Snow fell softly over the clearing, whispering against the frozen soil as Darwin breathed out a long stream of white mist. His legs trembled—not from weakness, but from the strain of holding a stance that felt unnatural… and yet *right.*
Gajisk stood several steps behind him, arms crossed, watching silently.
"Start again," the blacksmith said.
Darwin inhaled.
Shifted his left foot.
Bent his knee.
Lowered his center of gravity.
The motion was small.
But small things mattered.
His feet pressed into the snow with different pressures—left foot grounding, right foot compensating. His body adjusted, searching for that instinctual *curve* again, the subtle imbalance that made him move faster, sharper… truer.
He swung the wooden practice sword.
Not a clean arc.
Not a straight one.
A diagonal slash that bent midway, guided by instinct more than technique.
The air hissed.
*Not straight. Never straight.*
Darwin exhaled slowly. "Again."
He repeated the motion.
And again.
And again.
His breath froze on his lips. His fingers twitched with cold. His muscles throbbed.
But his eyes—
They were sharper than ever.
---
Gajisk stepped closer.
He picked up Darwin's wooden sword, inspected the angles Darwin had naturally carved into the frost with each swing.
"These lines are crooked," Gajisk muttered.
Darwin nodded. "I know."
"But they're consistent," Gajisk added. "Not mistakes. Your body is doing something deliberately—something I haven't seen before."
Darwin lowered his stance again.
His heartbeat felt heavy, but steady.
"Straight sword styles don't fit my body," he said quietly. "No matter how much I try, my swings bend… my balance shifts… my left side pulls stronger than the rest."
Gajisk grunted. "Because you have one arm. Because your body learned to survive by compensating. You're built different."
Darwin didn't flinch. "Then I'll use that difference."
He gripped the wooden sword with his left hand.
His fingers locked around it with cold determination.
"I don't need a straight path. I'll make my own."
---
Balance.
Instinct.
Curve.**
These four words echoed inside his skull like a chant.
Darwin stepped forward.
Left foot planted.
Right foot slid diagonally.
Weight shifted.
Knees bent.
This time he slashed—not from front to back, but from low-left upward, a spiral-like angle that used the twist of his torso and the power of his hips.
The wind split.
Snow scattered.
His eyes widened.
That felt… correct.
It was a slash meant for someone who could not rely on symmetry.
A style designed to strike around, not through, obstacles.
One that used imbalance to create unpredictable angles.
A style only Darwin could wield.
He tightened his grip.
"Again."
---
Hours passed.
The clearing became scarred with curved grooves in the snow—hundreds of them.
His feet had stepped the same patterns so many times the snow beneath was packed flat, revealing frozen dirt.
Gajisk didn't interrupt.
This wasn't training—
It was birth.
The birth of a style.
Darwin's wrist burned.
His forearm cramped.
His shoulders ached.
But he didn't stop.
The world had taken everything from him.
If it wanted symmetry, he would give it chaos.
If it wanted mana, he would give it instinct.
If it wanted perfection, he would give it something far more dangerous—
**Adaptation.**
He swung again.
This time, a small shock ran through his body—the kind that told him the motion was aligned, efficient, natural.
He froze in place.
Gajisk raised an eyebrow. "That one looked different."
Darwin nodded slowly.
"It felt like the world shifted under my feet."
"Explain."
Darwin tapped his left foot against the snow.
"Balance is supposed to keep you steady… but for me, balance is when the world feels *off*." He paused. "My body… it reacts best when I'm slightly tilted, slightly uneven. When I lean into that imbalance, my steps feel sharper."
Gajisk scratched his beard. "So you fight better when you're off-balance?"
Darwin smirked faintly.
"Exactly."
"Sounds insane," Gajisk muttered.
Darwin tightened his grip.
"It's insane only if it doesn't work."
---
The wind grew harsher as the afternoon died.
Snow thickened, making vision harder.
Perfect.
Darwin stepped into the storm.
His footwork changed instantly—lighter, faster, reacting to the uneven snow beneath him.
His steps were never straight:
* He slid diagonally.
* Pivoted on half-buried rocks.
* Shifted weight onto uneven patches.
* Let his momentum curve.
As if he had trained his entire life on unstable ground.
Gajisk observed silently.
"This boy…" he whispered. "He's not learning swordsmanship."
Darwin leaned into a sudden gust, letting it push him slightly off center—
—and then used that imbalance to twist his body and slash through the air in a spiraling arc.
"...He's creating it."
---
Darwin's lungs burned.
His legs felt like iron.
He dropped to one knee, panting.
But his eyes—
They were alive.
"This is the beginning," he whispered. "The foundation."
"Of what?" Gajisk asked.
Darwin looked at the paths carved in the snow—curved, chaotic, but strangely beautiful.
"A sword style meant for someone who was never balanced to begin with," Darwin said. "A style only a left-handed, one-armed, mana-less person could create."
A faint smile—a painful one—tugged at his lips.
"My style starts with footwork. But it will grow."
Gajisk folded his arms.
"And what will you call it?"
Darwin shook his head.
"Not yet. The name will come when the style is complete."
Lightning did not strike.
The heavens did not open.
Just a boy standing in the snow with a wooden sword, carving the first chapter of a legacy the world was not prepared for.
But Gajisk felt something tighten in his chest.
A quiet, unsettling fear.
Because even without mana, without right hand, without family—
**Darwin was beginning to look like someone who could shake fate itself.**
---
Night arrived slowly.
Darwin stood, wiped the blood from his knuckles, and lifted the wooden sword again.
"One more hour," he muttered.
Gajisk extended a blanket. "You'll freeze."
Darwin exhaled quietly.
"No. My body needs to remember every step."
"Even if it kills you?"
Darwin didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He stepped forward again, slow… then faster, then faster… his feet sliding across the snow like a phantom's.
His imbalance had become rhythm.
His rhythm became flow.
His flow became something close to—
Instinct.
Gajisk watched from the shed, whispering under his breath:
"Whatever he becomes… the world won't be ready , hahaha."