You clench your fist and feel the exact old wound in the same motion, one movement, not two. The edge that strikes and the body that remembers being struck land together on one degree of your chart, fused past any separating. Your force carries memory in it. You hit knowing precisely where it hurts, because it hurt you there first, which is why you guard the wounded better than you guard yourself. You fight with a care only a cut body ever learns. The centaur who trains young warriors while dragging an arrow that will not close moves inside every surge of yours, teaching and bleeding at once.
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