In a bitterly cold night beneath the merciless northern sky, the ship surged through towering waves, as if carrying forgotten souls searching for salvation in a harsh world. Aboard it sat "the Mute"—a man once known as Dargol Lockard, though that name was now spoken only in mockery and disgrace.

Dargol was not what they had imagined. He was not the proud son of the Lockards, the bloodline of the Crimson Fang. He was the result of a cursed heritage, stripped of the "Gift" that distinguished the great northern families. Since childhood, whispers crept through the icy corners, murmuring that his father's blood had been sealed without honor, that he was the product of a tainted lineage unworthy of recognition.

In those early days, the Mute was just a boy training in swordplay on the cold wooden floors of the northern barracks. His peers tormented him with insults and mockery, blaming him for his birth.

"You're the son of a whore, even if your grandfather was the Crimson Fang!"

Thus, seeds of hatred took root within him—hatred for a legacy that had denied him the Gift, hatred for the words that carved an unending war within his soul between vengeance and proving his worth.

The years passed, and when the time came to leave, the Mute boarded the ship bound for the West—a land governed by profit and opportunity, where the past held no weight compared to the success of the present. In the early hours of the voyage, as the waves battered the ship's hull, he found himself lost in memories of snowy streets, the cries of the tormented, and the laughter of those who had delighted in his suffering.

On the second day of the journey, the unexpected happened. While checking the ship's rear cargo, he came face to face with a young nobleman of northern descent, one who prided himself on his lineage and his natural-born Gift. The young man sneered, his voice laced with contempt:

"Really? You claim to be the grandson of Lockard the Crimson Fang? You have no Gift, no honor—you're nothing but a bastard!"

For a brief moment, the Mute hesitated. He had no words to retaliate against the insult. The nobleman stepped forward, full of scorn, and then a fierce fight erupted. Blows rained down like echoes of deep-seated pain. The nobleman struck with all his might, and the Mute felt his bones tremble under each heavy blow. Yet in that critical moment, something deep within him ignited—not just the fire of vengeance, but the will to prove that those born without the Gift would not remain forgotten forever.

With chilling composure, the Mute steadied himself. He refused to become the very monster that had tormented him all his life. For every brutal strike he endured, he retaliated in silence, concealing a profound truth beneath his quiet resolve. Moment by moment, he began to reclaim control. With a final decisive blow, he sent his opponent sprawling onto the deck, the cold wooden planks stained with the remnants of their battle.

He stood over him, his gaze a mixture of tranquility and cruelty, and whispered in a voice barely above a breath:

"I will not be a wretch… I will not be one who despises himself."

On the third day, as the bitter dawn broke, the ship finally arrived at the western port. The harbor was a world unlike any he had known—filled with the calls of merchants, the scent of salt and wine thick in the air, and faces more diverse than he had ever seen. Yet, despite its strange beauty, the weight of the North still clung to his heart. He knew that his true journey had only just begun.

As he stepped off the ship, his mind was flooded with memories—of pain, humiliation, and the silent oaths he had sworn to himself. He understood now that his past had been a chain around his soul, that the Lockard legacy was nothing more than a shackle binding him to an identity that was never his to claim.

In a moment of absolute silence, he looked up at the pale sky above the harbor and murmured to himself:

"From this day forward, I am no longer Dargol Lockard. I am… the Mute.

I will forge my own Gift, and no one will ever scorn me again."

Thus, a chapter of his life came to a close, and a new one began—a journey the reader would never wish to end. A journey to carve out a new identity, one worthy of a world that had never shown mercy but demanded only strength and honor.