The haze of power was thick; it lay over the terra stretched before him for miles; dense as fog and equally blinding.  His empyrean eyes cast over the landscape, piercing the cryptodynamic mist as other men fumbled for their senses.  Some men were made for war - born warriors, born with a warcry in their lungs; but men hadn't been made that way for a long time.

Anicetus was certain he was the last.

Societies had softened the rest of the warriors.

The End

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