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... k in his satchel. Maybe it was a valuable material. Or perhaps he had a carpentry hobby.

It didn’t really matter that much at that moment anyway.

What mattered was that the piece of strange wood held between the tips of his pincers was quickly vanishing, swiftly being siphoned up his claw, arm, and all around his shell. It felt a little itchy.

The hissing sound of the charged ice between Reagan’s hands made the crab’s bristles stand as his eyestalks twisted backwards ahea ...

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