In the shadow-strewn corner of a tavern that time itself seemed to have forgotten, Mozar Sain sat alone, his only companions the silent bottles that stood like sentinels around his slumped form. The low hum of conversations from distant tables never ventured into his solitary domain, as if the very air around him was tainted with his outcast status. For five long centuries, he had occupied this niche, sipping on the bitter brew that was as harsh and unwelcoming as the world had been to him.

"What will I do with this cursed life?" The thought was like acid on his tongue, a rhetorical question to which he had no answer. The years had been a mosaic of such queries, unanswered and echoing into the void of his existence. His hands, once fine and steady, now trembled with the weight of his years and the intensity of his loathing. The cup at his lips was not a vessel of pleasure but a chalice of his sorrow.

No one ever sat opposite Mozar; the space before him was as vacant as the hope in his eyes—until that peculiar evening when the unthinkable happened. A figure approached, a man whose aura was as dark as the tempestuous sky that brooded above the city. With silent, measured steps, he moved through the tavern, his presence parting the sea of patrons until he arrived at Mozar's table and, without a word, took the seat across from him.

Mozar's mind reeled with poisonous thoughts and silent curses. "Who is this man?" he wondered, a scowl etching deeper into his weathered features. Yet, he bit back his words, aware that even this wretched solace of drinking away his existence could be ripped from his grasp should he provoke the wrong soul.

The stranger was a canvas of enigma, his features shrouded in mystery as much as the cloak that draped his broad shoulders. A scar, jagged and brutal, ran across his face—a stark testament to a past violence. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried the weight of gravelly tones and an accent that did not belong to any region Mozar knew.

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"I offer you a chance," the man began, his words slicing through the din of the tavern like a knife. "Revenge. The power to make those who scorned you grovel at your feet." His eyes, dark and bottomless, held Mozar's with an intensity that was almost palpable.

Mozar's heart, long turned to stone, thudded with a ferocity he had not felt in ages. Power—such a concept was alien to him, a distant dream that had faded with the years. Yet here it was, dangled before him like a ripened fruit. The idea of it, the sheer potential, sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

With a cautious resolve, Mozar extended a hand, his skin brushing against the stranger's. The contact sent a jolt through him, as if he had touched a live current. Before him, a spectral icon materialized, asking him if he was willing to sacrifice his humanity for strength that might one day challenge the gods themselves.

A grin, manic and wide, split Mozar's face. The decision was instantaneous, born from centuries of hate and a thirst for vengeance that had never been quenched. "Yes," he hissed, his voice a serpent's whisper. The deal was struck with a single, fervent word.

The man's warning was a distant murmur against the cacophony of Mozar's racing thoughts. "Remember, this power is not a gift," he said as he stood, his figure beginning to fade into the shadows from which he had emerged. "It is a transaction. You will work for it, climbing from the depths of your despair to heights you cannot yet imagine."

Left alone once more, Mozar's mind whirled with the possibilities. He was no longer just an outcast, a forgotten son of a powerful lineage. He was a man with a purpose, with a destiny that was now his to seize. The joy that bubbled within him was a dark, twisted thing, but it was the most alive he had felt in his entire existence.

The tavern around him faded into a blur, the patrons and their trivial chatter nothing more than the backdrop to the stage of his mind. Mozar Sain, once the heir to a great house, now the architect of an impending doom, sat with his hands clenched, not in desperation but in anticipation. For in his heart, where warmth had once resided, now throbbed a heart of hate—a heart that beat a rhythm of revenge that would echo through the ages.