Morning came slowly in Haze Forest, the sun hidden behind thick clouds that refused to let real light through. The clearing outside Grajisk's workshop was quiet except for the gentle crunch of snow beneath Darwin's boots. The cold bit sharply today—sharp enough to remind him yesterday's training had left his entire body aching.
Grajisk leaned on a wooden staff, chewing a small piece of jerky as Darwin approached.
"Morning, brat."
Darwin nodded. "Morning."
The old man tossed him a wooden training sword. Darwin caught it with his left hand. His arm tightened briefly—still sore—but he forced it steady.
Grajisk grunted. "Let's see your stance again."
Darwin stepped forward and positioned himself the way he believed a swordsman should: feet apart, blade raised, shoulders aligned.
He held still.
Then the flaws revealed themselves.
His weight shifted awkwardly, sinking more into his left foot.
His torso tilted too far right as he tried to counterbalance.
The wooden sword pulled at his shoulder like a stubborn weight.
Nothing felt stable.
Grajisk clicked his tongue. "Terrible."
Darwin frowned. "I'm copying the standard form."
"And that form was made for someone with two arms," Grajisk said bluntly. "Not you."
Darwin lowered the blade slightly.
"That's… obvious," he muttered.
"No," Grajisk corrected, jabbing Darwin's thigh with the staff. "What's obvious is that you're still trying to fight like someone else."
Darwin tightened his grip on the sword. It annoyed him that the old man was right.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to fight, then."
"That," Grajisk said, "you're going to figure out."
He walked around Darwin in a slow circle, analyzing his posture with the eyes of someone who had watched hundreds of mercenaries, hunters, and wanderers train across decades.
"Loosen up," Grajisk said.
Darwin exhaled and let his shoulders drop.
"Let your body settle naturally."
Darwin allowed his weight to shift.
His left leg bore most of his stance.
His right foot slid back slightly.
The sword lowered in angle.
It was crooked.
But it felt less strained.
Grajisk nodded. "Not pretty, but it won't knock you over."
Darwin looked at his own posture. "It's still wrong."
"Wrong for others," Grajisk replied. "Maybe not wrong for you."
Darwin stayed quiet.
---
"Now swing," Grajisk ordered.
Darwin raised the wooden blade and brought it down.
His weight dragged with the movement, pulling him left. The slash curved through the air in a downward crescent.
It wasn't straight.
It wasn't knightly.
It wasn't elegant.
But it didn't destabilize him.
Grajisk pointed. "See that? Your body pulls left. Use it."
Darwin blinked. "…Use it?"
"Of course. Fighting against your own build is stupid."
Darwin tightened his grip. He swung again—letting his imbalance guide him.
The air hissed differently this time.
The path curved.
Less resistance.
More flow.
It still looked messy.
But for the first time, a swing didn't feel like a lie.
Grajisk scratched his beard. "Ugly swing. But honest."
Darwin stared at the arc carved into the snow.
Honest movement.
His movement.
---
"Back to the log," Grajisk said.
Darwin groaned. "Again?"
"Until you can walk across it without kissing the snow."
He stepped onto the icy log.
The world tilted.
He shifted left—instinctively—and stayed balanced.
One step.
Another.
He wobbled—
And fell.
Snow exploded around him.
Grajisk smacked the log lightly with his staff. "Good. Again."
Darwin climbed back up.
Walked.
Leaned left.
Corrected.
Almost fell.
Recovered.
This time he reached the end of the log.
He let out a deep breath.
Grajisk nodded. "Better. You're starting to listen to your own body."
Darwin looked at the crooked footprints behind him.
"…It doesn't look like any stance I've seen," he said quietly.
Grajisk shrugged. "That's fine. You're not any swordsman you've seen."
Darwin didn't respond.
But his fingers tightened around the wooden sword.
---
Grajisk scattered stones across the snow. "Pick these up."
Darwin bent forward—
And nearly toppled.
"Lean left before bending," Grajisk reminded.
Darwin adjusted, shifting weight before reaching down.
He picked up the stone.
Stood slowly.
Balanced.
Repeating the motion a dozen times, the movement became smoother, more natural.
"Walk," Grajisk ordered.
Darwin walked the perimeter of the clearing.
His steps crooked.
His weight tilted.
His footwork uneven but stable.
Each step carved a left-slanted line.
Grajisk followed him with his gaze.
"You see that path? That's your movement pattern. Not symmetrical. Not noble. But functional."
Darwin glanced at the trail.
It looked strange.
But it was his.
---
"Last drill," Grajisk said. "Hold your stance."
Darwin settled into the crooked position—weight left, sword angled low, right foot back.
Grajisk watched silently as the minutes passed.
Darwin's legs burned.
His shoulder trembled.
His breath grew shallow.
But he held.
Until—
His stance collapsed.
He fell to one knee, panting.
Grajisk tapped the ground with the staff. "Good for today."
Darwin sat in the snow, recovering his breath.
Grajisk began walking back toward the workshop, then paused and looked over his shoulder.
"Darwin."
The boy looked up.
"There's nothing wrong with building your foundation from scratch."
Darwin blinked.
"You don't need to decide anything yet," Grajisk said. "Just understand this—your body moves in a way no form was made for. Stop chasing shapes that don't fit you."
Darwin looked down at his uneven footprints.
At the curved swing marks.
At the slanted stance he'd created.
Something clicked, faint but real.
He didn't think of sword styles or techniques.
Just a small, simple truth:
"…My body… moves differently."
Grajisk grunted. "Good. That's enough thinking for today."
As the old man left, Darwin remained in the clearing, wooden sword gripped in his left hand.
He repeated the stance one last time.
Crooked.
Tilted.
Unbalanced.
And, strangely—
Natural.
Darwin staring at the path his feet had carved through the snow, feeling the first small whisper of understanding:
*Maybe… fighting differently is okay.*