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15
As Rain Pours in the Ravine of Rot
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HUMANS, AS A SPECIES WEREN’T MEANT TO SURVIVE. Before the War of the Five Kings, before Viktor, before The Empire of Amanila, and before Semos, the First God, to be a human meant to live with a hoe in your hand and to die with a blade in your chest.
Humans were weak. They had no magick back then, no armor on their chest, no thousands of years of knowledge or history. In terms of survival of the fittest, they lost. The only reason why humans became proper predators was because they knew how to use tools.
But orcs too, knew how to use tools, and they had bodies that betters it. Bodies that had no need to endure, only live. They were the apex predator, the first hunters, the first bipedal race who built the first kingdom.
That was until Semos.
Semos, still a human back then, had gathered hundreds of human tribes and lead them into an expedition for a land where their race would be safe. And in the far west, beyond the seas, they found the small island which they called “Fremen.”
The first and most important invention that the humans had built, were ships. And there they traveled into the small island, whose size was enough only for a town, and there they had fought their first war as a species.
They killed orcs, goblins, nonimals, the ashen ampyrs, bears, wolves, they cleansed Fremen of anything that could threaten them, and from there they built the first kingdom.
A place where humans were safe, where they could till the land without the worry of an orc blade behind their back, without the worry of goblins looting their food.
And after a few years, the humans, for the first time, had to worry about their number., Overpopulation, travel time, death, crime, industry, and waste management, for each problem that arises a solution was introduced. Two-story houses, roads, hospitals, specific buildings with specific purposes, sewage systems, and walls. Achievement by achievement the First Men excelled in one thing the most: architecture.
And with problem-solving they had managed to expand from the island, and back into the main continent.
Five ships filled with wood, soldiers and laborers, arriving to the shores of the main land with nothing else in mind but to build. It was the First Gaian Expedition.
Quickly, the soldiers dashed into the shores clearing the land of beasts, as the laborers unloaded their greatest invention: Fremen timber. It was a normal timber, except that it required no nail in order to build using it. Each of its ends were carved like puzzle pieces, only more intricate, in a way that you can interlock them together into one building as if you’re simply playing a jigsaw puzzle. The most elementary design was a slab whose edge looked like a “T,” which could easily be locked into another slab whose edge looked like a “V.”
Of course the Fremen timber the humans had carried with them had more complicated designs. But the terrifying part of it was its efficiency: for in a matter of half a day, they had built a complete two-story wall around the shore. In a week, they had expanded into the size of Fremen. Wall after wall after wall, and in ten years they had built the barebones of the gigantic, ever-expanding empire called Amanila.
And that was before witches existed, before Semos became a God.
Humans, as a species, rejected nature. They killed it and spit on it, building an empire form the corpses of trees, an economy from the carcass of its sons and daughters. If that wasn’t enough, they invented magick. They studied the flow and fate of nature itself, and choked it, deciding that it was better controlled between their palms.
Magick decided the rain, watered the desserts and flattened the mountains; men had made themselves God.
And with this pride, they had been able to claim existence as a birthright.
Something that goblins never had and would never achieved. Living was a goblin’s curse, that while everything can and would kill them, their inherent regeneration and revival forbid their own extinction. A survival that was unearned and unachieved, undeserved and unwarranted.
But Viktor was a human first before he became a goblin. He had fought as one, bled as one, he survived not because his species was ‘meant’ to survive, but because he could. He owed his life not to his body nor birth, not to his anatomy nor biology, but to himself, alone.
Unlike any of these clumsy, dimwitted pig-dogs.
“BREAK IS OVER YA LAZY MOTHERLESS PISSERS,” Mimic smashed Scaramouche flute into Canyon’s armor, ringing inside the entire camp into an alarm. Pretty soon the sound of saws and hammers scurry the birds who had laid atop the trees.
Viktor had been very through about their plans. They began building their main camp around the gorge the soonest they found Scaramouche, looking like a dirty corpse under one of the trees. The poor bastard at least managed to get the chimera stuck inside the giant ants’ dwelling. It was the most dangerous variable about the hunt—finding the monster and containing it—and the jester did it by himself.
He had ordered Dos and his scouts to linger around the giant ants’ holes that lead inside the gorge, and it was indeed properly stuck. At the moment it was spending its time gorging ant after ant, and at the pace it was going it was probably trying to get to the Queen.
That would give them at least a day or two to prepare their weapons and make a plan. It wasn’t like the chimera was going to leave anyhow, Scaramouche had been marked as its target. The chimera spoke to him, and those monsters never left anyone they spoke to alive.
But that was the least of their problems.
In a few days, the Sunspine Mercenaries hired by Fog-eyes’ competitors would arrive. It could take three days at the minimum, a week at most. The orc estimated at least four hundred men; and should they arrive the goblins would be like sitting ducks waiting for their throats to be slit.
“We could kill the chimera now and we can avoid them,” Dos suggested.
Fog-eyes wanted to tear his hair out. “Yeah well, how are we gonna bring its body back, genius?”
“Oh I’m sorry, but what was your plan Biomancer? You thought we could defeat a chimera that size within a day, and then bring its corpse into your lab, easy peasy?”
“Well yes, I didn’t expect it to be this big.”
“Chimeras are always this big, Fog-eyes,” Viktor put in.
“No, they’re not. Only the dimwitted ones are.”
What? Viktor wanted to comment, but held his mouth. Every information about Chimeras on the Gaian Expeditions stated that they were big. The ones he’d seen were also behemous.
“Don’t stare at me like that,” Fog-eyes called him out. “Look at it, what kind of soft-brained pig-dog keeps all of its useless body parts? I mean, butterfly wings? Seriously?”
It was exactly the size that Viktor had expected, and he had previously assumed they could deal with its body by chopping it up to pieces, or maybe Biomancers had a way to with carcasses. He wasn’t sure. But this was one just too big for the first solution he had in mind; far too big than any he had seen. “What if we take its good parts and leave the rest behind?”
“Wow, genius, I haven’t thought of that,” Fog-eyes said sarcastically. “If only it wouldn’t take me literal weeks to know which parts are actually useful!”
“Your mockery is well-appreciated.”
“We need to retreat,” Canyon suggested. “This is a lost cause.”
“No.” Viktor said. “We’re too deep inside the ravine, any way back and we’ll only meet the army.”
“And we’re running out of supplies,” Dos added. “There is nothing to eat here but grumans and ants, and the monster’s already feasting on the ants.”
“And we can live,” Viktor declared, but no one paid attention to what he said. “We can win.”
“Viktor, I don’t know why I have to spell this out for you, but we are sandwiched between a monster, and an army!” Canyon shouted. “Nothing about this is optimistic.”
“We can head straight into the ravine and avoid them both,” Fog-eyes suggested. “Maybe we can forage there for a while, then wait it out. Let them fight and then finish whatever’s left of them”
“The forest ahead is dead,” Dos said. “I checked. It was all dead trees, dead animals, dead land. The entire place smelled like vomit and feet. The chimera must have sucked the life from everything there.”
“What if we make the monster and the army fight while we hide in the weird trees?” Canyon proposed.
“The chimera will seek us out before it does the mercenaries, it had its eyes set on Scaramouche,” Viktor put in.
“Well, we can throw him out. It’s one goblin for all of us,” Fog-eyes said.
“We won’t leave Scaramouche,” Viktor had firmness in his voice. “He had created an advantage for us, two advantages. Why any of you do not see it, I do not know.”
Canyon gave him a look “You don’t really think we can win, do you?”
“We have two problems right now: the chimera and the army. Scaramouche had the chimera stuck, so it won’t be able to attack us, but we can attack it. We just need the right weapon, if not the right method, and we have all the time in the world to think about how to do it before the army arrives,” Viktor pulled out eight notebooks from his knapsack. He knew Canyon recognized them. “This is a list of siege weapons we can use, I’ll have Mimic look over them, we can either use something or build something from all of these.”
“And the army?”
“That’s the second advantage we have. They don’t know we are here, and we have time to prepare. We have wood, ropes, mounted weapons, and a week’s worth of food. They came here to fight a monster, not to siege a fort.”
The room shuffled. Fog-eyes sank into his hands, Canyon scratched his chin while Dos stood frozen on his feet.
“Fog-eyes, it’s not every time you have the chance of getting your hands on a chimera’s corpse,” Viktor added. “You said it yourself, this is why you have many competitors. Luckily for you, you chose me.”
“Viktor,” Fog-eyes called. “How confident are you about this?”
The goblin didn’t take a moment to think about it.
“It is impossible for us to lose.”
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Viktor drank the last of his bowl and went back to work. The goblins were busy reassembling the walls, hammering the patterned pieces of wood together—designed like Fremen timber, which Viktor introduced to Mimic—building a wall as tall as three orcs in only half a day.
The walls of their fort formed a semi-circle around the gorge where Scaramouche had reported the chimera was stuck in. Half of the goblins were still fortifying it, while the other half of them were logging the trees that jagged above the ravine, making sure that there would be nothing to worry about coming atop them.
Viktor sat beside the jester, who they found bleeding near a tree. “You separated from the march, when the orders are clear not to do specifically that.”
“I found a tree with a terrifying name,” Scaramouche grinned. Fog-eyes sat on the other side of him, rearranging the bones on his right arm. “I had to know what it was.”
Viktor spared him the useless lecture; he knew Scaramouche well enough to understand that this goblin was not to be controlled. “Actions have consequences,” Viktor simply left it at that. “The consequence this time was exclusive to you. But if you endanger the camp, I will boot you out.”
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“Nah, you won’t.”
Outside, the camp was busy establishing itself. Dos alone was keeping a tight watch on the gorge, investigating the giant ants’ paths, the holes on the walls, noting exactly where each of them led. If they wanted to kill a chimera that size, they needed to be smart about it.
“We need a bigger ballista,” Viktor called Mimic. “Something that can launch a sharpened tree. Pass me the design tonight.”
“What, are you serious?” Mimic was kicking a log whose end was triple “T” shape ending with an “L,” fitting into another log that swallows its pattern. “I am busting my balls on designing the fake fort alone, even choosing where to build it is a problem Viktor Boss Man, and—” she kicked the log harder with a fit of visible anger, until both logs finally clicked together. “Foggy Boy’s ILL-MANNERED ORCS REFUSE TO LIFT A SINGLE FINGER ON ANYTHING.”
One of the orcs who was laying on a hammock took notice, and spoke. “I’m not taking orders from a goblin.”
“SEE?” Mimic pointed at the orc. “TELL ME I AM ALLOWED TO GUT HIM, VIKTOR. TELL ME!”
Before the start of their march, Viktor gave everyone very specific instructions on how to deal with Fog-eye’s men, who were coming with them for the chimera’s hunting: don’t touch them, don’t talk to them, and don’t kill them. The orcs weren’t his men and he had no right to command them, so it was only proper that he treats them with respect as an ally.
But of course, respect begets respect. Viktor walked towards the orc and cut off the hammock, making the hairy pig fall down. It wasn’t one of the tribal orcs that Fog-eyes bought from them, but one of the pink-skinned swine who grew fat from the city. It was one of the Biomancer’s hired help.
“I advise you to be careful of the words you speak about my lieutenant.”
“Yes!! That’s right Fat Pig Man!! Be careful of the words about lieutenant!! That is so correct!!” Mimic added.
The orc stood up in its full height—which was thrice that of a goblin’s, and tried to intimidate Viktor using it. “You can play like a king in front of your men, goblin,” the orc emphasized his last word, speaking of Viktor’s species as if it itself was an insult. “But you better not forget it is orcs you are dealing with. The only reason you are here is because we hired you to help us, I don’t even know why Faron is bothering to make you a primer. If it was up to me I would have whipped you into submission. So I advise that you work, and pray that you impress us enough to actually pay you.”
The other of Fog-eyes’ men gathered around the orc now, all aside from the tribal ones.
“I don’t have time for this,” Viktor murmured. He threw sand into the orc’s eyes, and within the flash of a second he kicked its knee bending it backwards. He followed by sweeping its ankle, making it kneel, then buried his foot into the orc’s stomach. The orc looked as if it was to vomit, but Viktor punched its throat so hard it choked before it could puke.
The other orcs were about to charge when the rest of the goblins present—all eighty of them, had stopped with their work to watch.
“Do not mistake us for your lessers, orc,” Viktor emphasized his last word in the same way the orc had previously insulted them. “The goblins have let you be because we treated you as an equal, but it seems you have not earned that. One word from me you will be working with a leash on your necks, and even your Biomancer won’t be able to save you.”
The rest of the orcs stood in front him menacingly, walking towards him as if they were about to do something. As if they expected Viktor to step back. As if they expected him to apologize.
“Listen here you hairless, gutless swines,” Viktor’s voice was deep inside their ears. “I have killed a Sanguine Cursed, and I will kill a chimera. And starting now you will either bend your bones helping me do it, or I will boil them as broth so at least your bodies would have use.”
“Yes! Broth!” Mimic cheered. “Get cooked you filthy bastards!! AAAAaaAAAaAA”
Another orc threw her a punch, but stared with visible shock when Canyon blocked it using a single hand. The rest of Canyon’s soldiers had approached the snot-faced men, and it would seem like a fight was about to break down.
“Mimic!” Viktor called. “From now on you’re in charge of them. I’ll talk to Fog-eyes, and gut anyone who refuses.”
Viktor left. He had a lot of explaining to do to the Biomancer, but he was sure the man would understand. A fight broke out behind him, but too many things were in his mind to care. It would solve itself properly anyhow; Mimic would probably kill one.
It didn’t matter, they weren’t Viktor’s men. He just needed them now to lighten a burden; it wasn’t like Fog-eyes’ orcs would survive his plan anyhow.
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MIMIC SAT UPON THE BODY OF A HALF-DEAD ORC, her fists were drenched in blood, while her opponent’s head was beaten into a pulp. She had punched the swine’s face and kept punching again and again and again, making sure she’d stop only once the bastard had inched too close towards the fine line of life and death. This way, Fog-eyes could still heal his men and Mimic could beat them again.
“Kneel to me, bAYY-BEHHH!!” She screamed. Great joy brimmed her chest as she chewed out her frustration through another.
The entire week had been stressful for her. Viktor had been nagging her nonstop even before the march—she had to spend an entire night calculating how many carts she needed to make so that they can they can drag their entire base with them—then spending the next morning disassembling the camp, which wasn’t even a week old.
Now she was stuck building two forts from the material that was their previous camp, which was the same as saying that she might as well build a third one.
The fort around the gorge, which she called Gorge Fort which was intended to be the smallest, yet the sturdiest. The idea was to replicate what a tribal orc’s settlement would look like, hence they had to build the walls to be as tall as three orcs just to give an impression. Foggy Boy had made them flags yesterday, so she hung them around into each of their towers and pillars. This way, the fort could bluff itself to look stronger and more challenging than it was supposed to be, so that anyone who sees it would think, “oh wow this fort looks real hard to siege, what if we just get on the other one?”
Which leads Mimic to building the second fort, which was built in front of the swamp. She called it the Swamp Fort, an artistic name befitting such an intricate fort’s design. The idea was that anything who would try to seize the fort would have to pass through the swamp, which not only slowed them down, but made them vulnerable to a lot of attacks; while the fort itself was built on a perfect land. She used her loving bridge as a banner above Swamp Fort’s gate, Viktor’s carving of the goblins served as an implication of culture inside the fort.
Beyond that, the entire place was less of a camp than a death trap.
So, while the orcs would be faking their numbers in Gorge Fort as Viktor Boss Man figures out how to kill the chimera, Mimic’s job was to shave the mercenaries’ numbers in Swamp Fort. Starting from the near-impossible sieging of it, with the swamp and the tall walls. And once they indeed were able to take it, they will find that the fort’s entire structure was designed to kill them. If that wasn’t enough, claiming the fort itself wasn’t practical for the mercenaries, and the best they’d get out of it is not worrying about their backs should they siege Gorge Fort.
Of course, this leads into building the third fort, where Mimic would lead the goblins once the Swamp Fort inevitably fell. The plan was to further reduce their pursuers by applying guerilla tactics while retreating from Swamp Fort to the Third Fort, the problem was that they were out of materials, and it was hard to find a good place to build the third fort.
She needed a place where traps were easy to build but hard to notice; where should Viktor need it, the goblins could simply abandon the third fort and retreat back to Gorge Fort to regroup.
There was also the problem of command. Canyon’s army was the main star of the siege, but Mimic couldn’t control them. Dos’ army was needed to be able to rain arrows after arrows upon the enemy, but it wouldn’t be guaranteed that they wouldn’t be needed in fighting the chimera. Scaramouche was out of commission, and his army’s uncontrollable without him. And at last, her army itself weren’t that great at battle.
A hundred goblins versus an estimate of four hundred men. Mimic could already feel the blade burying inside her neck. And added to all of that, Viktor wanted him to design a bigger ballista, and then a new weapon based from his hotchpotch of designs.
Mimic felt like pulling her hair off and cursing at every thing that moved. She wanted to tear the head of every gruman whose bodies looked too disgusting for their face. She wanted pour salt sacks into a pile of snails and earthworms, pour boiling water into a beehive. She felt like biting the goblin’s ears off and clawing out the orc’s eyes.
She felt like destruction as an entity, as an abstract taking shape into the form of her fist.
And so she punched and punched and punched; Fog-eyes could fix this pig face back to shape again in no time. For now, she needed release. For now, she needed—
Dos grabbed her hand and pulled it from another punch, “Mimic, stop—” and she punched him on the face, but the goblin was able to grab it. “Mimic!” Dos shouted, holding both of her hands; he hugged her and tied her hands behind her back. “You’re okay. I am here. You’re okay,” the goblin sang inside her ears. “You’ll be fine. I am here. You’ll be fine.”
And for a moment, inside Dos’ shoulder, she cried.
Watching everyone now, all of the orcs had stopped and were looking at their comrade, even the Biomancer was outside, able to disrupt the situation. Canyon had filled him in about what happened, or so Mimic assumed.
“Thanks, honeyface,” she said as she pulled himself from Dos. Once again she grabbed Scaramouche flute, dragging it into the middle of Gorge Fort, then used it to bang into Canyon’s chestplate, ringing over inside the entire camp. “Listen to me you oversized rug-sniffers!!” she shouted at the orcs, making sure that everyone hears. “We’re going to finish building Gorge Fort, and then we’ll build Swam Fort, and then Tree Fort, in a matter of four days!!” she shouted, giving absolutely zero context. “YOU HEARD THAT RIGHT YA BASTARDS, FOUR DAYS!!! Or we’ll die if we don’t! AND I HAVE PERMISSION TO GUT ANY GOBLIN, AND ORC,” she winked at Fog-eyes. “WHO REFUSE TO LISTEN TO THE GENIUS THAT IS ME. GOT THAT??”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“You! Woodworker 13!” she pointed at one of the goblins under her personal command, “I’m tired, carry me to the gates!”
The goblin refused, so she groaned and walked. Fog-eyes trailed behind her. “I would have objected if it was Viktor who did that, but turns out it was you.”
“You sure got a soft spot for me Foggy Boy.”
“Maybe. I mean, we’re friends, right?” the mancer nudged. “Look, it was a pain to deal with Dante’s face, so don’t do that again.”
“Sure thing Orc Doctor Man!” Mimic skipped over a pile of wood, forcing her companion to do the same. “I’ll make sure to stab him next time, y’know?? Finish the job.”
“No, don’t do that either,” the Biomancer sounded worried. “Those guys don’t have a good insurance, and I still have to compensate them for the environmental hazard. If you kill them, I’ll have to pay their family from my own pockets. They need to die at the enemy’s hands so the insurance would cover for it.”
“So I’ll feed them to the dogs?”
“Right,” he replied. “And, Mimic,” Fog-eyes grabbed her shoulder. “Get some rest. You’re tired.”
She punched Fog-eyes on the belly, saying “don’t tell me what to do,” and left.
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GRANDFATHER PIKE ADJUSTED THE THERMOSTAT on his gauntlets as he stared at the split-mountain. He had a thermometer stuck to his body that constantly measured his body temperature, another gauge that measures the average temperature of the immediate environment, and a calculator watch that computes the ideal temperature for both his body and surroundings.
“That does look like as if a sword split it in half,” He commented, putting on the vaporizer and making sure it was injected to his back. “What do you think, Berns?”
“It must’ve been the Roaming God,” Berns answered, raising the black broadsword that was a tall as her body and as thick as her arms.
Pike thought that she must be thinking about trying to imitate that slash. “The Bluemin Supervisor said that the chimera was found here,” he said, putting on a boots that had another thermostat that measures the ground heat. “Is everyone ready?”
Dark-eyed Berns turned to her men—a group of ragtag mercenaries from Conspi, gang members from Gondo who were looking for a pay, and some of Oracay’s fishermen, whom she heard were experts in fighting against giant beasts—just in case the chimera this time happened to be impractical. “I hope so,” she responded.
There were six hundred men, clad in leather and copper, marching ahead as rain pours in the ravine of rot.
Pike lead the way, testing his gear. The ravine had suddenly turned cold as he pulled the heat from the air, the gauge on his gauntlet dropping. He absorbed it into his back, making it travel inside his body, making sure that the thermostat that measured his body temperature wouldn’t for a second hit forty celsius. For this, the transference must happen fast and precise—from his back, into his chest, into the blood and vein on his lanky left arm, and then releasing it into the tip of his hand—this time making sure that he didn’t release too much that his body temperature would be down to thirty-three.
All of these complicated calculations happened in a single flash, and in the eyes of someone like Berns, all she could see was how in a single flash, Grandfather Pike threw fireball that burned a gruman into ashes in a matter of seconds.
He may be old, but he hasn’t yet lost his touch.
No matter the age, he was still the pride of Sunspine. One of the forefathers of Mancing itself.
He was still Pike the Pyromancer.
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Mancing
[Entry from Erin the Endless’ 301st Journal, Year 301 After Viktor’s Death]
As human knowledge, history, and culture advances, we as a species had began to question our previous understanding and assumptions on Things That Are, and further observed what Things May Be. In a world with rituals and witches, magick and god, humanity before had religiously followed The Seven Laws as given by Semos (God) himself. But upon experimentation, research, and the application of scientific method (repeatable processes bearing repeatable results), magick has been scientifically processed as a branch of science and was understood in scientific terms.
And from this comes the birth of Mancing, as a school of thought. Mancers work through a certain 'transfer of energy'. Not in a spritual way like withcraft, who dealt with Fate and Force, but physical ones: kinetic energy, potential energy, thermal energy.
Perhaps the comparison would be better introduced via examples:
if a Witch would wish to light a candle using magick of the old ways, he’d need to sacrifice in blood, in fasting (not eating for a day), or in practices (never using one's left hand). If this fails, the candle will not light.
If a Mancer would wish to light a candle using the science of magick, he’d need to point the tip of his finger to the wick of the candle, concentrate, and transfer 3% of his body heat in order to light it up (that is, assuming the wick is of average thickness and his body temperature is normal). If he transfers too little heat, the candle won’t light, if he transfers too much, he suffers hypothermia.
If a human in the right mind would wish to light a candle, he’d use a match.
Of course, Witches and Mancers are capable of more elaborate specialties. Such is why Witches had the Inquisition to control them.
Meanwhile, a Mancer must thoroughly know the science of the pursuit he wishes to continue. It was illegal for someone to practice mancing without a mancerate degree, which one can only get at the farthest edge of his education.
And in a sense, it was the only way to do it properly anyhow.
A Pyromancer, for example, must be very knowledgeable of physics and thermodynamics, the relation of temperature to every object, how heat expands metal and how the cold seeps into the body. Most use measuring tools such as thermometers and thermal gauges in order to perform exact calculations and exact magic, lest he destroys himself or the others around him.
Imagine a Pyromancer putting his hand on a campfire, he calculates the amount of heat he absorbs, carefully distributes it from the rest of his body, then shoots it out on the other hand. Only the brightest and sharpest Pyromancer can perform this, as failure meant burning oneself alive.
Biomancers must know the anatomy down to the names and composition of every single cell, less they make a mistake that even they cannot reverse.
Like electricity, most magic functions through the use of a conduit. In the examples above, the body itself is the conduit. This wasn't the only known way. A Mancer can use the air itself as a conduit, the earth, or anything. Say, imagine an Allomancer with two brass cups in front of him. He lifts two of the cups while only touching one, yet the weight of this cup is thrice the original. Meaning, he is lifting both coins and the conduit between them, while physically only lifting one.
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