Life, at its core, was always a clash of wills.
The will of heaven, of nature, of time and death—against the will of man. Or man against man. A person's will defined his choices. And in the end, his choices defined his life.
When a will was tested, only two outcomes remained:
You either bent—for survival, for compromise.
Or you stood, and imposed your own.
Elian's blood raced.
Standing before him was something so powerful, he couldn't even comprehend it. Heaven's Fist was no longer a man. The System had even stolen his name.
He had been transformed—by the gods, the System, or the Crucible—into pure will.
But none of that mattered.
What did matter was what Heaven's Fist stood for.
He was the overlord who kept humanity from moving forward. The gatekeeper who ensured no Tyrant could rise from Earth's ashes.
Elian understood the logic. He could even sympathize.
