Snow fell in slow, suffocating sheets, burying the forest in a white silence that felt too close, too heavy. The Haze Forest had always been cold, but today it felt cruel. Almost intentional.
Darwin exhaled, watching his breath coil into the air.
His left foot moved.
It didn't slide this time.
It didn't sink unevenly.
It landed **exactly where he wanted it**.
But the weight was wrong.
Again.
He corrected it. Shifted his toe inward. Rolled the snow under his sole. Moved his hips not forward—but diagonally.
*Again.*
He stepped.
Stopped.
Analyzed.
Darwin had learned something in the last seventy-two hours: swordsmanship wasn't the blade. It wasn't the arm. It wasn't even the swing.
It was the **foot**.
The start of every strike.
The balance of every dodge.
The stability of every instinct.
Footwork was everything.
Gajisk had said,
> "If your stance is flawed, your sword will lie to you."
Darwin understood now. His body had always been wrong. Imbalanced. A burden.
But footwork… footwork could fix what nature broke.
He raised the wooden stick he used as a substitute blade and exhaled sharply.
Left foot forward.
Right shoulder angled.
Hips lowered just enough.
Weight centered—not equally, but **intentionally off-center**, favoring his left side.
A stance only *he* could use.
He moved again.
This time the snow didn't betray him.
This time his body didn't wobble.
This time his center aligned with his instinct.
Darwin's steps became sharper.
One pivot.
A slight slide.
A curved shift of pressure.
And then—
**fluidity**.
The imbalance that always ruined him began to feel like an advantage. His left side naturally carried more weight; his right side naturally followed a lighter arc.
If he tapped into that weight difference…
If he used it instead of fighting it…
He could create a movement style that others could never copy.
No balance.
Only controlled imbalance.
Like a pendulum that refused to swing in a predictable rhythm.
Like a flame flickering against the wind.
Darwin tightened his grip on the wooden stick. Sweat dripped down his forehead despite the cold.
He inhaled.
Then—
**Step.
Turn.
Pivot.
Slide.
Strike.**
Snow burst upward as he cut the air with a curved slash, the force carrying his body in an almost circular motion.
He stumbled—only a little.
But he didn't fall this time.
He steadied himself, breathing hard, chest rising and falling with heat that didn't belong in this frozen hell.
"What was that…?" he whispered.
Not a technique.
Not a form.
It was just **movement**.
Instinct made visible.
He tried again.
Left.
Shift.
Slide.
Arc.
His body curved instead of following a straight line. His momentum bent the direction of his strike in a way no normal swordsman would dare attempt.
It was sloppy.
Inefficient.
Unrefined.
But it was **his**.
Darwin stood still for several seconds, feeling the burn in his legs.
Gajisk had told him to practice balance.
But Darwin wasn't looking for balance anymore.
He was looking for **the perfect distortion**.
A step that began wrong but ended perfect.
A stance that should fail but instead flows.
A weight that shifts too far only to snap back with explosive precision.
A sword path born from a broken body.
He exhaled, breath sharp and white.
A distant growl echoed through the forest. The same direction as before. Not a pack—just a solitary beast. Not dangerous enough to approach, not foolish enough to come closer.
Darwin ignored it.
His world had become only his feet and the snow beneath them.
He stepped again.
The pain in his calves sharpened. The cold wind tore at his scarf. His breath stung inside his chest.
But his stance?
It grew more solid.
His pivot?
More controlled.
His imbalance?
More intentional.
Darwin laughed quietly under his breath—a rare sound, one he didn't recognize.
It wasn't joy.
It wasn't confidence.
It was realization.
He had always thought he lacked something.
Mana.
A family.
A right hand.
A proper sword.
A path.
But right now, in the middle of the snowstorm, he understood a single truth:
**He didn't lack anything.
He had to create it.**
The forest wind howled, but his stance did not break.
Not this time.
Not anymore.
He held the wooden stick at an odd angle—an angle any swordsman would call wrong.
Darwin whispered,
"…If balance rejects me, then I will reject balance."
His left foot pressed into the snow with purpose.
He shifted his weight again—wrongly.
Bent his knee incorrectly.
Angled his hips weirdly.
Placed his heel too far.
But the resulting movement—
**fluid, circular, sharp—
felt more natural than anything he'd ever done.**
For the first time, the forest felt small around him.
Darwin breathed deep and lowered the stick.
Tomorrow he would refine footwork more.
Tomorrow he would add hand movement.
Tomorrow he would test his curved swings again.
But today?
Today he had taken the first step into something only he could walk.
Not a sword path yet.
Not a style.
But a beginning.
A crooked beginning.
A broken beginning.
**The first step toward a sword style forged from imperfection.**
Darwin turned toward the cave, legs trembling.
He was exhausted.
A fire of movement.
Of defiance.
Of creation.
He whispered into the cold night,
"…This is where it starts."
And the wind, for once, did not disagree.