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.
