He wanted nothing more but to express his anger. Hit something, or someone, blame someone. This feeling, he did not like, but he felt justified by it.
Was he not to be angry by such? After all, it was not his fault. It was not his own anger. He was there's. They caused it. They are the reason for this incredible discomfort. Should one not express it?
But as he stood there, trembling, something stirred within him—a small, quiet thought.
What would anger give him?
He had seen its fruits. The broken plates, the bruises, the blood. The lives it had consumed, including his father's and his own.
Gray took a deep breath, forcing his fists to unclench. The swirling tar slowed, though it still raged beneath the surface. He closed his eyes, remembering the lesson of his father's will and the words of the tar woman. 'To Conquer the world, he must first conquer himself'.
