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In the beginning, before temples and kings, before law and language, before man named the stars, there was only the whisper. It drifted through the darkness and the light, weaving itself into every creature that crawled or flew, every wave that struck the shore, every fire that burned in the wilderness. The whisper said: “Man shall not be one. He shall be two.” And so it was. From the first breath, man bore two faces. One face turned to the rising sun, radiant and full of wonder, yearning for order and beauty. The other turned to the depths of shadow, fierce and untamed, hungering for chaos and power. They were not strangers. They were not enemies. They were coiled together, like roots of a single tree, inseparable, eternal. Yet man, proud and restless, could not bear this truth. He feared his duality. He sought to sever one face and enthrone the other. And so began the long tragedy of history — not wars of nation against nation, but wars of man against himself. Those who clung to the light became tyrants of purity. Those who surrendered to the dark became beasts of ruin. And both, blinded by devotion to a single face, dragged the world into fire and sorrow.
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