Dean walked, staggering on his feet until he stumbled across ... a clone approaching Mr. Karsia. He paused. Recognition dawned on his face. Maybe they hadn't lost the war yet. After all, winning meant Great Rendell alive even if all others were lost in the process—a bold sacrifice that was necessary. Soldiers had sacrifice etched behind their minds since they've joined the army. Soldiers—
"were born to die." Dean dropped the canteen, and shouted, "Hey, you, ugly! Over here!"
The clone continued to go after Mr. Karsia.
Dean furrowed his brows, raised a hand, and fired a speckle of sharp ice from his palm. The speckle penetrated the clone's back and went through its abdomen. The clone staggered on its feet, but quickly steadied ... then stopped. Alas, it turned around, tilting its head while peering at Dean.
Dean smirked. "What are you deaf? Horns messing with your hearing? So old you're going senile? Well, I think long lifespans are a bit cliched, don't you think?"
