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.

"Before this ruins the purity of the experiment, I have made a bet with THE Living Spirit. A test to see which methodology will truly come out on top. My forces against its forces. A practical application of our competing philosophies."

It turned its full, conceptual attention to THE Living Emotive. "But at this moment, THE Living Dimensional is also beside THE Living Spirit. It would be akin to me going against both of them all alone. A two-front war is... inefficient. So, I must ask. Do you want to join in on a little war, Emotive?"

A little war. The words were a casual, almost playful invitation to a conflict that would likely reshape the very balance of power in the Earliest Folds!

THE Living Emotive smiled, a brilliant, beautiful, and utterly terrifying expression that sent waves of pure, ecstatic joy rippling through the void. It loved being involved in things the most.

"Had you told me earlier that you were all having such fun, manipulating the different methodologies of existence," it sang, its voice a chorus of pure, unadulterated excitement, "I would have joined in much, much earlier! Living Existential Armors, The Codex, Glyphs, Haki... haha, let us see! Let us see which story is the most beautiful, which song is the most tragic, which feeling is the most... absolute!"

HUUM!

Different systems of existence. Different methods of how to manipulate a reality that was, at its core, a cold, unfeeling set of rules.

The question of which was best was a complex, almost unanswerable one. Or perhaps, the answer was a simple, terrifying question of its own.

Does the elegance of the sword, the precision of the gun, or the complexity of the bomb even matter, if a being of absolute, unimaginable power can simply raise their leg and step down?

Does the intricate, beautiful, and ultimately insignificant dance of the ants matter at all, when the descending foot of THE Creature or one of THE Living Existences will snuff them all out in a single, thoughtless instant?