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.
Malta dragged the tiger's lifeless body back to his camp, gripping one of its powerful limbs. Upon reaching the site, he heaved the beast onto a sturdy tree stump and began to skin it with practiced precision. Tiger leather was among the most prized commodities in Troxia, fetching an exceptionally high price in the markets. Once the hide was removed, he stretched it carefully over a wooden stand he had crafted and positioned it under the sunlight to dry.
Satisfied with his work, Malta turned his attention to the tent he had constructed from wooden sticks and large leaves. Inside, he opened a reinforced wooden trunk, revealing a collection of pelts—more than twenty in total, each taken from majestic creatures he had hunted. These were his treasures, destined to be sold for a fortune when he finally reached the Middle State, where merchants paid handsomely for such exotic goods.
Closing the trunk with care, Malta stepped outside, the crisp morning air invigorating his senses. His tasks complete for now, he moved to the open clearing to continue his training, his focus unyielding and his determination evident in every motion. Malta returned to his hut at dawn, his body weary from hours of battling various elemental beasts in the forest. He had refrained from using his abilities, both to avoid accidentally starting a wildfire and to ensure his identity remained concealed. After all, the slightest slip could jeopardize everything.
Stepping inside the hut, he hung his patched leather coat on a hook and removed his belt, placing it neatly on his makeshift sleeping bed. Clad only in his undergarments, he walked to the clear pond near the ancient banyan tree. Kneeling by the water's edge, he caught sight of his reflection. The black dye he used to conceal his fiery orange hair was beginning to wash away, leaving streaks of vibrant color beneath the fading mask.
He thought back to the old vendor in the slums who once sold him the dye. The man had passed away not long ago, a victim of starvation, and now Malta had run out of his supply. He considered his options carefully: either dye his hair with charcoal or shave it off entirely. After some thought, practicality won out. He decided to shave it.
Drawing his dagger, he worked methodically, the blade gliding against his scalp as tufts of orange hair fell to the ground. Once finished, he leaned over the water again, examining his newly shorn head with a sigh. The reflection staring back at him was still undeniably handsome. He always had been, even as a child—a beauty that had sparked envy and admiration among the royal children of other clans.
Yet his striking features could not hide the scars that crisscrossed his body, each one telling a tale of pain, struggle, and survival. They spoke of a past filled with hardship, of a fallen angel burdened by a tragic story. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, Malta waded into the cool pond, immersing himself in the water's embrace, seeking a brief respite from the weight of his memories.
The night passed uneventfully, as did the following weeks. Malta spent his time preparing, packing his backpack carefully for the journey ahead. This time, he was not heading to the slums but to the Middle State. He selected one of the finest animal leathers he had and dressed accordingly. Leaving his rugged leather coat and pants behind in the tent, he donned a black shirt and grey trousers. The transformation was striking—he went from looking like a wild hunter to a man of aristocratic elegance.
With everything in place, Malta made his way through the forest toward the railway station. The station in the Lower District was a stark contrast to those in the Middle and Upper States. While the latter were designed to carry passengers in luxury, the Lower District's railway station existed solely for the transport of goods and supplies. The Lower District, after all, was governed by eight landlords, each as corrupt and vile as the next. These men thrived on the trade of slaves, drugs, and other forbidden commodities, funneling their ill-gotten gains to the Middle and Upper States.
Slavery was an accepted norm in Troxia, particularly in the Lower State. Here, the population lacked elemental abilities, marking them as an inferior class, their sole purpose being to serve those gifted with power. Disease-free individuals were often captured and sold into servitude, their lives stripped of dignity and freedom.
The Middle State, by contrast, served as Troxia's bustling trading hub. All exports and imports passed through this region, overseen by officials appointed by the clans. These officials lived opulently in grand mansions, enjoying lives of indulgence and luxury. Over time, many had fathered illegitimate offspring, filling the Middle State with the bastards of royal bloodlines. This arrangement, though scandalous, had persisted for generations, creating a distinct class of people with diluted elemental power.
The Upper State was another world entirely. Located in the far north, it served as Troxia's capital and was strictly off-limits to anyone from the Lower or Middle States. Only those of pure elemental lineage resided there—the direct descendants of the two remaining great clans (once three, before the Ember Clan's annihilation). The Upper State was a land of opulence and advancement, its skyline dominated by towering skyscrapers. Each great clan had its own tower, where the most powerful elemental users lived and ruled.
Malta's mind wandered as he approached the station. He once lived in the Ember Clan's tower, a towering monument to his family's legacy. But now, the Ember Clan was no more, its bloodline wiped out from Troxia. He often wondered what had become of the Ember Tower—whether it still stood, a hollow shell of its former glory, or if it had been razed to the ground, erased from history like his clan.
Shaking off the thoughts, Malta focused on the journey ahead. This trip to the Middle State wasn't just about selling leather. It was a step toward reclaiming what had been lost.