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Atticus pressed onward, the towering monolith before him radiating an ominous energy. As he approached, the pressure around him intensified, like invisible hands gripping at his very essence, trying to squeeze the life from him. He gritted his teeth, every step becoming harder as the weight on his soul grew unbearable.

When he reached the base of the monolith, a deep vibration coursed through the ground, and the ancient runes etched into the stone glowed a fierce crimson. Without warning, a pulse of energy shot out from the monolith, slamming into Atticus and sending him staggering backward.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to remain on his feet. The pressure was no longer just physical—it was attacking his soul, probing for weaknesses, for any crack in his resolve. His vision blurred, and his knees buckled as the crushing force intensified, threatening to tear his spirit apart.

But Atticus was no stranger to pain. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright, defying the
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