Snow crunched beneath Darwin's boots as he stepped back into the clearing Gajisk had leveled days ago. The frozen earth had become a patchwork of footprints — his footprints — each one representing a failure, a wobble, a collapse, a misaligned stance.
His breath fogged the air in thin, tired bursts.
Today, he wasn't here to copy any sword style.
Today, he was here to **create the first true slash of his own.**
He exhaled slowly.
His left hand tightened on the dull, weathered blade.
His right sleeve hung empty and silent beside him.
"Footwork first," Darwin muttered.
He slid his foot forward, feeling the crunch, the slip, the uneven weight distribution that threatened to topple him every time he tried to move like a "normal" swordsman.
Normal swordsmen had balanced bodies.
Normal swordsmen had two hands.
Normal swordsmen used mana.
Normal swordsmen followed established sword styles.
Darwin had none of that.
Which meant he had no reason to follow anyone's rules.
His foot struck the ground—
**Step.
Shift.
Pivot.**
His body tilted too far.
His shoulder dropped.
The slash that should've flowed in a single arc stuttered into two broken motions, jerking his arm sharply and wrenching his back.
He hissed in pain.
"Again."
He reset his stance.
**Step.
Shift.
Pivot—**
His weight collapsed inward.
His ankle twisted.
His blade dipped an inch too early and struck the ground in a pathetic skid, sparks briefly flaring from frozen stone.
Darwin clenched his teeth as cold pain shot up his leg.
"Again."
The wind was merciless.
The cold bit deeper.
His muscles, already sore from the last days of training, threatened to seize.
But Darwin pushed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each attempt taught him something bitter:
* His left side overcompensated.
* His torso twisted too loosely.
* His shoulder dropped on instinct.
* His breathing broke at the wrong moment.
* His slash needed a curve, not a straight path.
He took a long, shaky breath.
"Why can't I make one clean slash?"
The answer was simple.
Because the slash he wanted didn't exist in any sword style.
Because no sword style accounted for imbalance.
Because no blade technique was built for a one-armed fighter without mana.
But the truth was sharper than any sword:
**His imbalance wasn't a weakness.
It was a rhythm.
A natural motion.**
His body didn't want straight lines.
His weight didn't want symmetry.
His stance didn't want balance.
His movements wanted a curve.
A shift.
A tilt.
A redirection.
He inhaled, deeper this time.
"Let it move the way it wants to move…"
He stepped.
This time he didn't fight his imbalance.
He allowed the slight forward tilt.
He allowed the leftward pull.
He allowed the natural sway of his shoulder.
His foot planted at a slanted angle.
**Shift.**
His center of gravity slid like a sliding stone — not smooth, not elegant, but alive.
**Pivot.**
His body rotated in a messy, whip-like arc.
**Slash—!**
For a heartbeat—
The blade cut the air in a clean, unbroken line.
Perfect.
Pure.
Real.
Then—
His knee buckled.
His vision blurred.
He stumbled forward and dropped to one knee, breath ripping from his chest.
The slash had been right.
But his body couldn't support it yet.
Darwin pressed a hand to his knee; it trembled violently.
"So that's it…" he whispered.
The perfect slash was curved.
Not straight.
Not rigid.
Not symmetrical.
A slash made to accommodate imbalance —
not fight it.
A slash built for **Darwin**, not for anyone else.
He tried to stand.
Pain lanced through his thigh.
His ankle screamed.
His shoulder burned.
His lungs felt full of frost.
He managed to rise, barely.
"One more."
He raised the sword—
His vision swayed.
The slash didn't come out.
His body refused.
Not from weakness —
but from exhaustion.
He had reached the limit.
Not mentally.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
His body needed time to adapt to motions no human had ever used.
Darwin lowered the sword slowly.
"Not yet," he whispered.
"But soon."
He looked up at the sky.
Snow drifted softly, silently, almost mocking him.
But the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Because for the first time…
He had seen it.
The shape of his first real technique.
The foundation of the his sword style
A curved slash born from imperfection.
He turned and began limping back to the cabin.
His knee throbbed.
His ankle ached.
His shoulders burned.
His entire body felt like cracked stone.
But his heart beat steady.
Firm.
Confident.
Because today, he had failed.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he would refine the slash that had finally shown itself.
And one day—
That slash would cut down anything that dared stand in front of him.