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# System prepended metadata

title: Armour Story

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Day 1. 
I destroyed my armor. Not through malice, but through a momentary lapse—a misclick, a fleeting distraction—and now it's gone. The Dragonslayer Armour, once a testament to my strength and perseverance, reduced to nothingness. I have tried to retrieve it, scouring every corner of NosVille, beseeching every NPC, but it seems irretrievable. In the past, I had narrowly avoided such disasters, my luck shielding me from irreversible mistakes. But this time, fortune turned its back, and I am left exposed, vulnerable, a shadow of my former self. The world continues, indifferent to my loss, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. Day one, and the weight of this absence is already unbearable.

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Day 2.
The emptiness has settled in, a constant companion in the absence of my armor. Each attempt to retrieve it ends in failure, a cruel reminder of my irreversible mistake. The world of NosTale continues unabated, indifferent to my plight, as I wander exposed and vulnerable. The once-familiar paths now seem foreign, each step a painful echo of what once was. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day two, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 3.
The void left by my destroyed armor deepens, an abyss that swallows any semblance of solace. Each attempt to reclaim what was lost ends in failure, a cruel reminder of my irreversible mistake. The world of NosTale continues unabated, indifferent to my plight, as I wander exposed and vulnerable. The once-familiar paths now seem foreign, each step a painful echo of what once was. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day three, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 4. 
I sit by the water's edge, rod in hand, the gentle lapping of waves the only sound accompanying my solitude. With my armor gone, stripped of purpose, I find myself here, casting lines into the abyss, hoping for a catch that never comes. The once-thrilling battles are now distant memories, replaced by the monotonous rhythm of fishing. Each failed attempt to retrieve my lost armor deepens the void within, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The world of NosTale moves on, indifferent to my suffering, as I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day four, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 5. 
I fish. I fish in NosVille, in Port Alveus, in the desolate corners of the world where no soul lingers. The rod is an extension of my despair, each cast a silent scream into the void. The waters offer no solace, only the reflection of a warrior stripped of purpose. The once-thrilling battles are now distant memories, replaced by the monotonous rhythm of fishing. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day five, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 6. 
I ventured into the Spirit Forest, a place once filled with the echoes of battles and the clashing of steel. Now, I sit by its tranquil waters, rod in hand, casting line after line into the depths. The forest, with its ancient trees and whispering winds, offers no comfort, only a haunting reminder of what I've lost. Each failed attempt to retrieve my destroyed armor deepens the void within, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The world of NosTale moves on, indifferent to my suffering, as I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day six, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 7. 
A week has passed since I destroyed my armor, and the void it left remains unfilled. Today, I find myself fishing in Valakus' Claws, a place teeming with danger, yet I am without Ice Flower Oil, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. Each cast of the line is a futile attempt to reclaim a sense of purpose, but the waters offer no solace. The once-familiar paths now seem foreign, each step a painful echo of what once was. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day seven, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 8. 
I have fished in every corner of NosTale—NosVille, Port Alveus, Spirit Forest, and even the treacherous Valakus' Claws. Each location, a silent witness to my relentless pursuit of distraction, offers no solace. The waters, once teeming with life, now reflect only the void within me. My armor, destroyed in a moment of carelessness, remains irretrievable, a constant reminder of my vulnerability. The once-familiar paths now seem foreign, each step a painful echo of what once was. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day eight, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 9. 
I cook. Not out of passion, but because there's nothing else left. The ingredients I once took for granted now demand a ransom, their prices inflated beyond reason. Each purchase feels like a betrayal, a reminder of the gold slipping through my fingers, mirroring the loss of my armor. The marketplace offers no solace; my armor, a relic of battles past, is irreplaceable. I have scoured every corner, beseeched every NPC, yet my pleas vanish into the digital ether. The world moves on, indifferent to my suffering, while I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day nine, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 10. 
I continue to cook, seeking solace in the rhythm of preparation, yet finding none. The marketplace, once a place of opportunity, now feels like a trap, each ingredient priced exorbitantly. King Chicken Meat, once a simple component, now demands a fortune, its cost rivaling that of my lost armor. I purchase it in bulk, hoping to fill the void left by my destroyed gear, but each transaction only deepens the wound. The gold slips away, mirroring the loss of my armor, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The once-familiar paths now seem foreign, each step a painful echo of what once was. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day ten, and the agony shows no sign of abating.


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Day 11. 
I entered the Hardcore Valehir Raid without my armor, a decision born of desperation rather than courage. The moment the battle commenced, I was overwhelmed, my defenses nonexistent. I died once, then again, each death a stark reminder of my vulnerability. With only one life permitted in these raids, my second death sealed my fate, and I was unceremoniously ejected from the team . The rejection was swift, the silence from my former comrades deafening. My destroyed armor, once a symbol of my strength, now a phantom limb I cannot forget. The world of NosTale moves on, indifferent to my suffering, as I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day eleven, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 12.
I joined another Hardcore Valehir Raid today, armorless and unnoticed. I feigned contribution, casting spells and swinging weapons, but my efforts were as hollow as my defenses. No one acknowledged my presence, just as no one acknowledges the absence of my armor. I received my last raid token, a reward that felt more like a mockery than an achievement. The token, like my efforts, is meaningless without the strength I once possessed. My armor is gone, and with it, any hope of reclaiming my former self. Day twelve, and the agony shows no sign of abating.


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Day 13. 
I joined the Pollutus Raid with my alt, a character as insignificant as my presence. My attacks barely registered, each strike a mere whisper against the formidable Moss Giant Pollutus. The raid mechanics, designed for coordinated teams, rendered my efforts futile . No one acknowledged my existence, just as no one acknowledges the absence of my armor. The once-familiar paths now seem foreign, each step a painful echo of what once was. Companions pass by, their gazes a mix of pity and disdain, as I stand alone, ensnared in this newfound despair. The weight of my loss is a constant burden, a shadow that looms over every moment. Day thirteen, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 14. 
I joined the Hardcore Elemental Raid in Glacernon, armorless and exposed. Each attempt to earn contribution points was a lesson in futility; every player I encountered dispatched me with a single blow. The battlefield, once a place of camaraderie and challenge, now serves as a constant reminder of my vulnerability and loss. The world of NosTale moves on, indifferent to my suffering, as I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day fourteen, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 15. 
I attempted to upgrade my Specialist Card, clinging to the faint hope that success might fill the void left by my destroyed armor. Each upgrade attempt drained my dwindling funds, the 0.6% success rate mocking my desperation. With every failed enhancement, my wallet emptied, mirroring the loss of my once-prized armor. The materials required—Full Moon Crystals, Angel's Feathers, Shining Souls—each consumed in vain, leaving me with nothing but regret . The marketplace offers no solace; my armor, a relic of battles past, is irreplaceable. I have scoured every corner, beseeched every NPC, yet my pleas vanish into the digital ether. The world moves on, indifferent to my suffering, while I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day fifteen, and the agony shows no sign of abating.


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Day 16. 
I have exhausted every avenue—raids, fishing, cooking, upgrading—each endeavor a futile attempt to fill the void left by my destroyed armor. The Specialist Card upgrades, with their abysmal success rates, have drained my resources, leaving me with nothing but regret . The gold I once amassed has vanished, mirroring the loss of my armor. Now, I find myself staring at the game's interface, hovering over the close button. A prompt appears: "Do you really want to quit NosTale?" The words resonate deeply, echoing the finality of my situation. I have nothing left to lose, nothing left to fight for. The world of NosTale moves on, indifferent to my suffering, as I remain ensnared in this endless cycle of despair. Day sixteen, and the agony shows no sign of abating.


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Day 17.
I remain, idle and hollow, waiting for a miracle I know will never come. It is not hope—I abandoned that long ago—but inertia, the final movement of something long broken. I stand in NosVille like a fool, pretending time might undo the irreversible. My gold is gone, my resources burned, my attempts exhausted. Out of desperation, I tried leveling an alt, clinging to routine. But even that failed. The moment the Flying Fire Devil appeared, my alt disconnected—gone without warning in the second minute. Just like my armor. One second it existed, the next it was gone. No recovery, no redemption. Just disappearance. Emptiness. Finality. Day seventeen, and the agony shows no sign of abating.

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Day 18.
I attempted the SP perfection upgrade, clutching a single Perfection Stone like a lifeline—but all it bestowed was hollow gains. My defense rose, my HP crept upward, resistances ticked higher, but there was no trace of attack power. No elemental boost. Nothing to help me fight or feel strength. No mercy. I poured my last stone into a system that only rewarded fragmented endurance, not the power I truly needed. My broken wallet stares back at me, reflecting the emptiness I feel without my armor. The perfection system, meant to elevate, only highlighted what I lack. Just like my armor’s absence, this upgrade offered nothing but hollow promises and further despair.


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Day 19.
I don’t even feel like I’m playing anymore—I sit AFK in NosVille, a ghost among living profiles. I skim the raid success messages, scroll through the raid list, but there’s nothing I can join—no armor means no entry, no purpose. My screen fades into the background as I begin capturing screenshots of my inventory, preparing to sell it all. The items I once cherished now feel like leaden anchors, each one a reminder of everything lost. My armor vanished and left me hollow; now I empty my bag to fill the void. No raid, no fight, no fight left inside me—just silent resignation and the final click of sale lists. Day nineteen, and the agony shows no sign of abating.


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Day 19.5.
A sudden holy glow illuminated my parcel, and there it was—my armor, inexplicably returned. But the sensation? Absent, utterly gone. Even as I gazed upon the armor I once yearned to reclaim, it felt hollow. Its loss had already extinguished my enthusiasm, looted my will to fight, and erased any joy I might have once felt. The armor, once my greatest companion, now sits as a lifeless relic, a bitter reminder of how much has truly been lost. I know now that even with this armor returned, I cannot reclaim the spirit I once had; my departure from NosTale is inevitable. The agony remains, endless and undying.
