The morning cold was a blade of its own—thin, merciless, and eager to cut whatever moved.
Darwin woke to it pressing against his skin like an unspoken dare.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiff pull of overworked muscles. His calves throbbed. His left wrist stung. His back felt like it had been hammered overnight.
That meant yesterday's training worked.
He stood. Snow cracked beneath his heel.
Today would be worse.
Gajisk had left early at dawn to gather wood. The clearing was silent except for the wind threading through dead branches. Darwin stepped to the center of the flattened snow patch he'd claimed as his training ground.
He inhaled once.
Exhaled.
And let everything else disappear.
---
He planted his left foot forward, right foot angled behind, recreating the stance he'd been grinding into his bones since Chapter 17.
Except today, the stance trembled.
His legs protested instantly.
Good.
He lowered his hips, forcing the weight distribution to match the diagram in his head—the "triangle of imbalance," the concept he'd stolen from yesterday's failure.
**Left hand dominant → left hip must control the curve.
Right side weak → right foot must absorb weight without collapsing.**
Sounds simple.
It wasn't.
Every time he shifted weight, the right side buckled first.
He hated that.
Darwin inhaled sharply and forced his right heel to grind deeper into the snow, anchoring it.
Then he moved.
A slow glide of the left foot.
A delayed drag of the right.
Curve the movement.
Curve the momentum.
Curve the thought.
His body resisted.
His back twisted a heartbeat too slow.
His hips misaligned by a finger's breadth.
And the moment the angles broke—
Darwin collapsed into the snow, coughing out frost.
His breath fogged violently in the air.
"Again," he growled, pushing himself up.
---
The sword felt heavier today.
Not because the weapon changed—
but because he was starting to understand how much he didn't understand.
He held it in his left hand, blade pointing downward, angle perfectly aligned with yesterday's notes.
He pictured the perfect slash—the one he imagined for his sword style, even though the style wasn't born yet.
One slash.
One curved step.
One flowing line.
A line sharp enough to cut **everything wrong inside him.**
Darwin stepped—
—and his right foot stuck for a moment.
The curve broke.
His arm dragged instead of slicing.
The blade wobbled and hit the snow with a muted thud.
Darwin clicked his tongue.
"Again."
He reset the stance.
Stepped.
Slashed.
Failed.
Reset.
Stepped.
Slashed.
Failed.
The sword carved shallow lines into the snow—
but none of them were the shape he wanted.
The shape in his head was clean, fluid, inevitable.
These were painful, crooked shadows.
He kept going.
Ten failures.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Every slash burnt away what little stamina he had.
Every misaligned step sent a harsh warning up his spine.
Sweat mixed with frost on his cheek.
By the fiftieth slash, he couldn't feel his right toes.
Perfect.
The body breaks first.
The technique comes after.
That was the logic he'd built for himself
---
On the sixty-third attempt, Darwin swung—
—and his shoulder gave out.
Pain lanced from collarbone to rib, sharp enough to make him gasp.
The sword fell.
He dropped to a knee, left arm shaking, vision blurring at the edges.
Wind tore across the clearing, lifting snow in thin spirals.
He watched them sway, drift, scatter.
Perfect curves.
The kind his body still couldn't replicate.
His fingers curled into the snow.
"Why… can't I get one slash right?"
The words escaped before he could stop them.
He knew the answer.
His imbalance.
His missing right hand.
His broken past.
His mana-less body.
But hearing those truths didn't make them easier to swallow.
He tried to stand.
His right leg buckled.
He fell again, breath ripping out of his chest.
For a moment, Darwin stayed on his hands and knees, staring at the dented snow beneath him.
This position felt familiar.
Too familiar.
Like he'd lived half his life looking down at the ground.
He clenched his jaw.
"No."
He grabbed the sword, using it like a crutch to climb back to his feet.
He wasn't allowed to stop.
Not here.
Not yet.
Not before he landed **one clean slash.**
---
He reset the stance again.
Right foot behind.
Left foot forward.
Hips angled.
Blade loose but controlled.
He inhaled.
Let the cold burn his lungs.
And then—
He stepped into the curve.
Something clicked.
His right foot didn't slip.
His hips didn't twist wrong.
His weight carried forward smoothly.
His arm moved like it belonged to him again.
The blade glided—
—not perfectly.
But close.
Close enough that the snow parted in a clean arc.
Close enough that Darwin froze mid-movement, breath caught in his throat.
Close enough to make him feel something dangerous.
Hope.
The slash wasn't what he wanted yet.
Not even close.
But it was **the first correct direction.**
And the first correct direction is always the most painful one.
He repeated it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Forty more times until the line in the snow became a long, curved scar cutting through the clearing.
His legs shook uncontrollably.
His fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
His vision swam.
But he kept moving until he couldn't anymore.
---
He finally collapsed backward into the snow, arms falling limp.
His chest heaved.
His throat tasted like blood.
His left arm shook violently.
But he was smiling.
A tired, cracked smile.
Because today—
He didn't fail.
He didn't succeed either.
But he **progressed.**
And progress, in a life like his, was rarer than warmth.
Darwin stared up at the pale sky.
A hawk circled overhead—free, powerful, unchained.
"I'll get there," he muttered.
Even if it took a thousand slashes.
Even if the world thought he was worthless.
Even if his body tore itself apart.
He would shape his own sword style—
—even if it killed him.
The snow swallowed his words.
And Darwin closed his eyes for a moment, preparing for the next day.
Because tomorrow, the training would be twice as hard.
And he was ready.