The morning frost clung to Darwin's eyelashes like tiny glass needles. Each blink cracked the thin ice forming at the corners of his eyes. His breath escaped in ragged white bursts as he walked into the clearing he had claimed as his training ground.
The snow under his boots was no longer untouched powder.
It was carved into uneven plates—
the footprint scars of a boy who repeated the same movements hundreds of times, every single day.
Today, he came to carve more.
He lifted his sword, felt the familiar pull toward the left, and exhaled.
"Again."
---
Darwin repeated the sequence—the foundation he had built from scratch:
Step.
Shift.
Drag.
Anchor.
Lean.
This was the footwork he assembled .
This was the footwork he refined
This was the footwork he *needed* to master before attempting real slashes.
But every flaw felt like a betrayal from his own body.
A slight dip of his weight would send him tilting backwards.
An uneven push-off from his left toe dragged his hips off-line.
His shoulders tightened early, pulling the sword's path crooked.
His legs burned.
His lungs shook.
His missing arm felt like a phantom weight dragging him to the right—an imbalance his stance still failed to compensate for.
He forced the movements again.
And again.
And again—
Until his knees buckled and he collapsed into the snow.
He pushed himself up with trembling arms.
"Again."
He refused to stop.
He could not afford to stop.
---
By the seventieth cycle, Darwin's legs were numb and hollow.
By the ninetieth, his fingertips burned.
By the hundredth, he attempted the motion he had been trying to fuse into his body:
A single, clean slash.
He lowered his stance—
—but his balance shifted too early.
His wrists twitched—
the blade fell out of line—
he stumbled—
—and crashed sideways into the snow.
Pain shot through his ribs.
He clenched his jaw.
Then stood.
Again.
The sword felt heavier.
His breath felt colder.
But he forced his back straight and tried once more.
Lower stance.
Shoulders relaxed.
Weight on the left foot.
Drag.
Anchor.
Swing—
*Fsshh—*
The arc of the blade still wavered.
It was wrong.
All wrong.
"Why can't I do it perfectly…?" he muttered under his breath.
The question tasted bitter.
Because he didn't have a right arm?
Because he had no mana?
Because no one ever taught him how to fight?
Because his family decided he wasn't worth keeping?
Because his body was broken beyond repair?
He set his stance again.
His legs trembled, but he lowered himself anyway.
This time, the exhaustion caused his hips to sink naturally.
Not by choice—
but by pure fatigue.
He swung—
*Fsshhk—*
Smoother.
Not perfect.
But smoother.
He froze.
His breath hitched.
"What… changed?"
He replayed the movement in his mind.
Lower stance.
Less weight on the upper body.
More power driven by the legs.
A tiny, near-invisible correction…
but a correction only *his* body could make.
His blade trembled, but his mind sharpened.
He repeated the stance.
Lower.
Grounded.
Balanced—
not for a normal swordsman,
but balanced for a one-armed swordsman.
He swung.
The blade cut the air with a faint whistle.
Still not perfect.
But a step forward.
---
Pain suddenly erupted across his thigh.
His leg collapsed beneath him and he fell to one knee.
His lungs rattled.
His shoulders twitched uncontrollably.
His breath hitched in painful bursts.
He wanted to continue.
He tried to stand—
—but his leg buckled again.
He lay face-down in the snow, heat rising off his body like steam.
The world turned quiet except for the thudding of his pulse.
"…why… can't I… do it?" he whispered.
The snow muffled his voice.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Darwin didn't turn.
He knew the sound.
Gajisk.
---
"You're shaking," Gajisk said.
Darwin didn't respond.
"You look like you're about to tear a tendon."
Still nothing.
"You're training like a lunatic again."
Darwin's jaw tightened. "I can't stop."
"You'll destroy yourself before the beasts do."
"Then I'll crawl."
Gajisk exhaled long and deep.
"Stand."
Darwin forced himself upright, legs trembling violently.
Gajisk grabbed the back of his cloak and yanked him to his feet.
"You made progress today."
Darwin blinked.
Gajisk pointed at the snow-scars.
"Your stance lowered. Your slashes stabilized. Barely. But stabilized."
Darwin swallowed, throat tight.
"But," Gajisk continued, "your body is failing. You keep chasing the perfect slash without building the muscles to support it. Your will is stronger than your legs. That is bad."
Darwin said nothing.
Gajisk leaned closer.
"You're building a sword style that has never existed. That takes madness. But it also takes patience. If you rush the foundation, the whole thing collapses."
Darwin clenched his jaw.
Gajisk pointed at the diagonal tracks in the snow.
"This is your path. Not a swordsman's path. Your path."
Darwin looked at the marks again.
They weren't symmetrical.
They weren't smooth.
They weren't pretty.
But they were his.
---
Darwin inhaled.
One last time.
He lowered his stance—
this time with intention, not exhaustion.
Shift.
Drag.
Anchor.
Lean.
*Fssshhk—*
His slash sliced through a hanging branch, releasing a wave of snow.
Still imperfect.
But controlled.
Measured.
Alive.
Gajisk nodded once.
"That's enough for today."
Darwin wanted to continue.
Every part of him screamed to continue.
But his legs trembled violently now, incapable of standing much longer.
And for the first time…
he accepted the limit.
Not as defeat.
But as part of the path he was carving.
---