The Faded Masquerade
The question of whether a man can survive the weight of his own name is one that Qing Lin had spent three years trying to answer with his sword, standing now in the damp, concrete silence of the colony mess, the rain hammering against the corrugated roof like a fist demanding entry. He was thirty-two, a wanderer in a world that had forgotten how to walk, and the cold jade pendant against his...
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