The march across the vale was a grim one. Snow crunched underfoot in steady rhythm, breath misting in the cold air. The recruits trailed in disciplined silence, weapons newly sharpened, shields catching the weak light. Ahead, the valley narrowed toward the dark line of the forest, the dungeon's unseen weight pressing against all of us even from here.

I was just thinking how long the march felt when movement stirred in the gloom ahead. Ferin emerged first, his dogs slipping ghostlike through the snow, ears pricked. Auren followed close behind him, bow already strung. Relief washed through the recruits, only to vanish when I caught the sharpness in Ferin's expression.

He raised a hand, halting us. "We found him," he said, voice low, rough with frost and urgency. "The boy's tracks led straight here. We followed. He went inside. Alone."

The words hit like a stone dropped into still water. A ripple of unease spread through the group.

Auren stepped forward, cloak tugged by the wind. "We couldn't let him go blind into that place," he said, eyes flicking to mine. "So we followed him. Only as far as we dared. That's when we saw them—kobolds. They didn't kill him. They dragged him deeper."

For a moment there was silence but for the restless scrape of the recruits shifting.

Rysa's voice cut through like a whip. "You what?" She stormed toward Auren, face pale, eyes burning. "You went into that dungeon? Just you and him? Do you have a death wish, you idiot archer?"

Auren bristled, jaw tightening. "We didn't have a choice—"

"There's always a choice!" she snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest. "And running into the dungeon with just the two of you isn't one I'd call smart!"

Ferin's dogs growled low, picking up the tension in the air. He gave a sharp whistle, settling them before glancing between the two of them, his face grim. "Argue later. The boy's still alive—for now. But if they've taken him, it means something worse than I've ever seen in kobolds. We've got no time."

The cold pressed heavier then, and the silence that followed was thicker than any snowfall. The dungeon waited.

Snow flew beneath our boots as we broke into a run, the cold air burning my lungs. The black arch of the dungeon loomed ahead, a wound carved into the earth, shadows spilling like blood from its mouth.

I fell in step beside Daran, his armor plates clattering with each long stride. "How many can we take in?" I asked, low and sharp. "What's the limit?"

His head snapped toward me, confusion flickering across his scarred face. "Limit? What the hell are you talking about? You can bring as many men as you've got. Numbers, tier and Dao win wars."

Before I could answer, Lira pushed in from behind, voice quick, steady. "He means dungeon law," she said. "Most groups don't exceed four to six. The dungeon doesn't forbid more… but it punishes them. The balance shifts. The more you throw in, the harder it pushes back."

Harold's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. "You're telling me it will… adjusts to us?"

"Yes," she said simply. Her eyes flicked to the recruits pounding up behind us, fear and eagerness both painted on their faces. "If we all go in, the dungeon won't stop us—but it won't stay quiet, either. Every room will stack against us harder than the last."

Harold cursed under his breath, gaze hardening as the yawning black entrance came closer with every step.

I nodded grimly. "Then we bleed together, or we break apart alone. Either way, we're going in."

The dungeon mouth yawned ahead, black and still as death. Around it, the beginnings of our fort clung stubbornly to the ashen earth—a trench carved into the frost-stiff ground, stone piled on the far side in uneven stacks where recruits had begun to shape a wall. It wasn't much. Just a scar of labor against an endless dark.

The recruits lingered at the trench's edge, spears in hand, shifting their weight as the cold bit through tattered gloves. Smoke from their cookfire trailed thin into the dim sky, barely keeping the chill at bay. Daran stood at the front, arms folded, his scarred face hard as the stone waiting to be placed. Kelan rested a pickaxe against his shoulder, the glow of Oathsense simmering faintly between us like a shared heartbeat. I could feel his Dao and mana begin to stretch and gather stones for himself. Covering himself in his typical armor.

Behind, Rysa adjusted with her satchel of vials, muttering quick checks under her breath. Lira leaned on her staff, pale but steady, her Beserkers forming a silent line behind her—unnerving in their death-stillness, axes glinting.

For a moment, no one spoke. We stood before the abyss, our half-built fort at our backs, the promise of blood and steel before us.

I let my eyes sweep the trench, the stones, the tired men and women breathing steam into the night air. A fragile bulwark of will against the maw of something ancient.

"This is it," I said quietly. "One step at a time."

I raised my hand, and the muttering quieted. The dungeon mouth loomed, swallowing what little light lingered.

"We go in."

Lira stepped forward, her voice edged with command. "You should stay. With your health, Harold—"

Daran cut in, blunt and uncompromising. "She's right. You can't strike, can't block, and in there the first mistake kills. Better you stay behind the line."

I shook my head, the words cold but steady. "Not this time. You need my skills—Brandsurge, Brandflare, recall. You've already seen what happens when we don't have them. I'm going."

Daran's jaw flexed, but before he could speak again, I cut him off with a raised hand. "Kelan, Daran—you two on the front. Lira, you run the battle—you know what waits in there better than any of us. I'll stay back with our casters and keep them breathing."

The shield sergeant, a broad woman with scars up her jaw, thumped her fist to her chest when Daran jerked his chin at her. "You guard him," he said flatly.

She barked to three more from the platoon with shields, pulling them into her orbit with quick, efficient orders. They fell in around me, shields squared, eyes grim.

I gave a curt nod. "Then let's stop wasting time."

The Beserkers shuffled behind Lira, axes gleaming with borrowed steel. Kelan's pickaxe rested on his shoulder like a promise. Daran's presence was a boulder at the point of the spear, immovable and unyielding.

And together, we stepped into the black, leaving the trench, the recruits, and the last of the fading light behind.

The torches cast long shadows across the tunnel mouth. Stone teeth jutted from the walls, and the air rolled out hot and damp, as if the dungeon itself were breathing.

"Form up." Harold's voice carried the weight of command, steady despite the gnaw of unease.

Kelan and Daran stepped forward, shields raised, the steel edges glinting in the light. They were the wall. Just behind them, Auren and Ferin moved with quieter purpose, eyes flicking along the walls and floor. Their boots skimmed the stone as if afraid to wake something slumbering beneath it.

Ferin broke the silence with a sharp breath. "The hunt isn't finished. I can feel the boy still." His words weren't hopeful—they were a grim promise.

The irregular volunteers pressed in close behind, the little platoon of mismatched fighters funneling into the dungeon's maw. Even the dungeon seemed to stretch itself wider to accommodate their numbers, its stone corridors reshaping to feed the hunger waiting inside.

Every few steps, Auren knelt to brush the dust or run a finger along grooves in the wall. Twice he hissed a warning, and the group froze as Ferin pointed out the subtle threads and buried spikes meant to cripple the unwary. Blades were wedged under pressure plates, wires severed, spikes jammed with stones. Each trap dismantled became another weight lifted, another debt the dungeon was forced to recalculate.

The tunnel swallowed their light. The deeper they pressed, the more oppressive the air grew, as though they were descending into the belly of something that resented their intrusion.

Yet none faltered.

The tunnel widened with a groan of shifting stone, the ceiling arching higher until the narrow passage became a cavern throat. What should have been a simple guard post was no longer simple.

A wall of rough-cut stone rose across the tunnel, only shoulder height but thick and braced. Behind it, kobolds in scavenged armor leaned on crossbows, their beady eyes glinting in the firelight. Shamans clutched bone staves, chanting low, their voices twisting into the oppressive air. Three pairs of berserkers prowled behind the line, hunched brutes with jagged blades and the stink of blood on them.

The irregulars shuffled at the sight. Whispers died quickly into silence.

"Hold," Harold commanded, raising a hand. The line froze.

He studied the wall—short enough to climb, but tall enough to bleed half his force if they charged unprepared. He could almost feel the dungeon's mockery in its design, daring him to throw lives into the stone grinder.

He stepped back, pulling Rynar and the Master Olrick close. "I need a flash," he said. "Something that will blind them for long enough to break their focus."

The gnome's lips twisted into a grin. "Oh, I can make them see stars."

"Good." Harold's eyes swept to Kelan, Daran, and the pale figure of Lira's undead. "The three of you go up when the light hits. Take the wall and hold."

Kelan's jaw tightened, but he nodded. Daran's shield dipped forward like a battering ram at the promise of impact.

"Auren! Ferin! I need you to support them when I teleport them."Rysa," he said to the diminutive woman at his side, "move with the platoon and heal the ones who take wounds. Don't heal them to full—just keep them breathing."

Harold turned to the rest. "We climb. Shields on the outside—layered. Protect the ascent."

Daran's voice rumbled from beneath his helm. "Hit the right side. Stack shields to the left so the bastards can't strike from both flanks."

Harold gave him a single, sharp nod. "Right side it is."

The platoon shifted, the nervous energy tightening into something sharper, harder. Shields were raised, weapons gripped, eyes narrowed at the wall ahead.

Above them, the kobolds jeered, oblivious to the storm about to break.

Harold lifted his hand, halting the assault a breath longer. His gaze lingered on the wall—stone not laid by mortal hands, kobolds too disciplined, a fortification meant to bleed them rather than test them. The dungeon's sneer was carved into every stone.

"This isn't what you were meant to be," he said, voice carrying in the still air. The irregulars shifted uneasily as his tone deepened, resonant, like something speaking through him. "You were built to test, to temper, to challenge. Not this. Not a fortress for slaughter. Kidnaping children? You've overreached. You've gone beyond your bounds." Harold said channeling a voice not quite his own.

He drew a breath, eyes narrowing. "You want ruin? You want death?" His voice cracked like iron splitting. "Then it's my time to test you. Fine." His fist closed, and his words rolled like thunder. "I call… Calamity."

The system itself shuddered. A hollow chime rippled through the cavern: Calamity invoked.

Storm clouds churned into existence where no sky should be, black and roiling above the outpost wall. The kobolds faltered, jeering mouths snapping shut as lightning split the air. A bolt screamed down, striking the cavern floor with blinding force, thunder rolling like a war drum. The dungeon groaned, its stones trembling under the weight of the strike.

The power surged through Harold as well, burning like ice beneath his skin. His knees buckled, and a bright flare of pain lanced his chest—the backlash of overreach. For a heartbeat, he tasted copper, blood flooding his mouth. He straightened anyway, jaw set hard, eyes flashing with stubborn defiance.

"Now—" his voice was hoarse but unyielding, "take the wall."

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System chimes flared before Harold's eyes, one after another.

The notifications bled red across his vision. He snarled and swiped them aside, refusing to acknowledge the sting in his veins, the faint trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Pain was secondary. What mattered was momentum. Violence of action is what would carry the day.

"Hold tight," Harold rasped, voice cutting through the clamor. "You're not climbing."

Master Olrick's spell burst in his hand like a miniature star, the flashbang detonating with a thunderclap of light and force. Crossbowmen shrieked, clutching at their eyes. Shamans staggered mid-chant, voices cracking into silence.

Harold seized the moment. He reached inside, into the place where Brand and Tactical Recall pulsed, and tore at it. Space folded in a scream of light. The world lurched—stone, wall, and kobold twisting into a whirl.

An instant later, Kelan, Daran, and Lira's undead slammed down on top of the wall.

The kobolds had no time to recover. Daran surged forward like a living tower, shield slamming the nearest crossbowman off the parapet with a crunch of bone. His broadsword followed in a brutal arc, cutting another down before the first scream even finished echoing.

Beside him, Kelan fought like a man possessed. His pickaxe rose and fell in a rhythm as old as war, caving in helmets, snapping arms, punching crude wooden shields. Each strike drove him further down the wall, his boots slick with blood, his breath ragged but unwavering. The kobold's small frames were unable to hold back the weight of the mountain of war.

The undead joined them—kobolds whose eyes glowed with cold, hollow light. They swung their weapons with brutal efficiency, throwing themselves at their still-living kin with feral abandon. The wall devolved into horror as brothers-in-arms fought in grotesque parody, snarling mouths biting at throats they once laughed beside. Living kobolds faltered, terror breaking their lines as the shambling dead dragged them screaming into the crush.

Daran barked over the din, voice like iron. "Right side! Shields to me!" His command cut through the chaos, anchoring the irregulars who surged up the wall they were just able to jump and climb, layered shields braced against the rain of blind crossbow bolts from the left side.

The platoon clambered after Harold's teleport leaving them scattered but close enough to press the advantage. Some went down—bolts punching through arms, a scream as a spear found a gap in their makeshift armour—but Rysa and Lira were there, darting between men, her small frame steady as she pressed glowing hands to wounds. Not full healing—just enough to drag the injured back into the fight.

Kelan crushed a kobold's chest, yanking his pick free with a spray of blood. He glanced once at Harold through the smoke and lightning-glare, eyes wild, then turned back to the slaughter.

Daran met a berserker head-on, shields colliding with a force that rattled teeth. The kobold beast snarled, axe hacking down, but Daran's shield caught it and shoved back. Steel bit, bone cracked, and the berserker's roar ended in a choking gurgle as Daran's blade shoved deep.

All around them, the wall became a meat-grinder. The undead clawed, the irregulars pressed, the gnome's second flash flared bright, blinding the remaining crossbows. And above it all, Harold's voice carried, hoarse but unwavering.

"Take the wall. Make them break before we do."

The kobolds, once jeering, now screamed in terror as Calamity came to collect its due.

The clash didn't end with the flashbang. The wall itself became a killing ground.

Daran's arms trembled as he dragged his shield back into line, his chest heaving. Kelan staggered beside him, blood dripping down his arm, but the line did not falter. The sergeants pushed up hard, their own shields slamming into place, barking orders over the din.

"Keep the line tight!" one roared, shoving a younger man back into position before hacking a kobold down. "Press right! Shields overlap!" another bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos as he drove his spear through a berserker's gut.

The irregulars obeyed, moving like parts of a single machine, each shield covering the man beside him, each strike following another. The kobolds snarled and clawed, shamans shrieking curses from the rear, but they were ground down step by bloody step.

The higher-tier kobolds fell hardest, but not fast. One berserker ripped a spear from his chest and dragged its wielder screaming over the parapet before the sergeants and a half-dozen blades swarmed him under. Another shaman unleashed a flare of fire that seared a gap in the line, but the irregulars surged forward with a roar led by Brenn, their weight and fury breaking the caster against the wall.

By the time the last defender was run through, the stone beneath their boots was slick, and the smell of iron choked the air. Daran leaned against his shield, barely upright. Kelan braced his pick in the stone to keep from collapsing. Both alive, both bloodied, both glaring through the haze to see if more waited.

But the courtyard beyond was eerily sparse.

The cavern yawned wider, torches burning low in crude sconces. A scattering of kobolds broke at the sight of the human line cresting the wall, fleeing deeper into the tunnels. Ferin loosed an arrow into the nearest, dropping it mid-run. Another arrow followed before the first body hit the ground. Beside him, Auren's bow thrummed in rhythm, each shot punching through leather and scale with practiced precision.

A pair of Ferin's hounds whined at the wall, unable to climb. He crouched, gritted his teeth, and hauled them up one at a time, their claws scrabbling on stone before they bounded forward, hackles raised, eager to rejoin the hunt.

For the first time since entering, the courtyard was theirs.

The only sounds were the panting of men, the soft drip of blood on stone, and the fading echoes of kobolds running for their lives.

The courtyard was theirs, though it looked more like a butcher's yard than a victory. Blood pooled in shallow rivulets, soaking into the stone. Eight men were down, wounds bound but their strength gone. Two more lay shrouded beneath cloaks.

The sergeants barked orders, pulling the line back into order.

"Shields, front and lock!" the Shield Sergeant snapped, her voice sharp as iron. "You three stay on him!" she shouted while pointing at Harold. "Axes, check the wounded—rotate out who can't hold steel." "Spears, form the front. No gaps."

The battered platoon shuffled into place, discipline knitting frayed nerves into something resembling a formation.

Harold stood a step forward, staring down the next stretch of tunnel that opened from the courtyard. The shadows seemed to breathe, and he found himself tasting blood again from the backlash still gnawing at him.

A hand touched his arm—heavy, steady. Daran. The shield still strapped to his forearm was dented and bloody, his face pale under the grime.

"Is it wise to press on?" Daran asked, voice pitched low so only Harold could hear. "We've got dead behind us, eight men too broken to swing. Another fight like that and we'll limp out with half. Maybe."

Harold didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept the men—worn, bloodied, but not broken. Their eyes still held fire. And the boy might still be deeper.

Before he could speak, the Shield Sergeant stormed up, her helm tucked under one arm, eyes blazing.

"You can't keep moving ahead like that, Harold," she snapped. "You leave the line, you break the line. I can't protect you if you lunge forward whenever you feel like it."

Harold's lips tightened. "Fall in Sergeant, If I lunge you lunge with me."

Her jaw clenched, but she didn't back down. "If you keep gambling with yourself, the next bolt won't miss. And when you fall, the line goes with you."

Daran gave a quiet grunt. "She's right. We can still march forward—but only if you keep yourself alive behind the shields where you belong."

For a moment, Harold bristled, the retort burning at the back of his throat. But then he exhaled through his nose and gave a short nod.

"Fine. Next wall, I'll stay behind your shields." His tone was dry, edged with defiance, but it was enough to ease the sergeant's scowl a fraction.

He raised his voice so the formation could hear. "We're not done yet. Form up—shields front, spears behind, axes ready. We push on. Irregulars step out and loot what replacement gear is needed. We wait for ten minutes then we push on.

The platoon shifted, battered but resolute, waiting to step into the deeper dark as the echoes of their fallen faded behind them.

Daran moved down the line, shield slung across his back, helm tucked under one arm. His bulk cast a shadow over the men as he passed, his voice low, steady, never wavering.

He stopped before a younger fighter hunched against the wall, breath coming too fast, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. The man's knuckles were white on the haft of his spear.

"I—I shouldn't be here," the boy stammered. "A Calamity? That's not—this isn't—"

Daran crouched, his scarred face filling the boy's vision. "Your place is where you stand. The Ashen Steppes burned behind you, didn't they….because of you?" The boy flinched at the name, eyes flicking away. Daran's voice dropped to a growl. " You want to redeem yourself? Then you plant your feet. Hold the line. That's all the gods ask of you today."

The boy swallowed hard. His breathing slowed. He gave a single, shaky nod.

Daran rose, satisfied, and moved on.

Nearby, the axe-fighter brothers, Toren and Torvick, hefted weapons from the kobold dead. One tested the balance of a heavy bearded iron-headed axe, giving it an experimental swing. The other grinned, rolling his shoulder despite the bruises on it. "Feels like it'll bite clean." "Better than the sticks we carried in with," his brother replied, turning the haft in his hands. Both set to sharpening the edges, their movements steady, methodical.

At the courtyard's edge, Master Olrick leaned heavily on his staff, sweat beading on his brow. The flashbursts had taken their toll, leaving him pale and trembling. He muttered softly in gnomish, hands tracing runes into the dirt as he tried to restore some of his drained focus.

Beside him, Rynar was already on his knees among the bodies, muttering to himself as he turned over gear. Coins, trinkets, knives, even scraps of armor disappeared into his satchel. "Steel fetches coin. Hide sells to tanners. Nothing goes to waste," he murmured, already tallying in the ledger he somehow brought, how much each scrap might bring.

Kelan sat apart from them, braced against the wall. His battered stone armor had cracked in three places where kobold blades had hammered him. With methodical patience, he pried off loose chunks, fitting in new stone and binding them tight with strips of leather taken from the fallen. His pick rested across his knees, its head still flecked with gore. His face was drawn, eyes heavy, but each motion carried the weight of stubborn resolve.

The platoon waited. Ten minutes to breathe. Ten minutes to scrape themselves back into fighting shape. And then—into the dark again.

The ten minutes passed, and the order was given. Shields locked, axes slung, spears ready. Harold's voice cut through the murmurs.

"Forward."

The platoon stepped off, boots scraping stone. The tunnel narrowed again, but the ceiling pressed lower this time, dripping with moisture. Every breath carried the stink of old blood and damp fur.

Not twenty paces in, Ferin's hand shot up. "Wire," he hissed. He pointed with his bowstring to a thread of hair stretched taut across the floor. Auren muttered under his breath, crouched, and with a precise flick of a dagger, severed it before the trigger stone could fall. The distant clack of a deadfall echoed harmlessly further up the tunnel.

A dozen steps later, Ferin stopped them again. "Spikes. Floor plates." His hounds growled low, ears flat. Auren squinted, pressed a hand to the stone, and found the seam. Together they wedged rubble into the mechanisms until the floor settled safe.

From the rear, Rysa's voice carried, sing-song and teasing. "Careful, Auren—you're bending over like that on purpose, aren't you?"

A ripple of stifled laughter spread through the people behind him.. Auren stiffened, ears red even in the torchlight. He shot a glare back, but it only made Rysa grin wider.

"Quiet," Lira snapped, though her tone softened as she glanced at Harold. The corner of her mouth tugged upward despite herself.

The march continued. Tension mounted with every step, the men straining against silence, waiting for the next trap, the next ambush. But instead, the tunnel opened wide.

And there, across the stone throat, stood a line of kobolds. Not behind walls or barricades this time—just a ragged shield line, crude spears jutting forward, eyes glittering in the torchlight.

They hissed as one, a low, hungry sound. Each one a bone fide tier 3.

Harold felt it in his chest. The dungeon had shifted tactics. No fortifications. No gauntlets. Just a line of flesh and iron barring the way, daring them to break it.

The tunnel widened again into a chamber carved with cruel intent. The air was thick with smoke and incense, stinking of burnt herbs and blood. At the far end, a crude altar of jagged stone hunched against the wall. The boy lay bound across it, thrashing weakly as a massive kobold shaman daubed his chest with ash and muttered in a guttural tongue.

Two dozen kobolds formed a shield line before the altar, their armor piecemeal but tight, spears leveled, eyes glinting with fanatical light. Behind them, torchfire painted the chamber in bloody hues, shadows leaping and writhing against the stone.

Harold's stomach knotted. They had one chance.

He beckoned sharply. "Rysa."

She darted forward, her braid swinging, face smeared with soot. "What do you need?"

"Everything you have to crack them open."

She pulled open her satchel, fingers flashing. "Blind dust. Two bottles of fire—don't throw them till you're close. And I can still push a burst or two of mending if it gets ugly." She smirked, teeth flashing white in the gloom. "It'll get ugly."

"Good." Harold's gaze shifted. "Kelan."

The young man came, stone armor scraped and patched, pickaxe still bloody. His jaw was set like granite.

"I need you to be a juggernaut," Harold said flatly. "You'll be the point of the spearhead. Daran flows in behind you."

Daran gave a curt nod, already shifting his battered shield into position. His voice was steady as he addressed the line. "Form tight. You don't give an inch. You lock in behind me and we drive them straight into the altar wall."

The sergeants echoed him, corralling men into order. Shields front, spears angled, axes readied. Discipline stitched back together from chaos. He could see Brenn in the back swinging his axe back and forth. He took a moment to send a prayer to Vero for him.

"Undead forward, second rank," Harold ordered. Lira's lips tightened, but she gestured sharply. The pale kobolds shambled into position, eyes glowing coldly, their shields and axes raised in grotesque mimicry of the living.

"Rynar."

The merchant's hands trembled, but he managed a nod. "I can slick the ground beneath them. Make them slip when they brace."

"Do it."

"Master Olrick."

The old gnome drew himself upright, leaning heavy on his staff. His voice was thin but steady. "I can bless their health, bolster their will. It won't make them strong, but it will make them hold." He raised his hand, runes flickering faintly, and a ripple of warmth coursed down the line. Tired eyes blinked clearer, trembling hands steadied on their grips.

The platoon stood ready, battered and bloodied but unbowed.

Harold stepped before them, every eye on him. The storm that was not a storm stirred above once more, black clouds roiling against the cavern ceiling. The weight of calamity pressed in.

"You see it now," Harold rasped. "The dungeon goes beyond its bounds. This isn't a trial—it's a sacrifice. They mean to kill the boy for power. They want ruin."

His voice deepened, carried by something more than his own lungs. "But I am ruin. I am Calamity."

The system chimed, hollow and cold.

Lightning split the chamber, thunder rolling in a place no sky existed. The kobolds flinched, snarling and hissing, their formation quivering for the first time. The shaman in the back looked up with a worried look.

Harold drew in a breath, his Brand searing against his skin. "I will silence them. Their spells, their chants—I'll burn it all out. When the light flares, you drive them back. No hesitation. No fear."

He raised his hand, feeling the storm clawing to be unleashed. His voice broke into a roar.

"Forward! Save the boy! Break them!"

The platoon roared with him, shields slamming, spears rattling, axes rising high. Even the undead hissed as if the command had sunk into bone.

The final battle began.

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