The air did not so much move as *scream* when Kal-El passed through it.
What had once been speed—something measurable, describable, perhaps even admirable—was now something else entirely. He was no longer a boy who moved quickly. He was motion made flesh, the echo of a sunbeam deciding, just for a moment, to remember that it had once been divine. His passage left behind fading shapes of gold, afterimages that hung in the air like the memory of warmth after winter has passed, each one a ghost of velocity that reality itself struggled to process.
When his fist met Skoll's flank, it was not simply a blow. It was an *event*. A myth retold in the language of thunder.
The courtyard exploded with light and noise; ancient stone, long content to slumber beneath the palace, found itself shattered and remade. Columns that had stood since the first age cracked like kindling. Marble tiles erupted into clouds of glittering dust. The shockwave rippled outward in a perfect circle, and where it passed, the very color of the world changed—shadows burned away, darkness fled like a guilty thing surprised.
Skoll—the great devourer of daylight, the beast who had chased the sun across endless heavens—*staggered*. His massive paws, each the size of a war chariot, scraped against rock that had not yielded for centuries, leaving furrows that glowed with residual heat. For the first time in an age, the hunter's expression cracked, and in it was something perilously close to understanding.
"Impossible," the wolf snarled, his voice a growl that seemed to echo through both worlds of flesh and story, resonating in frequencies that made mortal ears bleed and divine hearts quicken. "No fledgling god strikes with such—"
He didn't finish. Kal-El was already moving again.
A blur of gold. A streak of solar fire. The boy—no, the *god*—appeared at Skoll's left, then his right, then above, each position marked by a devastating strike that sent tremors through the beast's cosmic flesh. Punch. Kick. Elbow. Each blow accompanied by the sound of reality itself crying out in surprise.
"You talk too much," Kal-El said, and his voice carried two tones—one belonging to a boy still small enough to hope, the other to a goddess who had outlived hope entirely. He drove his knee into Skoll's jaw with enough force to crater the ground beneath them. "Sol might have been patient with you. I'm really not feeling it."
Skoll's head snapped back, teeth—each one a fragment of stolen starlight—scattering like diamonds. The wolf howled, and the sound was wrong, discordant, the cry of a predator who had never known what it meant to be prey.
"You strike harder than she ever did," Skoll admitted, blood like liquid shadow dripping from his maw. He shook himself, and reality rippled around him, space bending to accommodate his impossible mass. "Sol was radiant, yes—but she forgot the meaning of hunger. You remember it. You carry the ache of mortals within you. That is power the gods should never envy, and yet they do."
The wolf's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Tell me, little sun—do you know what it feels like to be devoured? To feel your light eaten away, swallowed into nothing, until all that remains is the memory of warmth?"
Kal-El's reply came like dawn breaking over ruins. "Then you should have thought twice before hunting children."
He raised his hand, and golden sigils blazed to life around his fingers—ancient symbols that predated language, equations that described the birth and death of stars. His eyes blazed, not crimson as before, but *gold*—true sunfire, threaded with the quiet grief of stars that burned themselves to keep others alive.
"Let me show you something Sol never could," Kal-El said softly. "Let me show you what happens when divinity remembers how to be angry."
When he looked upon Skoll, that gaze became a weapon older than language. Golden beams lanced outward, and where they touched the world, the world *changed*. Stone became crystal, air became hymn, and even shadow—ancient, stubborn shadow—found itself filled with light it could not quite remember how to hate.
Skoll opened his jaws and *breathed*.
Darkness erupted forth—not mere absence of light, but active, hungry void. The kind of black that ate color and concept, that turned hope into ash and memory into dust. It was the breath that had swallowed suns, the exhalation that had ended Sol's first reign. It rolled forward like a tsunami of anti-creation, ready to consume everything in its path.
The two forces met in midair.
Gold and black. Day and night. Creation and consumption.
The collision was silent at first—too vast for sound—and then the world caught up and *screamed*. The courtyard buckled. Cracks spider-webbed across the walls of the palace itself. Watchers threw up their hands to shield their eyes from the brilliance and the darkness simultaneously, neither one giving quarter, both pressing forward with the inexorable weight of cosmic law.
But something was different this time.
The darkness wasn't winning.
Kal-El's heat vision, infused with Sol's divine essence and refined by his mortal determination, pushed *forward*. Inch by inch, the golden light carved through the void, not by overwhelming it but by *teaching* it what warmth meant. The shadows didn't flee—they *remembered*.
"No!" Skoll roared, pouring more power into his breath, drawing on reserves of stolen light that he'd hoarded across millennia. "I am the eater of suns! I devoured Sol herself! You are nothing but an *echo*!"
"Wrong," Kal-El said, and his voice was steady, certain, the tone of someone who had finally understood what he was. He stepped forward, and each footfall left a print of molten gold on the stone. "I'm not an echo. I'm not a replacement. I'm not even her second chance."
Another step. The heat vision intensified, and now it wasn't just light—it was *warmth*. The kind that coaxed flowers from frozen earth, that promised spring after endless winter, that whispered to the lost that they could find their way home.
"I'm what comes *after*," Kal-El continued, and now he was close enough that Skoll could see his face clearly—young, impossibly young, but filled with the weight of a sun that had chosen to care about the tiny lives it kept alive. "After the gods failed. After the old stories ended. I'm what happens when divinity gets a second chance to do it *right*."
He clenched his fist, and the golden light responded, coalescing into a sphere of pure solar essence. Not hot enough to burn—hot enough to *illuminate*. Hot enough to show Skoll exactly what he'd become, what he'd lost in his eternal hunger, what he could never consume because it wasn't made of light but of *purpose*.
"And you know what the best part is?" Kal-El smiled, and it was fierce and joyful and terrifying all at once. "She taught me how to shine. But my parents taught me how to *fight*."
He hurled the sphere.
Skoll tried to dodge, but the orb curved in midair, following him like a prayer seeking its answer. It struck him in the chest, and for a moment—just a moment—the great wolf was illuminated from within. Every shadowy fiber of his being blazed with light, exposing the framework of stolen divinity that held him together, the scars of a thousand devoured sunrises, the emptiness at his core that no amount of consumption could ever fill.
Skoll *screamed*—a sound that made the stars themselves flinch—and lashed out with claws that could tear holes in space. Kal-El met them head-on, catching the wolf's paw in both hands. The ground beneath them shattered into a crater fifty feet deep. Stone liquefied from the heat. The air itself caught fire.
But Kal-El didn't budge.
"You want to know the real difference between me and Sol?" he asked, his voice conversational even as he slowly, inexorably, *pushed the wolf back*. "She was born divine. She never had to fight for anything. Never had to struggle. Never had to look at impossible odds and decide to try anyway because someone had to, because it was *right*."
His eyes flared brighter. "I did. Every day of my life before this, I had to choose. Choose to help. Choose to be kind. Choose to stand up even when I was terrified."
He twisted, using Skoll's own momentum against him, and hurled the massive wolf across the courtyard. The beast crashed through three columns before rolling to a stop, leaving a trench carved in Asgardian marble.
"Divinity doesn't scare me," Kal-El said, rising into the air, golden energy crackling around him like a living thing. The symbols on his armor pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, each one a promise, a declaration, a star's oath. "Because I know what it's like to be small. To be afraid. To be just a kid who had no idea what he was doing."
Skoll dragged himself to his feet, blood and shadow dripping from his wounds. For the first time in his immortal existence, something like fear flickered in his eyes. "What *are* you?"
Kal-El spread his arms, and the sunlight obeyed. It flowed from him in golden waves, not burning but *cleansing*, washing across the battlefield like high tide. Where it touched, corruption withered. Where it passed, hope rekindled.
"I'm the son of Odin, who taught me that strength means nothing without kindness," he said. "The son of Frigga, who taught me that wielding power is a *choice*, not a birthright. And I'm the friend of the bravest person I know, who's currently teaching your sister the exact same lesson."
Somewhere, very far away, the sun itself seemed to pause—watching, perhaps, as one of its lost children learned not just how to burn, but *why*.
And Skoll, ancient devourer of daylight, understood at last that he was not facing a god repeating old mistakes. He was facing something new. Something that had taken divinity and filtered it through mortality, through compassion, through the terrible beautiful choice to care about things smaller and frailer than yourself.
He was facing a sun that had learned how to love.
And that, more than any amount of raw power, was something he could never consume.
---
Diana moved as though the moon itself had decided to remember its ancient appetite for war.
Each motion she made was deliberate, measured—less like a warrior fighting and more like a celestial body tracing its eternal orbit through the dark. Her blade was not forged but *imagined*—a thin edge of moonlight drawn into being by will alone, gleaming with the quiet fury of reflected divinity. When it met Hati's dark pelt, the sound it made was not steel on flesh but the echo of tides colliding with distant shores, the whisper of waves claiming what they were owed.
"Predictable," Hati snarled, her massive jaws snapping shut inches from where Diana had been a heartbeat before. The she-wolf moved with predatory grace, each step deliberate, each feint designed to herd her prey into smaller and smaller spaces. "You move like Mani once did. Graceful. Beautiful. But there's something else in you—something he never knew. A mortal's joy in battle. A *need*."
Diana's response was a spinning kick that caught Hati's jaw, the impact sending ripples of silver light cascading across the wolf's face. She flipped backward, landing in a crouch, her sword already reforming in her hand from scattered moonbeams.
"Perhaps because I was born of women who fight not for glory, but for survival," Diana answered, her voice carrying the kind of calm that only comes from absolute certainty. Her armor shimmered with indigo light, not the brightness of day but the kind that lingers just before dawn—beautiful, patient, and deadly. "Before I was a goddess, I was an Amazon. I learned to love the clash as much as I feared it."
She raised her left hand, and shadows *listened*. What had been mere absence of light became something with weight, with texture, with *intention*. They coiled around her fingers like eager students, waiting for instruction.
"And unlike Mani," Diana continued, her eyes glowing with lunar fire, "I was trained by warriors who understood that war is not an art—it's a *problem*. And every problem has a solution."
At her gesture, shadows gathered like loyal soldiers. The courtyard darkened, not in gloom but in reverence. Moonlight itself obeyed her, bending to her command as it had once bent to Mani's will, but differently now—not as subject to sovereign, but as partner to purpose. Chains of silver radiance grew from the stone, wrapping around Hati's limbs with the finality of divine decree.
"Clever," Hati admitted, testing the bonds. They held. For an instant, the universe remembered who ruled the night. "But do you truly believe—"
The chains *shattered*.
Fragments of moonlight rained like dying stars, burning cold against the marble, each shard dissolving into mist before it touched the ground. Hati stood free, her eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction, her pelt now threaded with veins of corrupted silver that pulsed like a diseased heartbeat.
"—that I would fall for the same trick twice?" The she-wolf laughed. It was not a pleasant sound—more like the gurgle of drowning men, the gasp of those who died choking on darkness. "You bind me with *his* power, little goddess. But I *ate* him. Every art he wielded, every secret he kept, every spell he wove across ten thousand years—they all live in me now. Distorted, perfected, *mine*."
Hati opened her jaws, and this time, it wasn't darkness that emerged. It was moonlight itself—Mani's own power, twisted into something obscene. The silver rays that should have illuminated instead *exposed*, stripping away Diana's carefully constructed illusions, burning through her shadows like acid through silk.
Diana felt her concealment spells unravel. Felt her defensive wards crack. Felt the weight of stolen divinity pressing against her like a physical force.
"You see?" Hati circled her slowly, savoring the moment. "I know every trick you might try. Every feint, every illusion, every desperate gambit. I have centuries of his memories. I know the moon's moods better than you ever will. You are a child playing with powers you cannot possibly understand—"
"Then you've already lost," Diana said softly, the way a tide says farewell to the shore before it drags it away forever.
Hati paused. "What?"
"You said it yourself." Diana rose to her feet, and something in her posture had changed. Where before she had moved with the careful discipline of a warrior, now she flowed with the adaptive grace of water finding new paths through ancient stone. "You know everything *he* knew. Every strategy. Every technique. Every approach to battle that the Moon God ever conceived."
Her smile was small, sharp, and absolutely terrifying.
"But I am not him."
And then she *changed*.
The moonlight no longer obeyed—it *collaborated*. Where Mani had commanded with the authority of cosmic station, Diana *partnered* with the lunar essence, treating it not as subject but as ally. She curved the light in ways that defied the geometric certainty of reflection, bent it through angles that shouldn't exist, whispered to it in a language that was part prayer and part tactical doctrine.
"Mani was born of the cosmos," Diana said, and now there were *three* of her, each one moving independently, each one equally real. "He fought with the certainty of divine right. But I was born of clay and love and *training*. I was raised by women who turned combat into philosophy, who understood that the greatest warrior isn't the strongest—"
One of the Dianas lunged. Hati snapped at her, jaws closing on empty air and illusion.
"—but the most *adaptable*."
The real Diana struck from behind, her moonlight blade carving a line of silver fire across Hati's haunch. The she-wolf howled and spun, but Diana was already gone, her form dissolving into shadow and coalescing twenty feet away.
"You think you know my tactics because you devoured my predecessor?" Diana's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing across the courtyard with the inevitability of tides. "Let me teach you something my aunt taught me when I was six years old and thought I was already the best fighter on Themyscira."
The shadows *moved*. Not fleeing from light, but flowing around it, incorporating it, using the interplay of illumination and darkness to create pockets of space where perception itself became unreliable. Diana appeared and disappeared like a ghost, each manifestation striking from a different angle, each blow calculated not for maximum damage but maximum *confusion*.
"She told me," Diana continued, and now she was next to Hati's left ear, her sword pressed against the wolf's throat, "that anyone can learn a technique. Anyone can master a form. But true mastery comes from knowing when to *break* the rules you've learned."
She twisted away as Hati's jaws snapped shut, using the wolf's own momentum to vault over her back. Mid-flip, she conjured three more blades of moonlight and hurled them with Amazon precision. They struck in sequence—left shoulder, right flank, base of tail—forcing Hati to contort awkwardly to avoid the worst of the damage.
"You studied Mani's fighting style," Diana said, landing in a crouch that would have made her combat instructors weep with pride. "But I studied under Antiope, who fought in the Titan Wars. Under Phillipus, who held the shores of Themyscira against an army of drowned gods. Under my mother, who understood that leadership and combat are two faces of the same discipline."
She spread her hands, and the moonlight responded not with the usual geometric precision of divine magic, but with something more organic, more *alive*. It swirled around her like silk in water, beautiful and deadly, creating patterns that Hati's stolen memories couldn't recognize because they had never existed before this moment.
"Mani created light," Diana said, and now her voice carried weight that made the stars take notice. "But I was forged in shadow. I learned that the moon's beauty lies not in its glow, but in its *endurance*. In its patient cycle. In the way it watches and waits and adapts to the turning of the cosmos."
Hati tried her earlier trick again, exhaling corrupted moonlight to strip away Diana's concealment. But this time, Diana didn't hide. She stood in plain sight, arms spread, apparently vulnerable.
The corrupted light washed over her and *failed*.
"What—" Hati's eyes widened. "Impossible! That is his power! You cannot resist it!"
"You're right," Diana agreed calmly. "I can't resist it. So I won't."
She *embraced* it.
The stolen moonlight that should have exposed and wounded her instead flowed into her armor, absorbed by the divine essence that Mani had gifted her. But where Mani would have rejected such corruption, Diana—trained in Amazon pragmatism—simply *purified* it. She took the darkness Hati had woven into the lunar energy and unraveled it like a knot, separating shadow from light, intention from effect, corruption from essence.
"My sisters taught me something your stolen memories wouldn't know," Diana said, and now her armor blazed brighter than before, powered by the very attack meant to destroy her. "They taught me that accepting help isn't weakness. That adapting to your enemy's strength isn't surrender. That sometimes the wisest warrior is the one who turns her opponent's power into her own."
She gestured, and the purified moonlight *exploded* outward in a nova of silver radiance. Chains erupted from every surface—not the simple bindings she'd tried before, but complex geometric patterns that drew on Amazon military doctrine, Mani's cosmic authority, and Diana's own innovative genius.
This time, when they wrapped around Hati, they didn't just hold. They *learned*. Each time the she-wolf tried to break them using Mani's stolen techniques, the chains adapted, shifting their configuration, changing their nature, becoming something new.
"You cannot chain me!" Hati roared, thrashing against the bonds. "I devoured the Moon! I am *him*!"
"No," Diana said quietly, walking toward her fallen opponent with the careful dignity of a princess and the lethal grace of a warrior. "You ate his body. You consumed his power. You stole his memories. But you never understood what made him divine."
She knelt beside Hati's massive head, close enough that the wolf could have killed her with one snap of her jaws—if she could have moved. Close enough that her words fell like benedictions or curses, depending on how one chose to hear them.
"Divinity isn't power, Hati. It's purpose. Mani shone not because he could, but because the night *needed* him. Because sailors needed to navigate. Because lovers needed light to find each other. Because the darkness, beautiful as it is, needs contrast to be appreciated."
Diana's eyes glowed with lunar fire—not Mani's distant, cosmic radiance, but something warmer, something that remembered what it meant to be small and afraid and looking up at the moon for comfort.
"I am not Mani reborn," she said. "I am what comes after. The moon filtered through mortal experience, divine power refined by human compassion. I am what happens when a god's essence merges with someone who remembers what it was like to be a child who needed the light to feel safe."
She stood, raising her hand. Above them, the *actual* moon—the celestial body that had hung in Earth's sky since before memory—began to glow brighter. Not with Mani's conscious will, but with something older, deeper. The fundamental pull of tides, the ancient rhythm of cycles, the patient endurance of stone worn smooth by water's endless caress.
"And that," Diana said softly, "is why I will never fight like he did. Because I know what it's like to need the moon. To depend on it. To look up at it and feel less alone."
The moonlight around her shifted one final time, and in it, every Amazon who had ever trained by night, every sailor who had ever navigated by stars, every child who had ever been comforted by that silver glow—they were all there, somehow, their faith and hope and trust woven into the light itself.
"You devoured a god," Diana said. "But you never understood what made him worth devouring in the first place."
She clenched her fist, and the chains constricted. Not to kill—never that—but to *bind*. To hold. To contain until wiser heads could decide what to do with a creature that had eaten the moon and somehow starved anyway.
Hati thrashed once more, then fell still, and in her eyes was something that might have been understanding, or defeat, or perhaps the first glimmer of an emotion she'd forgotten she could feel.
Wonder.
---
Beneath the storm of gods and monsters, two figures watched from the edges of the world.
Thor stood like a mountain that had remembered how to breathe, lightning crawling lazily across his shoulders as if unwilling to sleep, each crackling arc leaving afterimages burned into the eyes of anyone foolish enough to look directly at him. Mjolnir hummed in his grip, a low subsonic purr that spoke of barely restrained enthusiasm. The hammer *wanted* to fly, to strike, to remind the cosmos what happened when the God of Thunder decided someone needed smiting.
But Thor held it fast, his knuckles white around the leather grip.
Beside him, Loki leaned on a broken pillar with the studied casualness of someone who made an art form of appearing unconcerned. His illusions coiled about his fingers like thoughtful serpents, each one a possibility, a potential deception, a lie waiting to be born. His eyes—green as envy, sharp as spite—tracked every movement of the battle above with the calculating precision of a master strategist watching a chess match between gods.
They were not idle—no Asgardian ever truly is—but they had the rare wisdom to recognize when a fight belonged to others.
"I could help," Thor rumbled, and it wasn't quite a question. Above them, Kal-El drove Skoll through another column, the impact sending shockwaves that made the palace foundations groan. "Kal is skilled, yes, but the transition—"
"—is his to complete," Loki interrupted smoothly. His gaze never wavered from Diana as she wove moonlight into impossibly complex patterns, her movements a deadly dance that would have made even the most skilled Asgardian warrior weep with jealousy. "And might I remind you, brother mine, that it is his fight. We must let him fight it."
"You would have us stand here?" Thor's voice carried a note of frustration that made the air itself feel heavier, charged with potential violence. "While children fight our battles?"
"They're not children anymore." Loki's tone was quiet, almost reverent. "Look at them, Thor. *Really* look."
Thor did. And despite himself—despite his warrior's instinct to charge forward, to add his strength to any worthy cause—he *saw*.
Saw Kal-El moving not with the raw enthusiasm of youth but with the terrible confidence of a sun that knew exactly how hot it needed to burn. Saw Diana flowing from strike to defense to counter with a fluidity that spoke of power fully internalized, divinity made instinctive. Saw two young people who had ascended not through birthright or cosmic accident, but through *choice*—through the decision to stand when they could have run, to fight when they could have hidden, to become what the moment required even if it broke them.
"They're not merely surviving," Loki murmured, voice quiet as candlelight in a cathedral long abandoned. One of his illusions—a ghostly projection showing the battle from three different angles simultaneously—flickered into being before them. "They're pushing the wolves back. Forcing them to defend. Imagine that—children chosen by Sol and Mani cornering the devourers of their kind. The cosmic predators that ended the previous celestial order are being hunted by their replacements."
A thin smile crossed his face—pride and calculation in equal measure. "It's almost *poetic*."
Thor's gaze did not waver from the chaos above. His expression was not pride or fear but something older, quieter—a warrior's respect for those standing in the place where courage ends and legend begins. "Power like that burns bright," he said, his voice carrying the weight of too many battles, too many funeral pyres for friends who shone brilliantly and briefly. "Too bright, sometimes. They don't yet know how deep the well runs—or when it runs dry."
As if to punctuate his concern, Kal-El's armor flickered. Just for a heartbeat—barely noticeable unless one knew what to look for—the golden radiance dimmed slightly. The boy caught himself mid-strike, and though he recovered instantly, Thor had seen enough warriors push beyond their limits to recognize the signs.
"There," Thor said quietly. "Did you see? He's burning his reserves. And Diana—" He nodded toward Diana, who was breathing harder than she had been minutes ago, her movements still precise but requiring more conscious effort now. "—is calling on power that her frame hasn't fully adapted to. They're godlings, Loki. Not gods. Not yet."
Loki nodded slowly, the gesture sharp and human in a way gods rarely allow themselves. His illusions shifted, now showing tactical overlays—projected trajectories, power expenditure rates, probability matrices that would have made mortal mathematicians weep in frustrated awe.
"Then we watch," he said, his voice carrying a surprising note of tenderness. "And when the fire or the moonlight begins to fade, when the inevitable mortal limitations assert themselves against divine ambition—"
"—we remind the wolves that Asgard still keeps its guardians," Thor finished. He shifted his stance, subtle as continental drift but no less significant. Mjolnir rose slightly, ready. "And that some of us remember what it was like to be young and foolish and convinced we could take on the entire cosmos."
"Speak for yourself," Loki said with a smirk. "I was never foolish. Reckless, perhaps. Impetuous on occasion. But always *deliberate* in my chaos."
"You disguised yourself as a snake and bit me."
"I was going through a phase."
"You pretended to be dead. Twice."
"And yet here I stand, proving that even death can benefit from proper planning."
Despite himself, despite the tension and the apocalyptic stakes, Thor huffed something that might have been a laugh. "Only you could make resurrection sound like a bureaucratic achievement."
"It's a gift."
For a time, they stood in silence—brothers, trickster and thunderer, united not by schemes or storms but by something simpler, rarer. Something they'd nearly lost a dozen times over the centuries but had somehow, impossibly, managed to preserve.
Family.
Above them, Diana's chains of moonlight constricted around Hati. The she-wolf howled in frustration, and the sound was wrong—not the triumphant baying of a successful hunt, but the desperate snarl of cornered prey.
"She's winning," Loki observed. "Not easily. Not safely. But winning nonetheless. The Amazon shows remarkable tactical flexibility for someone who's only been divine for—" He consulted one of his temporal illusions. "—approximately fifteen minutes by Midgardian reckoning."
"And Kal?" Thor asked, though he could see the answer himself.
Kal-El had caught Skoll's head in both hands and was *glowing*—not just emitting light, but embodying it. Heat vision poured from his eyes in continuous streams, forcing the wolf to abandon his usual predatory tactics and simply try to *survive* the solar onslaught.
"Kal," Loki said slowly, "is teaching Skoll what hubris tastes like. Which, given that the wolf devoured the literal sun, is quite the philosophical reversal."
Thor's grip on Mjolnir tightened. "But they can't maintain this forever. Divine power, mortal vessels. The equation doesn't balance."
"No," Loki agreed. "It doesn't. Which is why we—"
He stopped. His eyes narrowed, focusing on something in the distance. One of his illusions flickered, reformed, magnified. "Well. It seems we won't be the only guardians standing ready."
Thor followed his gaze.
The palace doors—massive, ornate things carved from the heartwood of Yggdrasil itself—had opened. And through them came the old guard, the true powers of Asgard, summoned by the commotion or perhaps by some deeper instinct that recognized when the cosmos itself stood at a tipping point.
---
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