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In the battlefield men grapple each other and die; The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven, While ravens and kites peck at human entrails, Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees.
— Li Bai
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The world has been your battlefield. Everywhere you go, the blood of brothers and sons screams out against you. Perhaps you cannot yet hear it, because this soil is not your own. But you will... you will.
— Vladimir Makarov
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