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Than is a phantom of some kind
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So he doesn't rust, or that's the story he's telling himself. And he isn't happy, but he's never been happy. And he's being used by his master, as is right and proper. Really, when you look at it from that angle, nothing much has changed about his life. It's the same as it's always been, under the Priestess and under the General alike. Nothing much changes.

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Nothing much changes. Day in, day out. Nothing changes. He outdoes himself by less and less each time, because there's only so much you can do with a butcher's knives being used to kill. The shadows get dull, and the shades get duller. He didn't use to count the days, because that didn't mean anything and the only important measure of time was progress; he still doesn't count the days, because all of the days are just like each other.

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Nothing changes.

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Day in, day out. Nothing changes.

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Nothing changes.

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The blade doesn't grow dull, because if it grew dull then it would shatter. Cyllian is a blade, and he must be sharp, and he must not rust, because if he does then he is no one...

That's who he must be. The one thing that doesn't change, alongside everything else.

Who he is.

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Day in, day out.

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What's a sword that doesn't stab? A blade that doesn't cut? A spear that doesn't impale? What are they? Who are they? What are they for? Do they exist, or do they just pretend they do?

What's the difference between a sword and a knife and a shaving razor?

Is a halberd any different than a tree branch?

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Day in... day out...

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...nothing changes.

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