Snow drifted lazily between the branches of Haze Forest, turning the morning into a cold haze that seemed to swallow sound. Darwin adjusted the grip on his wooden sword as he walked along the treeline. The air was sharp, cold enough to sting his nostrils with every breath.
Grajisk had sent him to gather firewood.
"Nothing deep," the old man had said. "Stay near the edge. Don't go inside the fog wall. And if you hear anything—run."
Darwin had nodded.
He planned to listen.
But the forest had a way of breaking plans.
He stepped carefully, scanning the ground for fallen branches. His muscles still burned from yesterday's drills, but he pushed the pain aside. He wanted to prove he could handle simple tasks—prove he wasn't helpless.
He bent down to pick up a thick branch.
That's when he heard it.
A soft crunch.
Not from him.
Darwin froze, breath held.
He listened.
Another crunch.
Slow.
Measured.
Close.
His heartbeat thudded louder than the wind.
"…Grajisk?" he whispered.
Silence answered him.
The haze around the trees thickened, curling like pale smoke. Darwin squinted, trying to see past the shifting fog.
A shape slowly emerged.
Low to the ground.
Shoulders rising and falling.
Eyes faintly glowing through the mist.
Darwin's blood ran cold.
It wasn't big.
Not the size of an Alpha Frost Beast or anything terrifying.
But it was still a danger.
A **Mist Claw Wolf**.
Juvenile—barely grown—but still a predator with sharp teeth and instincts tuned for killing the weak.
It stared at him, head lowered, tail slowly swaying.
Darwin swallowed, throat tight.
He remembered Grajisk's words:
**Stay at the edge.
Don't go inside the fog.
Run if you hear something.**
But the path behind him was blocked by a fallen log.
Running… would be slow.
Too slow.
The wolf inched closer.
Darwin lifted the wooden sword with trembling hands.
He tried to remember the standard stance again—
Straight spine.
Even balance.
Blade aligned forward.
His body immediately tilted left.
His weight shifted unevenly.
The wolf's eyes flashed.
It lunged.
Darwin flinched back, raising the sword—
But the standard stance betrayed him.
His balance broke instantly.
His right foot slipped.
The wolf's claws grazed his coat and sent him tumbling into the snow.
He gasped and rolled away just before teeth snapped shut where his arm had been.
Cold fear stabbed through him.
*I can't… I can't fight like this…*
The wolf paced carefully, circling him.
Darwin scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. He raised the wooden sword again. His stance wobbled, crooked and shaky.
The wolf lunged a second time.
Darwin swung—
A clean, straight strike taught by knights—
But the blade passed through empty air.
The wolf had sidestepped effortlessly.
Darwin's feet twisted beneath him. His knee almost buckled.
He barely avoided the claws raking across his chest by leaning—desperately—left.
His imbalance saved him.
He stumbled away, gasping.
The wolf snarled and circled again.
Darwin tightened his grip.
He knew something now:
**If he used normal swordsmanship, he would die.
Right here.
Right now.**
The wolf tensed.
Darwin didn't think this time.
He moved.
Not in a straight line.
Not in a balanced pattern.
Not in a disciplined form.
He let his body do what it always tried to do:
He leaned left—
A sharp, instinctive tilt—
And the wolf misread his movement completely.
It lunged where Darwin *should* have been.
Darwin's curved swing—guided by his uneven stance—cut downward through the mist and slammed into the wolf's shoulder.
A wooden weapon couldn't kill it, but it hit hard enough to make the creature yelp and stumble.
Darwin staggered back, panting, heart racing.
His crooked stance had worked.
His strange balance had worked.
His way — not the one he tried to copy.
The wolf snarled again, limping slightly, but still ready for another attack.
Darwin swallowed hard.
He raised his wooden sword again—this time in his natural posture.
Left foot heavy.
Right foot behind.
Blade angled low.
Crooked.
Uneven.
Strange.
Yet stable.
The wolf circled him cautiously, unsure.
Darwin steadied his breath.
*This… feels right.*
Not right by knight standards.
Right for **him**.
The wolf lunged again, claws scraping through the snow.
Darwin shifted sharply left—
Not fighting the pull.
Embracing it.
The wolf sailed past him.
Darwin twisted his torso with the momentum and brought the wooden blade in a curved strike across its ribs.
The beast yelped and collapsed into the snow before scrambling away and retreating into the fog.
Darwin stood there, breathing hard, wooden sword trembling in his hand.
Snowflakes drifted around him in the sudden silence.
His thoughts spun.
He glanced at his stance—his natural stance—and then at the marks carved in the snow.
The curved arcs.
The crooked footprints.
The uneven patterns.
He finally understood.
Slowly, he whispered:
"…If I keep copying other people's forms… I'll die."
He lowered the sword and stared at his hands.
"Nothing fits me. Nothing works on this body…"
The realization struck him with the force of a blade.
Not pride.
Not confidence.
Not excitement.
Just truth.
He exhaled a shaky breath.
"…Then I need something that does."
His stance shifted naturally beneath him.
Something that fits him.
Something built for him.
Something that moves like him.
A way of fighting
**only he** could use.
The first seed of a path that didn't exist yet.
He didn't know what to call it.
He didn't know how far it would take him.
But at that moment—
Alone in the falling snow, wooden sword in hand—
Darwin accepted the first piece of his destiny.
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