The direction Liam wanted to take with his swords was clear cut.
It had to be wild. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
Something with no reigns.
But it also had to have form and precision. Versatility and technique.
'Order emerges from pandemonium,' Liam thought with distant eyes.
As much as he hated riddles and broad ways of thinking, he had to ponder over his fighting style.
The sword didn't control the wielder.
The wielder controlled the sword.
If Liam wanted a fighting style, he had to dive into who he was first.
But his mind was strangely clear and devoid of anxiousness.
He was calm.
'If chaos is consistent, patterns will naturally emerge from whatever it is.'
'In one way or the other, it will affect something in a way that it wasn't supposed to.'
'Like a volcanic explosion.'
'Contrary to belief, it doesn't make the world warmer.'
