Snow fell heavier today—flakes drifting like silent feathers. Darwin stood outside once more, breath clouding in front of him.
Today was not about balance.
Today was about **movement**.
Gajisk placed a sack of stones at Darwin's feet. "Put it on your left shoulder."
Darwin blinked. "Why only left?"
"Because that's where your body already leans," Gajisk explained. "We exaggerate the imbalance until your body stops fighting it and starts using it."
Darwin lifted the sack.
It felt like someone had pressed a mountain onto one side of him.
He staggered forward.
"Move," Gajisk said.
Darwin obeyed.
He stumbled over his own steps.
His right side dragged uselessly.
His left leg bore all the weight.
His torso twisted unnaturally.
His swings became curved, almost circular without intending to.
"Stop," Gajisk said. "Now swing."
Darwin exhaled and followed through.
The blade arced—not straight, but curved inward, like a crescent.
Gajisk's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"That curve," he said. "Do it again."
Darwin swung again.
Same arc.
Same angle.
Same imbalance-driven motion.
It was ugly.
Inefficient.
Unorthodox.
But it felt… possible.
"You're not suited for straight-line swordsmanship," Gajisk said. "Your center of gravity pulls everything to the left. Your body twists before impact. That creates a natural curve."
Darwin's heart pulsed faster.
"So I should… lean into it?"
"For now, yes. A curve can be as deadly as a straight line, if used right."
Darwin kept swinging, feeling how his body guided the blade, not the other way around.
The snowstorm intensified.
Wind howled like a starving wolf.
Visibility dimmed.
"What now?" Darwin asked.
Gajisk pointed to the forest edge. "Now you move in wind."
Darwin's eyes widened. "In this weather?"
"You think beasts will wait for clear skies?"
Darwin swallowed and stepped into the storm.
The wind shoved him sideways.
The snow blinded him.
His steps slipped, legs fighting to stay aligned.
Each swing cut into nothing but air—yet the wind revealed flaws in his form instantly.
He learned:
* leaning forward made him topple
* overcorrecting made him stumble
* planting feet too deep ruined transitions
* twisting the torso against the wind improved strikes
* rotating with the wind let strikes flow smoother
The storm taught harsher lessons than any instructor.
Hours passed.
When he returned, he collapsed onto his knees, panting, every muscle twitching.
"Good," Gajisk said quietly. "You're letting the environment shape you."
Darwin stared at his trembling left hand.
He wanted to deny it.
But deep inside, something clicked.
Footwork shaped by imbalance.
Strikes shaped by asymmetry.
Movement shaped by nature itself.
He wasn't learning someone else's swordsmanship.
He was unconsciously forming something that could only belong to him.
Not complete.
Not usable yet.
Not even a style.
Just the first hints of one.
When night fell, Darwin watched the flames dance in the fireplace.
Their movements were wild, unpredictable, unbalanced—yet strangely beautiful.
He whispered into the quiet room, not yet a declaration, but a seed:
"…Maybe my sword needs to move like that too."
Gajisk didn't respond.
But he smiled.