This winter was exceptionally cold.
As he walked through the dark alleys of Budapest, the lonely man thought so.
Ever since his wife and daughter had perished in the flames, every winter—during the season when people needed to chop wood and light fires—he instinctively rejected fire and wandered the streets at midnight like a ghost.
Neither snow nor bitter wind was as cold as his heart, and his hatred differed from that of ordinary people.
If ordinary hatred was a volcano or raging flame, burning everything when it erupted,
then his hatred was an iceberg standing in his heart—ancient, unchanging, and impossibly hard.
Several years had passed, yet he still could not forget any of it. He had become an avenger, searching everywhere for his enemies.
He had already killed the villagers who had caused his wife and daughter's deaths, but the true culprit behind his parents' murder still roamed free. Klaus Schmidt, the Hydra butcher who had controlled the Death Camp, remained untraceable.
Perhaps that had been a false name, but it was the only lead the man had.
For all these years, he had searched across Europe for that person, using his powers to make money and support himself.
Yet most of that money was donated to fellow sufferers who needed it more. He lived simply, with nothing but a set of worn-out clothes, a tattered hooded cloak, and a small bundle.
Those receiving his help were not his fellow Germans, but his fellow Mutants.
The world truly was unfair. Along the way, he had discovered that many Mutants had suffered fates as tragic as his own, and it made him think.
Were Mutants really monsters? Were they truly inferior to others?
No. Mutants possessed all manner of powerful abilities. They should have been superior. This persecution and