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... No shape to the void. Only the sensation of rawness, peeled from flesh, scraped from bone, bled from soul.

Rin floated—though there was no direction. He drifted—not because there was movement, but because there was nothing to hold him.

This was the Threshold of Suffering, not a location, but a metaphysical convergence—where agony stripped identity down to instinct and desire, where all cultivators who danced too close to death's edge must either refine... or be refined.

...

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