The wind cut sharper today.
It hissed between the pines lining the clearing, tugging at Darwin's cloak as if urging him to stop, turn back, rest—anything but continue. The sky above was a bleak sheet of iron-grey, heavy with promises of more snow.
Darwin ignored it all.
His boots sank into the frost-hardened ground as he stepped into the center of the training field he had carved through sheer repetition. The once-soft snow had been layered with packed ice, grooves, dents, and imperfect arcs—each one an imprint of a failed slash or flawed footwork.
Signs of stubbornness.
Signs of obsession.
Signs of progress he refused to abandon.
He inhaled through his nose, breath burning against the cold air.
Today…
Today, he wanted something more.
Not perfection.
Not mastery.
Just **clarity**.
---
He lifted the sword.
The weight tugged gently to the left, as always—his missing arm altering the distribution, turning every motion into a reminder of imbalance.
He stepped into his stance.
Low.
Stable.
Centered—at least as centered as someone like him could be.
He repeated the footwork sequence he had shaped over the past days:
Step.
Drag.
Shift.
Anchor.
Lean.
Lower center of gravity.
Relaxed shoulders.
Conscious weight transfer.
He'd recited these points so many times they echoed like scripture.
The first slash felt stiff.
The second too fast.
The third too shallow.
The fourth tore a small ripple through the air.
Darwin paused.
"…again."
His left foot slid into the starting spot, muscles twitching under strain. His thigh burned with delayed aches from yesterday's training—but he embraced it, letting the pain sharpen his awareness.
He exhaled and slashed again, letting his hips turn more naturally.
A cleaner sound.
Not sharp—just clearer.
A beginning.
He allowed no satisfaction.
Instead, he repeated the motion twenty times, then fifty, then seventy—each attempt slightly shifting his timing, pressure, angle.
The cold gnawed at him.
His breath fogged heavily.
His fingers numbed around the hilt.
But the sword did not leave his hand.
---
By the hundredth repetition, Darwin's shoulders trembled uncontrollably. His calves burned. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been swinging.
His world had shrunk to the rhythm of breath and blade.
Inhale.
Step.
Exhale.
Cut.
He drove his weight down through his legs, pulling the motion from his entire body rather than just his arm.
For a moment—just a fragment—his balance aligned.
Not perfectly.
Not beautifully.
But it felt… **right.**
He felt the ground beneath him, the drag of air around his blade, the shift of his torso compensating for his missing limb.
The slash that followed wasn't fast or powerful—
—but it flowed.
Smooth.
Unbroken.
Natural.
Darwin froze.
His eyes narrowed.
"That feeling…"
He tried to repeat it immediately, but his next slash stumbled, the stance collapsing under tension.
The alignment vanished.
But he had tasted it.
And that was enough to push him further.
---
He tried again.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed.
Again.
Failed.
Frustration crawled up his spine.
He forced his breath steady, but the irritation refused to fade. His eyelids twitched. His grip tightened. His shoulders tensed.
All ruining the stance he fought so hard to build.
He stopped.
Stood still.
Snowflakes drifted down in slow spirals around him.
His chest heaved.
His thoughts churned.
Why couldn't he replicate it?
Why was the perfect motion so easy to break?
Why was his body so stubbornly incorrect?
The truth slipped quietly into his mind:
**Because he wasn't building a technique.
He was building himself.
From nothing.
From a broken foundation.**
His mind wanted control—but his body had spent years compensating for imbalance.
Now he was rewriting instincts that had calcified since childhood.
Of course it was difficult.
Of course it resisted him.
"…again."
---
His legs felt like iron weights.
His back screamed.
His wrist shook visibly.
Still—
He moved.
He sank lower.
Ignored the pain.
Focused only on the feeling of the ground beneath him.
He let his foot plant deeply—
—and swung.
The slash cut the air with a clean, quiet sound.
He blinked.
"…"
He tried again.
This time the stance collapsed, his hips rotating too early.
He didn't curse.
He didn't growl.
Instead, he breathed.
"Two out of… a hundred."
A bitter smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.
Progress—no matter how small—was still progress.
He reset his stance.
He slashed again.
Again.
Again.
The snow around him became layered with arcs and impacts, each slash adding a faint new mark to the ground.
His lungs burned.
His vision blurred.
His fingers cramped.
But—
**He did not stop.**
---
The crunch of boots broke the monotony.
Darwin didn't turn—he didn't need to.
Gajisk's voice came from behind.
"You're fighting your own stance again."
Darwin exhaled raggedly. "I know."
"And losing."
"I know."
Gajisk walked closer, kicking away a chunk of ice with his heel.
"Show me the stance that felt right."
Darwin wordlessly sank into it.
Lower.
Centered.
Legs trembling but aligned.
Gajisk studied him with narrowed eyes.
"You found this by accident."
"…yes."
"Good. Now learn to find it on purpose."
Darwin tightened his jaw.
Gajisk stepped to the side, pointing at the imprint Darwin left earlier—one of the two cleanest lines.
"This. This exact pattern. Memorize it. Burn it into your bones. You don't need perfection yet. You need consistency."
Darwin nodded, stepping into the imprint again.
He exhaled and swung.
*Fsshhk—*
The cut was clean.
Not perfect.
But deliberate.
Gajisk nodded once and stepped back.
"That's enough for this morning. Your legs are finished."
Darwin didn't argue.
He couldn't.
His legs were barely supporting him.
He lowered his sword slowly, feeling the weight settle into his tired body.
Tomorrow would hurt even more.
Good.
Pain meant he was changing.
---
As he dragged himself back toward the hut, snow crunching beneath his boots, Darwin felt a thought sink deep into his mind:
He was not copying swordsmanship.
He was not learning a style.
He was **shaping one**.
Step by step.
Slash by slash.
Failure by failure.
And today, for the first time, the shape of his future sword style felt real—
—no longer an idea
—but a possibility.
A weak smile tugged at his lips.
He wasn't strong yet.
But he was becoming something new.
Something only he could be.
The path of imbalance.
The path of his left hand.
**The beginning of New Sword Style.**
---