A Brevegraph: Blades of Becoming: A Weaponed Journey into the Nameless Way

A companion to: The Art of Motion: Martial Science as Expression, Discipline, and the Living Way

I. The Sword That Always Fit the Hand

Before fists, before forms, before footwork—there was the sword. Even when the practitioner’s body was still learning the language of unarmed combat, the idea of the blade had already carved a quiet place in the mind. There was something natural about it. Not romantic or theatrical, but elemental. The way the weight transferred through the wrist, the balance of steel in motion—it made sense in a way that felt remembered, not discovered.

While the nameless style had begun as an unarmed pursuit—an amalgam forged from Boxing, Krav Maga, Muay Thai, Kung Fu, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and structured within the principles of Kenpo—it was never meant to remain hand-bound. The style’s very nature emphasized movement as expression, combat as clarity, and form as a living response. It was only a matter of time before weapons—specifically bladed ones—entered that evolving conversation.

The practitioner’s environment, the Pacific Northwest of the United States, proved fertile ground for this next stage of development. Through a convergence of martial communities, historical fencing circles, and international cultural practitioners, the region offered an unexpected diversity in traditional weapon systems. And so, beginning in the early 1990s, a deliberate search began—not for mastery of any one weapon art, but for resonance. For forms of motion that would enrich the nameless style’s core: unity of body, mind, and will.

What emerged from this journey were three distinct paths. Each would shape the practitioner’s sense of timing, perception, and presence. First came British Military Singlestick and Sabre—a style of structured linearity and battlefield readiness. Then, a shift toward Spanish Destreza, the intellectual swordplay of the Iberian Golden Age, with its spiraling geometry and mental acuity. Finally, in the early 2000s, the discovery of Inosanto-lineage Kali would tie it all together. The sticks—twin extensions of the hand—spoke a language the practitioner already knew by instinct.

Each art brought its own rhythm, its own philosophy. And unlike the fixed progression of traditional rank-based systems, this journey was navigated through personal alignment rather than hierarchy. What worked stayed. What didn’t was refined or discarded. The blade was not worshipped, nor was it merely studied. It was tested, absorbed, and ultimately woven into the fabric of something deeper.

Still, one thing became clear as the journey progressed: while each tradition shaped a different aspect of movement, they all echoed the same truth. The sword—or stick, or hand—was never the point. The point was presence. To be where the danger is, without flinching. To move with purpose, without delay. To act without excess. These lessons, though delivered by steel and rattan, were the same ones that had always driven the unarmed path of the nameless style.

In time, the practitioner stopped seeing these disciplines as separate. They were no longer styles to be compared, but lenses through which the same idea could be viewed: that movement, when aligned with clarity and intent, becomes art. And through that art, one hones not only technique—but selfhood.

This was not about becoming a swordsman in the historical sense. The aim was not reenactment, nor cultural adoption. It was about movement—precise, grounded, expressive—and about refining the martial path as a living philosophy. The sword had always felt right. But it was the why behind that feeling that now unfolded: it mirrored the internal blade the practitioner had been sharpening all along.

II. British Military Singlestick and Sabre — Foundations of Structure and Linearity (Early 1990s)

The journey into armed motion began with something deceptively simple: a stick. Not a blade, but a wooden analog—designed to teach everything a saber could without drawing blood. This was British Military Singlestick, a style born from duels, drills, and battlefield pragmatism. It was the early 1990s, and the practitioner had found a mentor in the Pacific Northwest with deep roots in the classical fencing revival. The man was a traditionalist: sharp, disciplined, and steeped in the writings of Alfred Hutton, whose 1890 manual Cold Steel served as the foundation of the curriculum.

Singlestick fencing was not showy. It didn’t promise cinematic flair or philosophical overtures. What it delivered was structure. Clear lines, committed footwork, timed recovery, and blade discipline that left no room for flourish. You either covered your line or you got hit. It was a world of cut-and-recover, where every action demanded efficiency and economy.

Historically, British military fencing was born from the practical need to train officers in sword use quickly and effectively. It flourished in the 18th and 19th centuries as both a combative system and a gentleman’s sport. Texts from figures like Donald McBane, John Taylor, and later Alfred Huttonhelped codify this art into drills and forms that emphasized clarity over complication. Military academies such as Sandhurst and fencing clubs like Aldershot institutionalized the style, ensuring it remained a reliable method of martial instruction for decades.

In this environment, the practitioner came to appreciate the intellectual exactness of blade alignment, the mechanical rigor of tempo, and the why behind every parry and riposte. Each training session was a lesson in mental compression: how to distill motion into intent, how to strip away excess, how to anchor presence in a single plane of conflict.

This influence bled directly into the nameless style, still in its early formation. Where Kenpo had offered circular redirection and structured chaos, Singlestick introduced containment. It trained the eyes to read lines of attack and defense in real time. It emphasized frontal control, teaching the practitioner to own the centerline and assert pressure without overcommitting. It grounded the footwork, honed the guard, and demanded economy—traits that became foundational in the evolving system.

More than the stick, though, it was the mindset that left its mark. British sabre work required the practitioner to measure, to respond with precision, and to understand the difference between aggression and advantage. It wasn’t about overpowering the opponent—it was about managing space, tempo, and rhythm with unwavering intent.

And that aligned perfectly with the nameless style’s emerging philosophy: that presence—not power—was the root of all technique. That in movement, the greatest force was often the one that conserved the most.

As the practitioner progressed, sabre forms were introduced to complement the singlestick foundation. These techniques, pulled directly from Hutton’s Cold Steel and the older manuals of Charles Roworth, emphasized the lethal potential behind the wooden drills. Cuts became sharper, posture more refined. The edge mattered now. The blade demanded respect.

In time, the stick faded into memory. But what it taught remained etched into muscle and mindset. Singlestick had not turned the practitioner into a classical fencer, but it had carved out a crucial corner of understanding—the value of structure in chaos, and the power of clarity in motion. And as the journey moved onward into new weapon forms, those lessons remained as anchors in a style that was never meant to be named—but always meant to be lived.

III. Spanish Destreza — The Geometry of the Duel (Mid 1990s)

By the mid-1990s, the practitioner’s blade work had already been framed by the strict, linear mechanics of British sabre. But something was still missing—something softer, broader, more fluid. The next evolution came not through combat drills, but through conversation—a chance encounter at a regional fencing workshop led to dialogue with a student of a deeply traditional Iberian lineage. That student spoke of a style where fencing was philosophy, where circles ruled over lines, and where the duel was as much about perception as it was about technique.

This was La Verdadera Destreza—The True Skill.

Where British sabre taught how to stand your ground, Destreza taught how to walk through space. Rooted in the work of Don Jerónimo de Carranza in the late 16th century and expanded by Luis Pacheco de Narváez and others, Destreza viewed the sword not as a weapon of brute exchange but as a tool of intellectual superiority and moral restraint. Combat was geometry. Conflict, a test of virtue.

The practitioner, now in the Pacific Northwest, found training with a devout student of this lineage—someone connected to a traditional school committed to preserving Destreza’s classical methods. The instruction was deliberate, precise, and unhurried. Movements were not memorized for their own sake, but studied like equations. The body became a compass, drawing arcs and calculating angles with each step.

At the heart of Destreza lies the concept of the mystic circle—a spatial model used to manage distance, timing, and angles of engagement. Footwork spiraled rather than marched, guiding the practitioner around danger rather than through it. The emphasis was on voiding, displacement, and control of intent—fighting not with ferocity, but with foresight.

Carranza’s original treatises, like Philosophy of Arms, framed fencing as an extension of ethics and reason. Pacheco de Narváez deepened the science, outlining geometric templates for footwork and blade alignment in texts like Libro de las Grandezas de la Espada. To practice Destreza was to embody these ideals: to move not out of instinct, but through calculated principle.

This approach reshaped how the practitioner understood conflict. In contrast to the direct assertiveness of Singlestick, Destreza offered strategic displacement—a way to manipulate not only physical space, but psychological engagement. One didn’t just parry an attack; one anticipated its creation. One didn’t clash with the opponent’s weapon; one dissolved it through superior positioning.

As the nameless style matured, these concepts embedded themselves quietly but irrevocably. The circular footwork of Destreza flowed naturally into the reactive movement patterns already developed in Muay Thai and Kung Fu. The geometric awareness enhanced the existing emphasis on perception over prediction—teaching the practitioner to move around attacks instead of meeting them head-on.

Philosophically, Destreza aligned with the nameless style’s evolving internal compass. It emphasized intellectual restraint, intentional motion, and ethical presence. Fighting was not just a matter of survival or dominance—it was a moral act, one in which clarity of purpose mattered more than speed or strength.

In this way, Destreza was less an addition to the practitioner’s toolbox and more a lens—a way of seeing combat, space, and self that clarified every other style. The blade remained present, but the motion became softer, more intelligent, and more refined.

By the time the training period ended, Destreza had done more than teach a new form of fencing. It had reframed the practitioner’s relationship to conflict itself. The sword had become not just a weapon, but a measuring device—gauging alignment, awareness, and intention. And in this shift, the nameless style moved one step closer to its true shape.

IV. Inosanto Kali — The Return to Flow and Instinct (Early 2000s)

By the early 2000s, the practitioner had built a solid framework. British Singlestick had instilled structure and directness. Spanish Destreza had refined perception and geometry. But there remained a hunger—a pull toward something less intellectual and more visceral. That pull led, inevitably, to Filipino Kali, and more specifically, the Inosanto lineage, where instinct was not trained out but trained in.

The setting was familiar—still the Pacific Northwest—but the energy was different. Training took place in a community center, sometimes in a converted garage, sometimes outdoors under the wide gray skies. The instructor was an ex-military man, tough but patient, with a family heritage tied directly to a Filipino Kali tradition. He taught from the Dan Inosanto lineage, but infused each session with cultural reverence and raw field experience. This was no stylized reenactment—it was living, breathing combat logic born from necessity and legacy.

The first lesson was in movement. Not drills. Not theory. Flow.

Kali, as taught through Inosanto’s methods, embraces the stick not merely as a weapon but as an extension of the body. The practitioner was handed two rattan sticks and told to move—no rigid form, just motion. And suddenly, it clicked. Unlike the saber, which required measured angles, or Destreza, which spiraled through calculations, the Kali sticks moved where the body willed them to. They responded, almost as if alive.

The historical roots of Kali stretch back centuries across the Philippine archipelago. The art was refined through tribal warfare, colonial resistance, and familial transmission. In its modern Inosanto expression, Kali incorporates Eskrima, Arnis, and Panantukan (Filipino boxing), along with knife, stick, and empty-hand techniques. It is designed to adapt—across weapons, ranges, and rhythms.

Dan Inosanto, the system’s namesake, had modernized the art through exposure to multiple Filipino masters. A protégé of Bruce Lee and founder of the Inosanto Academy of Martial Arts, his teachings emphasized integration, adaptability, and personal expression (Inosanto, 1980). That same ethos now guided the practitioner.

Training was modular: double stick (doble baston), single stick (solo baston), stick and dagger (espada y daga), and blade disarms, all interwoven with striking, locking, and takedowns. But what set Kali apart was its transitional awareness—how a technique flowed from weapon to empty hand without hesitation. Every strike pattern could become a punch. Every block could become a trap. The practitioner was not switching modes—they were inhabiting one seamless motion system.

This adaptability resonated at the deepest level. While Singlestick and Destreza had demanded interpretation and refinement, Kali fit from the start. The sticks felt like natural extensions of the arm, moving in arcs the body already understood. The practitioner didn’t have to think about using them—they simply did. It was instinctive. Right.

Philosophically, Kali was pragmatic, but not unprincipled. It emphasized awareness, humility, and respect—especially for lineage and survival. You didn’t train for dominance. You trained so you could return home. That clarity matched the core of the nameless style, which prioritized presence, responsiveness, and ethical clarity over aesthetics or formality.

Kali’s emphasis on rhythm and flow also revitalized the practitioner’s unarmed work. Suddenly, footwork patterns from Muay Thai and angle drills from Kenpo fused effortlessly with stick flow. The integration wasn’t forced—it was natural. Kali didn’t replace anything. It activated everything.

More than any other weapon style, Kali reshaped the practitioner’s identity. It wasn’t just effective—it was expressive. It offered both freedom and control, form and improvisation, tradition and innovation. It didn’t feel like picking up a new tool—it felt like returning to one long lost.

And so, as the final blade system fell into place, the nameless style gained its final structural limb. Not in a hierarchical sense, but in balance. Singlestick had offered structure. Destreza had offered perspective. Kali gave life to both. It brought the body full circle—into a state of instinctive, intelligent motion, fully weaponed, fully aware.

V. The Integration – Three Blades, One Motion

No formal ceremony marked the transition. There was no black belt, no new title, no grand realization. Yet something irreversible had happened. Through the three weapon arts—British Singlestick, Spanish Destreza, and Filipino Kali—the practitioner had forged not just a broadened skill set, but a unified way of moving. Each system had given its gift. And now, together, they moved as one.

What emerged was not a composite. This wasn’t eclecticism for its own sake. The practitioner hadn’t stitched together fragments, but fused principles—each tested, absorbed, and allowed to either resonate or dissolve. The nameless style, already grounded in adaptable unarmed motion, now expanded to include blades not as foreign elements, but as extensions of the same internal compass.

British Singlestick and sabre had laid the groundwork: cut-and-recover discipline, line management, and a deep respect for the consequences of commitment. The lessons in structure were crucial. In moments of chaos—real or simulated—it was this structure that held form. It taught the practitioner to think in angles, to measure distance in feet, not inches, and to maintain presence under pressure.

Spanish Destreza added something else entirely: perceptual mastery. Its circularity and philosophical breadth showed that combat wasn’t merely technical—it was strategic, even ethical. It redefined space as something to be manipulated, not just navigated. Motion became intelligent. Every movement had a reason, a geometry, a moral weight. The practitioner no longer reacted—they anticipated.

Then Kali brought it all to life. It animated the structure of sabre and the theory of Destreza with fluid adaptability. Movements once learned in isolation now transitioned smoothly: blade to stick, stick to empty hand, step to pivot, strike to trap. Kali’s rhythm and improvisation gave the practitioner permission to move freely without losing principle. What was rigid became responsive. What was memorized became intuitive.

Together, the three arts didn’t clash—they harmonized. Each filled a void the others left open. Singlestick provided frontal assertiveness, Destreza taught evasive control, and Kali offered multi-range improvisation. What connected them wasn’t technique—but philosophy. Each had insisted, in its own language, that movement must reflect awareness, and that mastery begins with intent.

In the practitioner’s hands, the blade no longer belonged to one system. It moved according to the need of the moment. Sometimes linear, sometimes spiraling, sometimes untraceable. This was the realization: the blade itself had never been fixed. Only the practitioner’s understanding of it had evolved.

What this meant for the nameless style was significant. The blade was no longer an accessory to unarmed motion—it was now a continuation of it. The transitions between stick, blade, and hand were seamless, because they all emerged from the same root: presence. Each strike, each redirection, each evasion now carried the accumulated wisdom of three traditions—but expressed in a singular, personal rhythm.

This integration didn’t mean the practitioner stopped learning. On the contrary, it opened new paths of inquiry. But the core had crystallized: a way of motion that was weaponed without being rigid, and philosophical without being abstract.

In the end, the weapons had become mirrors. Each one revealed something different—discipline, perception, instinct. And through them, the practitioner had not only evolved their martial practice, but clarified who they were. The movement had become the message.

VI. Conclusion – The Blade Within the Breath

The practitioner did not become a swordsman in the conventional sense. There were no duels at dawn, no medals, no tournaments. Instead, what emerged was subtler and more profound—a movement practice that reflected the spirit of the blade, not merely its form. Each style studied—Singlestick, Destreza, Kali—left its mark, not as separate disciplines, but as layers of understanding within a unified way of being.

What the practitioner truly sought was never victory—it was alignment. Not just in technique, but in life. Through structured discipline, Singlestick had shaped posture and resolve. Through geometric clarity, Destreza trained perception and restraint. Through instinct and rhythm, Kali brought the body into harmony with the moment. Together, they revealed that motion itself could be a meditation, a form of personal truth expressed through presence.

This truth echoed the foundation of the nameless style, which from the beginning rejected dogma and embraced motion as a living, personal art. The unarmed roots—Boxing, Krav Maga, Muay Thai, Kung Fu, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Kenpo—had built the practitioner’s internal engine. The weapons refined the tuning of awareness, the control of space, and the confidence to engage without hesitation or aggression.

Among the three weapon styles, Kali resonated deepest. It wasn’t just effective—it was innately familiar. The sticks moved like breath through the arms. Transitions happened without conscious thought. Everything the practitioner had learned seemed to converge in that rhythm. The dual sticks became not tools, but extensions of will. They moved as the body moved. They listened, adapted, responded. There was no gap between intent and action. There was just motion.

Yet even that was not the final goal. The ultimate lesson wasn’t about technique. It was about presence. The blade—whether a sabre, a rapier, or a pair of rattan sticks—was a lens, revealing the inner state of the mover. Tension showed up in the wrist. Ego revealed itself in overreach. Clarity became visible in the smallest pivot of the foot.

This was the realization: the blade had always been within the breath.

Not in a metaphorical sense—but quite literally. Breath guided timing. Breath controlled tension. Breath created rhythm. And rhythm, in all martial arts, is the heartbeat of effectiveness.

In the end, the practitioner did not name the system. It didn’t need one. The sword was no longer an external object—it was a principle. An idea. A reminder. That motion, when aligned with intention and awareness, becomes art. That art, when embodied fully, becomes a path. And that path, walked honestly, leads to a place beyond words.

This is where the weapon lives—not in the hand, but in the way one moves through conflict, through practice, through life.