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The Monkey King struggled desperately to escape the raging tempest, yet could not even brush the ground. The wind tossed him about like a speck of dust, upending him as easily as a typhoon strips trees bare or a torrent sweeps away withered blossoms.
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Time flew like an arrow, and seasons turned swiftly as a weaver’s shuttle. The unbearable heat of summer was soon replaced by the first frosts of late autumn.