Infinite Mana In The Apocalypse novel Chapter 4282

Chapter 4282: Civilization! I

What is the best method to exert one’s will upon an uncooperative reality?

It is a question that has echoed through the halls of power since the first thinking being decided it was tired of being wet when it rained.

Some swear by the fist, by the body forged into a living weapon through endless, disciplined practice.

A master of a forgotten martial art, they say, can shatter a mountain with a single, perfectly executed blow.

A beautiful, elegant, and profoundly personal expression of power!

Others say steel is the answer. A blade, sharp and true, an extension of the wielder’s arm, a cold, hard line drawn between the living and the dead.

The swordsman cares not for the mountain; his domain is the flesh and bone of his enemies.

Then came the gun, a crude, loud, and utterly democratic invention. It cared not for your discipline, for the grace of your form. It only cared if you could point and squeeze.

The mountain-shattering martial artist and the master swordsman both fall to a simple peasant with a good eye and a steady hand from a hundred paces. A vulgar, but undeniably effective, method.

And then, the nuclear warhead. An expression of power so profound it renders the skill of the peasant, the discipline of the martial artist, and the artistry of the swordsman all equally, laughably, irrelevant!

It is the power to unmake the mountain, the swordsman, the peasant, and the very ground they stood on, all with the simple press of a button.

So, what matters most? Is it the elegance of the method, the artistry of the application? Or is it simply the end result?

The mountain is gone. The enemy is dead. The war is won.

Does the how truly matter, or is it just a story we tell ourselves to feel better about the brutal, simple calculus of power?

In the end, does the ant’s mastery of twig-lifting matter when the boot is descending?

In the Earliest Folds, in a region of space imperceptible to most, a quiet conversation was taking place.

THE Living Concept, its form a shimmering, ever-shifting cloud of pure, geometric thought, was holding court.

Before it, THE Living Emotive, a being of pure, chaotic, and vibrant feeling, its form a kaleidoscope of every color that had ever been and ever would be, listened with an interested, almost childlike, light.

"Why do you bother?" THE Living Emotive asked, its voice a symphony of a billion different emotions all singing in perfect, terrible harmony.

Illusory diagrams of impossible, beautiful armors and complex, interlocking systems flickered in the air around them, a testament to the conversation they were having.

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