Glory to the Victors

By the way, anyone who picked the correct team in the Yu-Gi-Oh! Master Duel World Extravaganza Super Tournament is indeed a superior human. I'm not sure everyone understands that yet, viscerally.

Count! Hope Lies at the Bottom

Marshal DiBusco marched into the office without further precaution. His sixty stellar dreadnaughts already controlled traffic around the station and his powered cavalry had secured the airlocks and corridors. A display of confidence seemed the best thing.
"It is time, Mr. Premier, to yield to the inevitabilities of history," he announced to the premier, who sat behind his table and gripped it fiercely to prevent any other physical reaction, as well as to the aides and other officials who indulged in the cowering to which their inferior positions entitled them.
The premier decided, between preserving silent dignity and taking a shot at preserving all society, to try the latter. "DiBusco! We've entered space! Can't you adopt a new way of thinking? This isn't how we solve disputes today!"
"But when we do, you see how effective it is." The marshal looked out the window at one of his many dreadnaughts as it drifted past, miles away. "That is the practical case. Philosophically, I disagree. Votes and procedures are simple effigies of violence. Force is behind every resolution of conflict. I have the most force, so necessarily I will be the one to resolve ours."
"That's where you're wrong, Marshal." One aide, a heroic flash in his eye, dared to speak. "There's one other condition you have to satisfy if you want to win."
DiBusco humored the aide. "What is that, sir?"
"You have to be able to draw on your turn. The premier passes."
"Eh?" DiBusco, in his puzzlement, frowned.
"Come on, draw. If you can."
The premier looked at the aide and then, with hope, at the marshal. "That's right, DiBusco! Draw a card!"
"I don't have any cards?"
The aide pumped his fist. "Then you lose!"
DiBusco, poleaxed, turned back to his men, who shrugged. He waved a withdrawal and followed them, grumbling, "Get some cards . . . have to research first . . . of all the . . . have to come back next week . . . miss the game . . ." Such are the ways of the future.
Finis

Addendum

It's the sword, but don't let that stop you from dressing up the other option. That's the core of fiction.

The Difference Between Intelligent Swords and Intelligent Armor That Sounds Like Your Parents

The sword wants more blood while the armor wants more grandkids. Which is the more terrifying?

Turning Your Series Around

Instead of calling your show The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power Season 2 and The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power Season 3, call it Rings of Wisdom and Rings of Courage, and also put out a breakfast cereal based on it. People don't have to watch your show, but they do have to eat.

Activating Intelligent Armor That Sounds Like Your Parents

If in a science fiction setting, there's a good chance the main character will need to do some cat's cradle to get it working. To prevent your main character from looking like someone who plays cat's cradle, supply him with an assistant of some sort, whether a sibling or a straitlaced military officer who will delight by the contrast.

You Can Never Step in the Same Trend Twice

Obsolete: Non-horse riding animals
On the beat: Intelligent armor that sounds like your parents

Addressing an Earlier Topic

"Punch" kind of sounds like a punch as it is. I don't think we need to be gilding the lily here.

Necessity Is the Pretense for Invention

Professor D'Aramitz struggled to suppress his regret as he examined the diagnostics, an impossible task. Conceding for once to his feelings, he tilted back in his chair and looked at nothing in particular.
"I have finally constructed a robot capable of conquering our planet which is in such need of a masterful hand." Finally he looked at something: A titan of steel in its dock, a hundred cables affixed to it, bearing an attitude, it seemed to him, of the champion athlete eager to put the physical examination behind him and return to competition. "But it is not quite ethical, is it, to bring civilians into it, and that, my poor creation soon to be neglected, would be an inevitability. Without an excuse to deploy you, the world will never know your matchless power."
The professor wandered about his hidden facilities for a time, picking up this readout before throwing it down and settling down at that terminal, staring at the screen, and rising again. There was nothing to do, he convinced himself, but surrender the rest of the day to idleness, unless he was willing to begin the decommission process. He returned aboveground and abandoned his attention to the TV.
". . . Confirmation is coming in now that the destruction is in fact caused by alien invaders . . ."
The TV turned off again. Professor D'Aramitz stood. He stretched both arms, leaned back a little, and yelled, "Hurrah for unending strife!"
Finis

Kapow!

Wait a minute. I'm not sure punches sound like that at all!