The morning wind cut across Darwin's face as he stood alone before the crooked pine tree he had been using as a striking post since arriving in Haze Forest. Frost clung to its bark like stubborn scales. The faint light of dawn painted a pale line across the horizon, the world still half-asleep… but Darwin had not slept at all.
His muscles ached. His legs trembled. His shoulders throbbed.
But his eyes—his eyes burned with something new.
Determination.
The kind that was no longer born from fear, but from clarity.
Yesterday, he had taken the **first step**—the understanding that his body would never move like a normal swordsman's. His left arm, his imbalance, his center of gravity—all of it rejected traditional swordsmanship.
So now, he had only one path:
**To create his own.**
He breathed slowly, exhaling a fog of white.
"Footwork first," he muttered to himself. "If my stance is broken… my sword style must be built around that brokenness."
He positioned his feet apart, one slightly forward.
The stance felt uncomfortable at first.
Wrong.
Dishonest.
Like he was fighting instinct itself.
But then—
He shifted his weight.
His body dipped slightly to the left.
His hips responded.
His center of gravity lowered and tightened.
And suddenly—
The stance *felt natural.*
"…So that's it."
A stance built around imbalance.
He repeated it. Again. Again. And again.
Hundreds of times.
Thousands.
Until the stiffness left his waist.
Until his ankles loosened.
Until his breath aligned with the dipping motion.
*Step. Dip. Shift.*
*Step. Dip. Shift.*
He was lighter now.
Not faster—just *efficient.*
His footwork didn't try to correct imbalance.
It embraced it.
A silent rustle came from behind him.
Gajisk leaned against a stump, arms crossed, watching.
"You're still at it," he said gruffly.
Darwin did not stop. His steps continued in quiet rhythm.
"You said it yesterday," Darwin replied. "If my stance is wrong, then everything is wrong. So I'm fixing it."
Gajisk snorted.
"Fixing? No. You're destroying and rebuilding."
Darwin did not deny it.
The blacksmith approached slowly, boots crunching frost.
"Try a strike now," he said.
Darwin inhaled deeply, raised the wooden sword with his left hand, and swung.
*Whoosh—*
The arc was still awkward, still incomplete… but something changed.
His body didn't resist this time.
The weight shift aligned with the slash.
His imbalance created a natural downward curve.
His left shoulder pulled inward, making a sharper angle.
The wooden blade struck the tree in a crescent motion.
Gajisk's eyebrows lifted.
"…You saw it too, right?" Darwin asked.
"Yeah."
"That pull at the end."
A pause.
Then Darwin said softly:
"It's not a straight style. It's… curved."
Gajisk grinned like a man watching a blade he forged begin to shine.
"That's the beauty of it, kid. You're not following some knight's ideals or academy textbook. You're following your body's truth."
Darwin nodded.
But his hand trembled.
Not from exhaustion.
From the realization—
He was really doing this.
Building something new.
Something that belonged only to him.
He looked at his left hand.
Thin fingers. Scarred palm.
Shaking lightly from fatigue.
*My whole life… this hand was a curse.*
Now it was the blueprint of his future swordsmanship.
He tightened his grip and swung again.
This time, the curve was sharper.
More defined.
More… *alive.*
The tree bark split in a thin crescent shape.
Gajisk exhaled slowly.
"…You're starting to carve your own path."
Darwin lowered the sword.
"I don't know what to call it yet. But it begins with curves. With imbalance."
"You don't need a name," Gajisk said. "Not yet. A style names itself when its creator survives long enough to be known."
Darwin nodded.
He understood.
The name would come later.
But for now—
He had only foundation.
He resumed the movements.
Step. Dip. Shift.
Curve. Recover. Repeat.
Each repetition revealed a new problem:
* His left ankle rolled too easily.
* His hip rotation was slow.
* His weight transfer needed more timing.
* His recovery position left his side open.
Darwin corrected each flaw with stubborn patience.
Hours passed.
The sun climbed.
Wind carried thin flecks of snow.
Breath came harder.
He struck again.
And again.
And again.
Finally—
his wooden sword cracked.
Darwin froze, staring at the splintered edge.
He hadn't swung any harder.
But the curve of his slash had changed the pressure distribution.
Gajisk inspected the weapon.
"…You're putting a rotational force into your swings now. No straight sword can handle that for long."
Darwin blinked.
"Rotational?"
"Your imbalance makes your body twist slightly whenever you swing. That twist adds circular tension. Most swordsmen move in straight lines. You… don't."
Darwin tried to visualize it.
His slash was no longer a line.
It was the beginning of a spiral.
And spirals… were dangerous.
"Is that a flaw?" Darwin asked.
Gajisk's grin widened.
"No. It's the core of your style."
Darwin felt something warm inside his chest—not excitement, not pride…
But recognition.
Like a faint memory of who he wanted to become.
Not the boy abandoned.
Not the crippled left-hander.
Not the mana-less failure.
Someone else.
Someone who creates his own rules.
Gajisk slapped his shoulder.
"Enough for today. Before you break your bones along with your sword."
Darwin nodded, panting heavily.
He sat on a stump, letting the cold wind cool his burning muscles.
Gajisk looked at him quietly for a long moment.
"You know… most people don't realize they're allowed to build their own path," he said. "You learned it early. That's good."
Darwin stared at his left hand, fingers trembling slightly.
"I don't know if I can make a real sword style."
Gajisk shook his head.
"You already started. What comes next is just… survival."
---
As the sun dipped behind the frosted trees, Darwin closed his eyes.
Footwork.
Weight shift.
Curve.
Rotation.
Slash.
Recovery.
Thousands of repetitions, but still only the beginning.
Tomorrow, he would refine the curve.
The day after, the stance.
Then posture.
Then precision.
Piece by piece, imbalance into technique.
Weakness into principle.
Flaw into foundation.
He opened his eyes.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…I'll build it. Even if it kills me."
The wind answered with a whisper, swirling around him like a promise of storms yet to come.