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... fore Zen like the silhouette of memory itself. He stood at the front gate, cloak fluttering in the breeze, the echo of distant laughter and footsteps lost in the quiet. The academy, usually alive with the chatter of students and the hum of arcane practice, now slept in a brief holiday silence.

Zen inhaled deeply. The air smelled the same—of wind-swept leaves, old parchment, and a faint hint of magic residue. But it also felt different now. Or maybe... he was the one who had changed.

...

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