanded swing caught his leg, dropping him before he could take three steps.

From the plateau, Harold watched the formation dissolve into desperate pockets, the survivors pressed into the canyon wall with nowhere to go. Every strike Kelan made forced them tighter, until their defense became nothing more than cowering behind splintered shields.

It wasn't just holding the choke point anymore—he was owning it.

First one broke, shoving past his comrades in a blind scramble to escape. Then another.

Panic spread like fire through dry grass, and in moments the front collapsed entirely. Those still able to move dropped their weapons, stumbling and clawing over the loose rock in their rush to get away from the man in stone armor.

By the time Kelan lowered his axe, only six remained in sight—running flat-out down the riverbed toward the fortress they'd taken over, tripping and shoving each other in their desperation to put distance between themselves and the choke point.

Kelan didn't chase. He simply turned, scanning the canyon for any sign of more, then planted the axe head-down in the rubble.

From the plateau, Harold's mouth curved in a slow, satisfied line. That'll send a message.

Kelan gave the riverbed one last glance, then pulled his axe free from the rubble. Without a word, he turned and began moving deeper into the terrain Harold had shaped for him—heading for the next fallback position. His steps were steady, measured, the plates of stone armor grinding faintly with each shift of his weight.

Hal's presence through Oathsense was a live wire—driving hard toward another scout group on the Steppe's northern flank. Harold shifted his focus, eyes finding them through the distance haze.

This pack was sharper—six men again, but tight in their spacing, weapons ready. They scanned constantly, and when movement flickered on their left, one of them yanked a signal flare from his belt. A burst of crimson light tore upward, pulsing once before fading into the clouds.

Too late to save them.

Hal hit from the front, frost blooming under his paws as his claws tore through the first man's chestplate. The ashen wolves came from the flanks—one slamming into a shield and bowling its owner over, the other leaping high and coming down on a man's back with jaws locking onto his neck.

That second wolf didn't just bite—her teeth flared white-hot for an instant, and the Marauder's scream pitched higher as steam rose from the wound. The burn left by her jaws glowed faintly even as blood poured, the flesh charring in uneven, smoking lines.

The fight was quick and ugly. In less than a minute, the disciplined formation was broken, then gone entirely—left as a scatter of frozen corpses and one body still smoldering where it lay in the frost.

From the plateau, Harold felt the bond hum with savage satisfaction. The wolves were proving themselves—fast.

Harold pulled his focus from the frost-killed scouts and swung it back toward the one group he hadn't been able to pin down yet—the disciplined pack with the bowman.

They'd moved farther than he expected, cutting a line through broken ground toward the riverbed's outer bends. A little too close to Kelan's new position for his liking. Even at this distance, Harold could see the way they flowed around the terrain, keeping their archer clear for long shots while the rest screened his flanks.

The pulse of Oathsense from Kelan remained steady, but Harold's jaw tightened. If they got within the bowman's range, the ground advantage might not be enough.

He dragged his gaze toward the fortress.

Movement boiled through the open yard—organized, deliberate. Lines forming, weapons checked, shields adjusted. The gates that had once been still now yawned wide, and in their shadow stood a force that made Harold's stomach harden.

A full sally.

One hundred Marauders, armored and armed, arrayed in a loose column that could sweep the Steppe clean.

The Calamity had their full attention now.

Harold's gaze slid between the moving pieces on the Steppe—Kelan holding his fallback position in the riverbed, the Dao scout group cutting closer with every step, and the wolves loping through broken terrain toward their next hunt.

The thought came unbidden: We could hit them together.

Harold tracked the Dao scout group as they skirted the upper rim of the riverbed, staying well clear of the choke points. From their position, the archer would have a perfect, unobstructed shot at Kelan the moment they spotted him.

Through Oathsense he sent out instructions. One last fight then they would deny the field and let the group Sallying out have the day.

Through Oathsense, Harold felt Kelan's presence sink lower, deeper—literally. The man was hiding himself in the earth, letting stone and dust swallow him until he was just another jagged shadow in the terrain. The scouts would pass directly over him without ever knowing.

Far to the north, Hal and the ashen wolves veered off their previous path, looping wide to come up on the scouts from behind. Their threads in the bond were taut, focused, ready.

It would be a clean crush—if everything went right.

The scouts moved in tight formation along the riverbed's rim, boots crunching over loose stone. The bowman kept to the middle, eyes scanning the open ground ahead and down into the canyon. The others mirrored him—focused forward, confident nothing was waiting above them.

The ground beneath the lead scout bulged once, then split apart in a spray of grit.

Kelan rose from the earth like a breaking wave, stone plates grinding against each other as he surged upward. His axe came down in the same motion, crushing into the lead man's leg with a sound like snapping timber. The Marauder screamed, folding sideways as his companions stumbled back in shock.

From behind, a single howl rolled across the Steppe—low at first, then rising, carrying with it the cold bite of frost.

The bowman's head snapped around just in time to see movement in the rocks behind them—Hal, charging low, flanked by two ashen wolves with eyes like winter sky.

The pack had come to hunt.

The wolves hit the rear guard first, teeth and claws flashing, driving the formation inward. The sudden crush left the scouts caught between Kelan's stone-armored bulk on one side and three predators on the other.

The fight began in a snarl of steel, frost, and dust.

Kelan drove forward, every step forcing the bowman back. His axe swept in heavy, deliberate arcs, cutting the air close enough that the archer had to break aim and throw himself sideways more than once.

The man tried to keep space, snapping off quick shots whenever he could, but Kelan's stone plates turned most aside or slowed them enough that they glanced harmlessly away. Twice, the bowman's footing slipped on loose shale—each time, Kelan was there, axe ready to end it. Only desperate dives kept him alive.

Behind them, the rear of the formation collapsed under the wolves' assault. Hal slammed one scout into the ground and raked claws down his chest before rolling off to tear another man's leg out from under him. One ashen wolf bowled over a shield-bearer, jaws snapping shut on his throat; the other drove her glowing-hot teeth into a screaming man's side, the smell of scorched flesh mixing with blood.

In seconds, the rest of the scouts were down, bodies sprawled in the dust, the only sound the wolves' low, rumbling breaths.

Kelan shifted, ready to finish the bowman—

A scream cut through the dust.

One of the wolves had leapt past a fleeing scout and driven him into the ground. When the dust cleared, it wasn't a man she'd pinned—it was a woman in the same light gear, hair matted with sweat and dirt, a short sword still in her hand.

The bowman's eyes went wide. His bow fell from his hands. "Stop!" he shouted, the word cracking.

He threw himself past Kelan without raising a weapon, skidding into the dirt beside her. His hands shook as he pulled a potion from his belt and forced it to her lips, tilting her head back until she swallowed.

Harold, watching from the plateau, saw the man's will break through Oathsense before he even said it.

"I surrender."

Then the bowman sagged forward, still holding her as the wolves circled, their eyes cold and unreadable.

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