327 lines
9.4 KiB
Markdown
327 lines
9.4 KiB
Markdown
---
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title: "Chapter 1: Encountering Magic (Part 1)"
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slug: "ch-1"
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novel: "Infinite Mage [Remake]"
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number: 1
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views: 2850000
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likes: 198000
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wordCount: 3600
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createdAt: "2020-01-17"
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---
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"Waaah. Waaah."
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The cries of a newborn echoed through the mountains, shattering Vincent’s early morning slumber.
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"Ugh..."
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Even as he rubbed his sleep-tousled hair, the pitiful sound of life continued to reach his ears.
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"Dear gods... what did I do to deserve this?"
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Kicking off the blankets, he rose from bed, his hunter’s muscles tensing in the dark.
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’Who the hell is out there at this hour?’
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Vincent glanced at his sleeping wife.
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He hoped she was dreaming peacefully.
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If she heard this noise, she’d be plunged into misery all over again.
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"Hah..."
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After seven years of marriage, Vincent and his wife still had no child.
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They’d spent a fortune consulting physicians, only to be told there was no discernible reason.
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—"Sometimes, it’s just fate. There’s nothing wrong with you or Olina, so just keep trying, eh? Heh heh!"
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At first, Vincent had laughed it off.
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But as time passed with no change, he’d been forced to accept the truth by their fifth year:
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He could not father a child.
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Olina never showed disappointment, but whenever a lonely shadow crossed her face, Vincent had never hated his own body more.
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"What kind of bastard—who in their right mind leaves a baby out like this?!"
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Pushing aside his tangled emotions, Vincent grabbed his single-edged axe and stepped outside.
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"Who’s there?! Who’s making such a racket in the dead of night?!"
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His shout echoed through the mountains.
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No answer came.
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In the heavy silence, Vincent’s expression hardened.
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’A trap?’
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Most hunters lived deep in the mountains.
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They had to check traps at dawn, and tracking large game sometimes meant spending days in the wilderness.
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Naturally, security was their own responsibility—and bandits often preyed on that vulnerability.
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Of course, it could also be a merchant passing through, but no torchlight flickered in the darkness.
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"You rotten bastard! I’ll chop you to pieces!"
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If this was the worst-case scenario, blood would have to be spilled.
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Moving cautiously, he reached the stable where the sound had come from and swiftly kicked the door open.
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His hunter’s sharp eyes scanned the interior.
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Whuff.
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The snort of a horse reached his ears.
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Animals didn’t lie, and the sound soothed Vincent’s agitation slightly.
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’Nowhere to hide.’
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There were no signs of an intruder, either.
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"Then how...?"
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His gaze landed on a bundled cloth resting neatly atop a pile of hay.
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A baby—perhaps two months old—was scrunching its face and wailing.
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Vincent hastily hid the axe behind his back.
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By the time he knelt before the bundle, he’d discarded the weapon entirely and simply stared.
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"Waaah. Waaah."
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A child as lovely as the moon itself lay there.
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A child who knew nothing yet, newly born into the world, waiting to carve its name into existence.
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The moment the baby saw Vincent’s face, its cries stopped, and a gummy smile spread across its tiny features.
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Vincent’s pupils trembled.
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Then, as if struck by lightning, he bolted upright and stormed back outside.
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"WHO’S OUT HERE?! WHO’S PLAYING THIS CRUEL JOKE?! ABANDONING A BABY—YOU SICK MONSTER! SHOW YOURSELF!"
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The mountains rang with his fury.
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"COME OUT! YOU WON’T?! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?! YOU’RE A REAL PIECE OF WORK, YOU KNOW THAT?!"
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Still, no reply came.
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"YOU REALLY LEFT IT, HUH?! LAST CHANCE—SHOW YOUR FACE OR I’LL SMASH IT TO PASTE!"
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Vincent screamed with every ounce of his strength.
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If he ever looked back on this day, he refused to regret holding back.
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"Hah... hah..."
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After glaring into the darkness a while longer, Vincent steadied his breath and returned to the stable.
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Exhausted from crying, the baby had fallen asleep.
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Hands shaking, he cradled the child and pressed an ear gently to its tiny chest.
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"Ah..."
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A heartbeat far quicker than an adult’s.
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"Honey, what’s going on?"
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His wife, roused by the shouting, rushed over.
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Instead of answering, Vincent simply showed her the sleeping child in his arms.
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"What... whose baby is that?"
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Vincent hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain.
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"Well... I think it’s ours."
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Early Summer.
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The stream was cold, the breeze refreshing.
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Vincent, a dead roe deer slung over his broad shoulders, hurried home.
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More than the successful hunt, he was eager to see the family waiting for him.
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"Shirone! Daddy’s home!"
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"Dad!"
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A twelve-year-old boy came scampering to the porch, beaming.
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Unlike Vincent, whose face was rough-hewn like stone, the boy’s features resembled a meticulously crafted jewel.
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Hair like spun gold, shimmering even from afar, and striking blue eyes that gleamed.
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Every time Vincent saw his beautiful son, his chest swelled with pride.
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Dropping the deer, he buried his face in the boy’s embrace.
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"Yeah, that’s my boy. My treasure. You been good?"
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"Yes! I helped Mom cook and read lots of books."
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Cooking and books.
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The dissonance between the two words made Vincent pause, but he didn’t let it show.
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"Heh, you like reading that much?"
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"Well... there’s not much else to do."
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Whenever Shirone flinched like he’d done something wrong, Vincent’s heart ached.
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Deep down, he knew.
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This heaven-sent miracle of a child was far more brilliant than his peers.
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After learning letters from his mother, he’d progressed from stumbling through books to devouring complex texts alone.
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’And that’s what makes it harder.’
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A hunter could never afford proper schooling for his son.
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The only thing Vincent could teach him was the craft he’d honed his whole life.
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—An herbalist’s child becomes an herbalist. A hunter’s child becomes a hunter. That’s the safest path.
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Even humble trades required knowledge and tricks passed down through generations.
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But Vincent couldn’t bring himself to say it.
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"No, you’re doing great, Shirone. Learning’s the key to success, no matter what. Next time I go to town, I’ll buy you more books."
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"It’s okay. The ones you got me before weren’t that interesting anyway."
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Vincent laughed at his son’s fib.
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Popular books were too expensive, so he’d only managed to scavenge discarded noble texts from antique shops.
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He knew they weren’t exactly children’s material.
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’Such a kind kid.’
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Shirone’s consideration for his parents made Vincent’s nose sting.
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"Alright! How about we go chop some wood, then? Learning’s important, but a man’s gotta be strong too. Today, I’ll teach you how to swing an axe."
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"Wow! Do I get my own axe?!"
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"Heh, of course! Let’s cut down every tree on this mountain today!"
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Vincent handed Shirone a small axe—expensive for their means, but unlike books, this was an investment.
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’In the end... he’ll become a woodsman.’
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If reality couldn’t be changed, building his frail body and stamina was crucial.
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’But... is that really it?’
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A sudden doubt gnawed at him.
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’His face has nobility in it, and his mind’s sharp. Could he be... a noble’s child?’
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Vincent shook his head.
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Whenever such thoughts arose, he felt both overwhelmed by fortune and crushed by guilt.
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’Enough. Shirone is MY son. Not some child from a stable—my own flesh and blood.’
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Steeling himself, Vincent led Shirone to a logging area a kilometer from their cabin.
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"Watch closely. I’ll show you how it’s done."
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Spitting into his palms, Vincent swung with practiced ease.
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Thwack. Thwack.
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After a few strikes, the tree groaned and toppled.
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Though not a lumberjack, ten clean strokes were impressive for an amateur.
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"Aim for the same spot, then tilt the tree with its own weight. Got it?"
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"Yeah, I’ll try!"
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Vincent picked a tree for him, and Shirone mimicked his father’s motions perfectly—down to the spit and hand-rubbing.
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’So sharp...’
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Vincent watched proudly—until Shirone raised the axe.
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His stance was... off.
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’Brains alone won’t cut it.’
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The axe was heavy, and swinging it required raw strength.
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’We’ve got to build him up now. Otherwise, how will he marry? Have kids?’
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No woman would wed a man who couldn’t provide.
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"Hng! Ugh!"
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Gritting his teeth, Shirone swung wildly, each strike landing haphazardly.
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Vincent offered advice.
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"Don’t exhaust yourself. Use less force, but aim true."
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Shirone understood—but no matter how precisely he struck, the wood wouldn’t budge.
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’Since when was he this weak?’
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Vincent’s mood dimmed.
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"Hah... it’s tough."
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"It’s okay. No—I’m sorry. Truth is, I know this isn’t for you. But as a hunter’s son..."
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Vincent’s voice cracked.
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"You’re so bright. Smarter than Barun the herbalist’s boy, sharper than Stella the fruit seller’s girl. Don’t feel bad about your strength. My greed is just..."
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Tears welled in his eyes.
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But Shirone, lost in thought, didn’t notice and asked:
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"Dad, how do you REALLY chop wood well?"
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Vincent blinked.
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He hadn’t expected his bookish son to press the question.
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"You... really want to learn?"
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"Yeah! It’s fun."
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Heartened, Vincent guided Shirone’s gaze to the groove in the wood.
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"See this? Strength comes with age. But the trick isn’t force—it’s technique. Earlier, I said to hit the same spot, but if you angle it slightly..."
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"Oh... I see."
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Vincent finally examined the marks Shirone had made.
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’This...’
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He was stunned.
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For a beginner, the strikes were impossibly precise—all landing in the exact same spot.
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In fact, without brute force, this precision made it harder to fell the tree.
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