Inside the slums, there are no rules, no regulations. One does as one pleases, whether it's a virtuous act or something else entirely. No one truly cares unless it directly involves them. Beneath the abandoned Kasmi Bridge resides a population of around 500—homeless souls abandoned by society, labelled as defective and useless.
Most of them slept huddled together like leaf rollers, but not Malta. He sat alone in a dark corner, his head resting on his knees, his body curled like a snowball. Slowly, he opened his worn-out black leather backpack and pulled out a notebook, still wrapped and pristine, and an ink pen. Placing them carefully on the ground, he reached for the oil lamp beside him. Using a golden lighter engraved with a fire symbol, he ignited the lamp, the faint scent of oil wafting through the air.
Malta set the lamp near the notebook, its warm glow illuminating the creamy white pages, and began to write.
The days feel shorter now, slipping by so quickly that I've almost forgotten the faces of those I need to take revenge on. But last night, my usual nightmare came back, sharp and vivid, reminding me once again who they are and what I am supposed to do.
I've always been a good writer—at least, I think I was. I don't know who I'm writing this for, but before my life descended into chaos, I kept a diary. Finding this notebook recently must have stirred something in me, some echo of the past. Perhaps that's why I'm writing now.
I'm not sure if this can truly be called a diary, but I want to leave a mark—a record of my journey so far and of what is yet to come. The future is uncertain, of course, but I have only one goal in my life: to burn an entire country to the ground.
I will have my revenge. I will succeed, no matter what. And this notebook will bear witness to my deeds.
He was interrupted by a raspy cough.
"What're you writing, lad?"
A large, rough-looking man with a rat-like face appeared in front of Malta and plopped down uninvited.
"Say, you got some stuff on you?"
Malta looked up at him, his expression calm but guarded. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, he noticed the man's bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. A junkie, he thought.
"No, I don't. Leave me be," Malta replied in a neutral tone.The junkie ignored his words, scanning Malta from head to toe. Malta was in his early twenties, with jet-black hair and a patched leather garment that had clearly seen better days. His eyes, however, stood out—unnatural, almost uncanny. Anyone who looked closely would notice he was wearing contact lenses.
"There's somethin' fishy about you, lad," the man muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Lemme see that book."
Before Malta could respond, the junkie reached out and grabbed the corner of the notebook. Malta's stoic face shifted, his calm demeanor replaced by a quiet, simmering rage.
Suddenly, the damp wall and ground around him began to grow warm, and the moisture in the air and on the surfaces began to evaporate, creating a faint mist. Without hesitation, Malta grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it with surprising strength.
"Final warning. Scram!" he growled, his voice low and threatening.
The junkie yelped in pain, fear flashing in his bloodshot eyes. Without another word, he scrambled to his feet and ran off, leaving Malta alone once more.
Malta let out a slow breath, calming himself. He closed the notebook, slid it carefully back into his worn backpack, and rose to his feet. It was time to move on. He stepped outside and was greeted by the warm kiss of the wind. As he looked around, the view of the slums stretched before him—a desolate, grey, and filthy landscape, unpleasant to the eye. Yet, despite its grim appearance, this place had saved Malta.
He had been just a little boy when he first arrived in the slums. Like the people beneath the bridge, the inhabitants of the slums were castaways, abandoned by society. For Malta, this forsaken place became a sanctuary.
A fleeting image of the Upper state flashed through his mind—a place of grandeur and opulence. Once, he had belonged to that world. As a child, he had lived as royalty, surrounded by wealth and granted every desire. But those memories were like jagged shards of glass, cutting deeper every time he revisited them. His life of privilege had ended in tragedy, leaving an unhealed scar on his once-gentle heart.
Shaking off the memories, Malta began walking toward the forest. It was a ritual he had followed for the past six years—venturing into the wilderness to hunt and train. The forest was both his battleground and his teacher, where he fought wild animals to sharpen his skills and hardened his body against the trials of the world.
The spoils of his hunts—animal pelts, rare herbs, and other valuable finds—were brought back to the slums and sold for money. Yet, despite having saved enough to buy a modest shed within the slums, Malta chose to remain under the bridge, living among the homeless. It wasn't comfort he sought; it was purpose, a sense of belonging among those who, like him, had been cast aside.
He made his way into the forest through the familiar path, a dagger with an orange hilt gripped firmly in his right hand. His destination was his usual hunting ground, where he had already set traps to catch smaller animals for food. Moving cautiously, he collected the trapped creatures, reset the makeshift snares crafted from sticks, and methodically skinned the animals. He placed the fresh pelts and meat into his backpack before heading toward a large banyan tree, the site of his makeshift camp.
Under the sheltering branches, he often paused to rest, but this time he kept moving. The sun was beginning to rise, its golden rays gradually illuminating the forest and stirring the predators from their slumber. To Malta, however, these hunters were merely his prey.
He pressed deeper into the heart of the forest, arriving at a wide, open clearing devoid of trees—a place perfectly suited for an ambush. Using himself as bait, he lured a hungry tiger into the clearing. As the beast emerged from the shadows, its eyes locked on him with primal intensity. Malta met its gaze and smiled.