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In a vain to feel fine, he gave so much and yet got so little; why does the spirits run amok at the mention of his name? Or has the old clay pot that sheltered his ego been broken into a thousand pieces by the very ones whom made his bed by the sands of time? Then the wind whispered -- "Pain heals, my child", but like liquid metal, the blacksmith had already forged a beast from the fires of liquid pain; now all that is left is someone else, something else but himself.