The blizzard eased overnight, leaving the forest wrapped in a deep, eerie silence. Snow weighed heavily on the branches, bowing them until they resembled white arches leading deeper into the Haze Forest. It felt like the entire valley was holding its breath.
Darwin tightened the cloak around his left shoulder as he stepped into the training clearing.
The snow beneath his boots wasn't fresh anymore—it was scarred.
Grooves.
Footprints.
Shallow trenches from failed slashes.
One clean line from the single correct cut he had landed yesterday.
And that line was staring back at him.
A whisper of pride stirred in his chest.
Not victory—
but confirmation that he was finally pushing the blade in the right direction.
He drew the sword slowly, feeling the familiar uneven pull from his left-side weight. His muscles ached from the previous day, but this morning the pain felt… structured. As if his body had begun to understand what he was asking from it.
He inhaled deeply and settled into the stance he had shaped after days of failure.
Lower.
Stable.
Left-dominant.
Weight distributed diagonally, not horizontally.
The stance wasn't elegant.
It wasn't beautiful.
It wasn't something a master swordsman would ever teach.
But it was his.
—His center of gravity.
—His missing arm accounted for.
—His imbalance acknowledged, not denied.
He stepped forward.
Snow crunched softly beneath his foot—clean, precise pressure.
His hips turned.
His shoulders followed late—intentionally.
He exhaled.
And swung.
*Fssh—*
The blade traced another controlled arc.
Not perfect.
Not smooth.
But repeatable.
Darwin held the end position for three breaths before lowering the sword.
He didn't smile.
But the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.
"Better."
He replayed the movement in his mind, committing every minor detail to memory.
Center low.
Shoulders delayed.
Legs do the power work.
Arms guide, not force.
He ran it again.
And again.
And again.
By the thirtieth attempt, his legs felt stiff.
By the fortieth, his breaths came shallow.
By the fiftieth, heat built beneath his collarbone.
Exhaustion wasn't the enemy.
Losing form was.
He reset himself, raised the sword—
—and flinched as something cracked behind him.
Darwin shifted instinctively, blade held defensively across his body.
A small shape burst through the bushes.
"—Oi, boy."
Gajisk.
Carrying a bundle of thick, hardened wood branches on his back and a metal pot in one hand.
Darwin lowered the sword, though his heart still thudded in his chest.
"You're here early," Gajisk said, eyeing the training lines. "Looks like you didn't sleep enough."
"I woke up early," Darwin answered. "Body felt restless."
"That's not strength," the old man muttered. "That's your muscles complaining."
Darwin didn't argue.
Gajisk set the pot near a rock and crouched beside the training marks.
"Hm. Your footwork is cleaner."
He tapped one line with his boot.
"This stance angle is new."
Darwin nodded. "Yesterday, lowering my center helped."
Gajisk grunted in approval.
"Finally listening to your legs instead of trying to fight them."
He eyed Darwin.
"You're figuring it out."
Darwin exhaled slowly.
Each word felt like a heavy stone being set into place.
Validation—not praise, not flattery—was rare from the old blacksmith.
And Darwin earned it, inch by inch.
Gajisk walked to the rock and began arranging the bundle of wood.
"Today," he said, "you're going to test something new."
Darwin blinked. "New?"
"A sword style isn't just swinging a blade. It's your body, your instincts, and your weaknesses forming one truth."
He gestured toward Darwin's stance.
"You've fixed the feet. Now fix the flow."
"The flow?"
"The path the blade takes from your shoulder to the target."
He straightened.
"Right now, you're thinking too hard. Swinging too deliberately. Trying to force perfection."
Gajisk stepped closer.
"Let your imbalance decide the slash."
Darwin froze.
"…what?"
"You heard me," Gajisk said plainly. "Your body will never swing like others. Your right side is gone. Your balance is skewed. Your shoulder alignment is different. Your muscles form uneven tension."
He tapped Darwin's chest.
"That means the slash you're chasing doesn't exist in their world."
Gajisk stepped back and pointed at the sword.
"Swing. And don't correct yourself."
Darwin hesitated.
It sounded wrong.
It sounded reckless.
But he obeyed.
He took position.
Exhaled.
Let the imbalance shift his core.
Let his left shoulder dominate.
Let his hips lean more than he wanted.
He swung—
—and the blade traced a messy arc.
Not straight.
Not clean.
Not symmetrical.
But powerful.
The air cracked, and a wide spray of snow burst upward where the slash landed.
Darwin stared at it, chest rising in sharp breaths.
"That," Gajisk said, "is your real slash."
Darwin's fingers tightened around the grip.
Messy.
Uneven.
Crooked.
But undeniably his.
He felt something deeper than satisfaction—
a sense of identity forming in his hands.
The first shape of a style.
---
"Now," he said, "we refine that crooked slash until it becomes a weapon."
Darwin slowly nodded.
His legs trembled.
His fingers burned.
But he raised the sword again.
This time, he knew what he was supposed to find—
not a perfect form,
but the form that belonged to him alone.
---