《KALKI : The Fall of Quantum Gods { post-apocalypse, sci fi }》 1. A precious normal Day (introduction) Trriiing, trriiing¡­ The alarm screeched through the quiet, yanking Nick from sleep. It felt louder today, more intrusive, as if reality itself was warning him. His hand slaps the phone, silencing the noise, but the damage is done. His body protests, heavy with exhaustion, but there¡¯s no time to negotiate. Six hours of sleep. That¡¯s what the experts recommend. And technically, he got it¡ªon a $ 10,000 mattress that promised baby-like comfort, in a room with central AC, wearing silk eye blinds and noise-canceling earbuds. According to his smartwatch, he had a ¡°restful¡± night. So why does he feel like he hasn¡¯t slept at all? With a deep sigh, he picks up his phone, squinting at the screen. Work emails. Ads for things he neither needs nor wants. A spam message claiming he won a million dollars. He scrolls, skims, deletes. His health app reports he¡¯s doing great¡ªheart rate stable, blood oxygen normal. According to the data, he¡¯s a picture of wellness. But data doesn¡¯t feel fatigue. Dragging himself to the bathroom, he lets the shower run, heating the water to the perfect temperature¡ªbecause of course, that too is automated. He should feel refreshed afterward. He doesn¡¯t. Running on Auto-Pilot Breakfast is textbook healthy: an omelet with toast, imported matcha tea from Japan, dragon fruit from China, cranberries labeled organic, fresh, locally sourced. The packaging screams quality, but the fine print whispers otherwise. Not that it matters. He eats, not because he enjoys it, but because he must. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Dressed in neatly pressed branded clothes, he looks into the mirror. Average height. Average build. A face that neither stands out nor fades away. He isn¡¯t out of shape, but he¡¯s far from fit. His lifestyle doesn¡¯t allow extremes¡ªit keeps him neatly in the middle, just like everything else in his life. Work is the same as always. The hours stretch. His colleagues are pleasant, their smiles practiced. He does what he does best¡ªefficient, reliable, replaceable. When the clock hits 8 PM, he breathes a little easier. Finally, he can leave. Between Millions, Yet Alone The first thing he does is call home. His mother¡¯s voice is warm, his father¡¯s steady. His sister laughs at something he says, and for a moment, something inside him untangles. Outside, the city is alive, its streets pulsing with people who are all going somewhere. He moves through the crowd, unseen yet surrounded, heading toward the best spot to catch a taxi. His polished shoes pick up dust, his shirt clings to his back. A cab finally stops. He slides in, sinking into the cracked leather seat. The traffic is a beast, snarling and unmoving. The driver talks¡ªstories about the city, about life. Nick listens, nods, even laughs once. For a few minutes, it feels real. A Home That Feels Empty The security guard at his apartment gives the usual nod, and Nick returns it, a silent exchange they repeat every night. The elevator dings as it carries him to the 25th floor. Inside, the silence is thick. His apartment is modern, clean, comfortable¡ªyet utterly lifeless. He strips out of his work clothes, steps into another shower, trying to scrub away the exhaustion that never really leaves. Hunger tugs at him. Normally, he¡¯d order something healthy¡ªsomething guilt-free, with words like organic, superfood, whole grain stamped all over it. Not tonight. Tonight, he orders a burger and fries, drowns it in ketchup, and washes it down with an ice-cold soda. It¡¯s greasy. Salty. Delicious. For the first time all day, he feels something close to joy. Then guilt settles in. He pops an antacid. Swallows it dry. Slipping into bed, he secures his earbuds, tightens his eye mask. The AI assistant¡¯s voice hums softly: "Cloudy and humid; a thunderstorm in spots in the morning, followed by a couple of thunderstorms in the afternoon." No surprises. Nothing ever changes. And in a few hours, the alarm will ring again. 2. The Box (introduction) 8:00 PM. His chest tightened. His fingers felt numb. It wasn¡¯t morning. It was night. He had lost an entire day. His mind reeled, searching for explanations. A glitch? A prank? A medical condition? He swallowed hard. This wasn¡¯t the time to panic. He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Damn, looks like I got my AM and PM mixed up." The coworker laughed, but Nick barely heard it. His pulse thundered in his ears. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Without another word, he left work and headed home. Sitting in his apartment, he tried to think through what had happened. He came to a conclusion. Shit happens. Accept it and move on. That evening, he indulged himself¡ªa whole fried chicken, a large salad, three different kinds of juice, and a bottle of dark soda. Then he set multiple alarms, triple-checked them, and went to bed. The air in his apartment felt strangely dense, carrying a metallic tang he couldn''t quite place. His eyes fluttered shut faster than usual¡ªtoo fast. Falling, Again Nick woke up. But not to his alarm. He woke up falling. Cold air rushed past him. His stomach lurched as his body hit the hard, unforgiving floor. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. He lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling, trying to process. Then, slowly, he sat up. His mind felt like it was unraveling. Okay. Now he definitely needed to visit a psychologist. And maybe a neurologist. 3. Into the darkness ( introduction) The Awakening The floor was hard and cold. Nick¡¯s body felt sluggish, his muscles stiff, his mind foggy¡ªlike wading through thick molasses. His thoughts crawled, sluggish and disoriented. His body refused to move with its usual ease, weighed down by exhaustion and the unfamiliar environment. Something had taken a toll on him. A nightmare. That was his first thought. A sleep paralysis episode. But something was off. The world around him was too real. The air carried the damp, earthy scent of soil. The roughness of the ground bit into his skin. His breath came in short, uneven huffs, and he could feel every inch of his body¡ªhis limbs, his weight against the ground, the steady thud of his own heartbeat. This was not a dream. A chill slithered up his spine. His mind, now sharpening with creeping clarity, latched onto the memory of the box¡ªthe strange, warm, skin-like box in his apartment. His breathing steadied as his sense of control returned. Rationality took hold. Panic wouldn¡¯t help. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The Problem First, the obvious. He was lying half-naked on a cement-like surface. His belongings were gone¡ªhis clothes, his wallet, his phone. His watch, which would have at least told him the time and possibly his location, was missing too. Robbery? It made sense¡ªexcept whoever did this took only his external possessions. No pain. No stitch marks. No soreness in his abdomen. His kidneys, liver, bone marrow, blood¡ªall intact. That realization offered an odd sense of relief. Still, there was no mistaking it¡ªhe had been abandoned. And wherever he was, it was far from civilization. He glanced upward, hoping to get a sense of direction. The moon loomed too large. That was unsettling. But then again, the moon¡¯s size did shift depending on its position in the sky. Nothing abnormal. Right? The air around him was thick with silence. Then, the sounds began¡ªmosquitoes whining, insects chirping, the occasional rustle of something larger in the underbrush. An unknown place. An unknown danger. Wandering blindly in the pitch-black night would be suicidal. He had no bearings, no light source, and no sense of direction. The Only Option With no better choice, Nick did the only thing possible. He curled up on the unforgiving ground, trying to conserve warmth. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes into eternity. The mosquitoes were relentless. Something scuttled nearby. A low, distant noise¡ªanimal? Wind? He didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t want to know. His body ached, his skin burned with the sting of endless insect bites, and sleep¡ªthough desperately needed¡ªrefused to come. Then, after what felt like forever, the sky shifted. A faint, reddish hue stretched across the horizon. Twilight. For the first time since waking, hope flickered in his chest. The night had not swallowed him whole. And now, with daylight creeping in, he might finally begin to understand where the hell he was 4. The confusing City A City That Shouldn¡¯t Exist The rising sun brought relief¡ªnot warmth, but visibility. For the first time since waking, Nick could see. As the dim light spread, details of his surroundings emerged. He was standing on a four-way road, cracked and crumbling with disrepair. Nature had started reclaiming it¡ªweeds pushed through the asphalt, cracks ran like veins along the surface, and the silence was thick enough to feel oppressive. No tire tracks. No footprints. No sign of life. His stomach twisted. "Where the hell am I?" He cursed his kidnappers¡ªwhoever they were. What kind of psychopath abducted a man from the city only to dump him in this godforsaken wasteland? The air felt heavy. Thick with pollution. Every breath burned slightly in his lungs. The haze blurred the horizon, and even though the sun was up, the light remained weak, unnatural. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He tried walking, but his body protested. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Thirst dried his throat. He was weak, dizzy, and utterly exposed.his vision blurry. Yet, he had no choice. So, he walked. The March to Civilization Three hours. That¡¯s how long it took before he finally saw it¡ªthe unmistakable silhouette of a city. Towering buildings, stretching into the sky, half-swallowed by haze. A beacon of hope in the distance. But as the details became clearer, his hope shrank. This wasn¡¯t the city he knew. The buildings¡ªonce proud and modern¡ªhad been consumed by nature. Vines crawled up steel frames. Grass sprouted from cracked windows. These weren¡¯t skyscrapers anymore. They were graves of a forgotten world. Near the city¡¯s edge, a destroyed vehicle lay in ruins. But it wasn¡¯t a car. It wasn¡¯t anything he recognized. Nick¡¯s breath quickened. A massive hole gaped in one of the buildings, and at its center stood something impossible¡ª A giant metallic rod, as tall as a two-story building, embedded deep into the structure as if it had fallen from the sky. His mind raced, grasping for logic, for any explanation that made sense. But nothing fit. The architecture was wrong. The materials were foreign. The vehicle had no wheels, no treads, no visible way of moving. This¡­ this isn¡¯t my world. His heart pounded. He wanted to question everything¡ª**how, why, where¡ª**but right now, those answers didn¡¯t matter. Survival did. And at this moment, f inding water was more important than questioning reality. 5. Shelter A Desperate Search for Water Nick¡¯s feet dragged against the cracked earth, his breath shallow. His body had stopped sweating, a sign he recognized but refused to acknowledge. The road ahead was fractured, split open like parched skin. Scorched patches of molten veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface, their eerie glow casting twisted shadows against warped, glass-like formations. Yet life pressed forward. Thick vines, unnaturally coiled, gripped abandoned structures with a force that seemed less like growth and more like possession. Stalks, smooth as bone, flexed gently toward the sky despite the still air. Some curled away as he passed¡ªreactive, aware. He ignored them. A glint of water shimmered through the tangled undergrowth below. His knees struck the dry earth before he realized he had collapsed. Hands, trembling, parted the vines until his fingers brushed the surface of the narrow stream. The water was murky, its movement slow and thick with sediment. It carried the scent of metal, of age. But his throat was too raw for hesitation. His hands cupped, lifted, drank. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The first swallow burned. The second settled like a rock in his stomach. The third, he barely tasted. His body, despite itself, straightened. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, breathing slowly. A thin layer of dust clung to his skin, mixing with the dampness of his lips. The city still loomed ahead, but his legs carried him forward with steadier steps. The City of Ruins The first sign of past struggle lay twisted and half-buried near the city¡¯s edge¡ªa vehicle, its hull warped beyond recognition. No wheels. No treads. No openings where an engine might have been. Beyond it, a building stood scarred and hollow, a massive crater punched through its center. Impaled deep in the ruins was a towering metallic rod, scorched black, its surface fractured as if it had absorbed something far greater than heat. Nature had begun its reclamation, but the battle had been recent enough for the wounds to remain visible. He kept moving. The Edge of Shelter The outskirts were different. Lower buildings, smaller footprints, fewer signs of status. The vines clung just as tightly, but here, there was a hesitation in their grip¡ªas if this part of the city had been less worth taking back. A bridge, its railings crumbled, stretched before him. Beyond it, a house¡ªsmall, unremarkable, with a door sagging in defeat. A branch lay nearby, thick and sturdy. He picked it up, wedging it into the doorframe. The rusted lock crumbled under pressure. Claiming a Space The air inside was thick with time. Dust coated every surface, undisturbed. The walls stretched barely ten feet across, the ceiling marked with the faint scars of past leaks. He tested the structure, pressed a hand against the wall, knocked against the roof with a loose stone. It stood. A metal pot, cool to the touch, sat forgotten in the corner, its surface untouched by rust. Nearby, polymer utensils lay scattered, still intact despite time¡¯s decay. A shattered device, its screen cracked, rested beneath fallen debris. Its purpose was lost, but its presence confirmed one thing¡ªwhoever had lived here once, hadn¡¯t left by choice. He stepped back, gaze sweeping over the space. Not a home. But it would do. Preparation He pulled vines from the walls, twisting them into a crude belt. The metallic pot and polymer kettle hung at his side, swaying with his movements. A dry branch, tested for weight, became a walking stick. His stomach ached, not from hunger but from adjustment. He turned back toward the water source. The city could wait. For now, he needed to gather. 6 preparation Adapting to the Unknown The stream gurgled softly, its presence a rare comfort in the otherwise heavy silence. Nick crouched beside it, submerging his plastic kettle beneath the cool surface. Tiny ripples fanned outward as he filled it, sealed the lid, then set it beneath the nearest tree. The metal pot followed, tucked away safely in the shade. With water secured, he turned his attention to food. The problem was, nothing here felt normal. Plants shouldn''t hace controllable tendrils. Their stems shouldn¡¯t pulse. Some even twitched at his presence, their tendrils curling as though sensing him. Nick kept his distance. Instead, he searched for what looked safe. Stalks that didn¡¯t flex, leaves that didn¡¯t react when touched. He smeared the juice from one plant onto his forearm, waiting for any sign of irritation, numbness, or reaction. Nothing. Only then did he gather them. The Cost of Survival By the time he returned to his makeshift shelter, his body was a patchwork of scratches. His feet burned, raw from constant exposure. The slightest brush of the unnatural vines left stinging marks on his skin. He needed clothing. Shoes. Protection. But that, too, would have to wait. First, fire. He arranged stones into a crude stove, stacking dry branches and brittle grass inside. Then came the hard part¡ªsparking a flame. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Minutes dragged into an hour. His knuckles bled from the effort, his fingers blackened with soot. But then¡ª A flicker. A coil of smoke. Then a single, fragile flame. He wasted no time, feeding it carefully, keeping the embers alive. The berries and mushrooms boiled in water, their earthy scent filling the air. The taste was bland, bitter, but it was food. It was survival. That night, exhaustion overtook him, dragging him into sleep. He never intended to rest, but his body made the choice for him. The foreign world pressed in around him, silent yet watching. A New Day, A New Struggle Pain greeted him first. His back ached from the unforgiving ground, his muscles stiff from sleeping upright against cold stone. A new routine took shape. No toothbrush¡ªash would do. No shoes¡ªvines, softened in water, became crude sandals. But the forest was less forgiving. The familiar plants were gone. The **safe berries, the harmless mushrooms¡ª**he had picked them all in a single day. Now, only the unfamiliar remained. He ventured further, hunger outweighing hesitation. Tall, unsettling trees loomed in the distance, their trunks pulsating like a beating heart. Vines bled red where they wrapped around the bark. The air near them carried a scent¡ªthick, metallic, unnatural. A low, guttural sound echoed beyond the trees. Something alive. Nick stopped. His breath held. Then, slowly, he turned back. Hunger was bad. But not as bad as walking into something he wasn¡¯t ready for. The Isolation Sets In As the days passed, the world felt heavier. The deeper he moved toward the ruined city, the stranger everything became. Technology that shouldn¡¯t exist. Structures too advanced, yet crumbling. The sheer scale of catastrophe was beyond anything he had ever known. And worst of all¡ª The absence of people. At first, the loneliness was manageable. Necessary, even. But isolation was a slow poison. The silence grew thick, suffocating. The air carried a taste¡ªdusty, metallic, faintly sweet, yet off. The sunlight never shone bright enough. Even at midday, a dull haze smothered the sky. He was alone. And it was beginning to take its toll. Preparation for the Unknown He adapted. Over five days, his hands became skilled at weaving vines into armor-like garments. A sturdy branch, carefully sharpened, became a crude spear. His shelter was stocked. His weapons, primitive but functional. And when he looked toward the hollowed city, its ruins stretching toward the poisoned sky, he knew¡ª It was time. Time to search. Time to understand. Time to find out what happened to this world. And, more importantly¡ª What happened to him. 7. Into the city Nick moved carefully, testing the ground before each step. A rock in his palm, he tossed it ahead every few feet¡ªwatching, listening. If there were old mechanisms, hidden traps, or things lying in wait, he would rather trigger them from a distance. But nothing came. The road stretched ahead, fractured and worn. The only signs of life were flowers blooming in unnatural colors, perched on trees twisted into bizarre shapes. The air hummed with the distant calls of birds, their songs familiar yet subtly wrong, as if they followed a different rhythm than those of his world. Then came the cockroaches. They scuttled across the ruins in droves, their bodies gleaming with metallic hues that shimmered and shifted as they moved. The moment he saw them, hunger clawed at his stomach. Not the slow, creeping kind¡ªbut an urge. Deep, unnatural. His fingers twitched. He almost reached for one. A bolt of cold shot through his spine. That wasn¡¯t his instinct. It was something foreign pressing into him. His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to step back. Not today. The buildings around him were unlike anything he had seen before¡ªa strange fusion of modern precision and medieval grandeur. Sharp geometric edges merged with elegant, sweeping arches, standing as if untouched by time. Vines curled around them, but they didn¡¯t strangle or crack the foundations. Instead, they reinforced them. These weren¡¯t ruins decaying into dust. They were structures repurposed by nature itself. The city was changing, but it wasn¡¯t dying. At an intersection, something caught his eye. A dustbin¡ªat least, that¡¯s what it looked like at first. Then, a leaf drifted into its opening, and the bin shifted. The leaf vanished. Nick froze. The thing had eaten it. He observed from a distance. It didn¡¯t react to his presence, didn¡¯t shift toward him. Instead, it continued its silent work, clearing the ground. Whatever system had once kept this city running¡ªit was still functioning. He adjusted his path. Best not to test his luck. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Further ahead, a metallic tram track cut through the ruin. Something about it unsettled him¡ªit was old, yet its structure remained unbroken, unclaimed by rust. Vehicles jutted from walls like impaled insects. Had they been thrown there? Or had they once flown? The city stood silent, but it was watching. A fortress-like building loomed in the distance, its five-meter walls imposing yet aged. The main gate had been forced open long ago. He lingered at the threshold, instincts resisting. Then, he turned back toward the jungle. The eerie red vines, the pulsing tree trunks, the unknown creatures lurking in the undergrowth. He exhaled, steeling himself. The city was the lesser threat. He stepped inside. The first thing that greeted him was a garden, its colors unnaturally vivid, the air thick with a saccharine scent. The fragrance curled into his lungs, almost lulling, almost inviting. Yet, something felt wrong. The insects refused to enter. Small creatures sniffed at the edges of the garden, then scurried away. Nick plucked a dry branch and snapped it in half. A piece landed in the flowers. Nothing happened. He watched. Waited. Minutes passed before he finally stepped forward. Inside, the waiting room stood untouched by time. The walls were smooth, dense¡ªfar sturdier than anything he''d ever known. Even with no power, no hum of machines, no sign of life, the structure held firm. He climbed the staircase, each step deliberate. The first floor opened into a spacious lobby, its corridors stretching into darkened apartments. Doors left ajar. Not forced. Opened. By scavengers? Or something else? Nick chose the most ordinary-looking unit. The door swung wide. A sofa, still standing. A painting on the wall. His gaze locked onto it. A warrior, mounted on the back of a great bird, spear aimed toward the sky. The beast¡¯s wings stretched outward, its rider resolute, unshaken. Something about it felt¡­ human. He moved deeper inside. Some decorations remained, while others had rotted long ago. But the objects¡ª The objects were wrong. A small figurine of a woman, riding an octopus through violent waves. The craftsmanship was too precise, the details unnerving. Fantasy? Myth? Or something else entirely? Shoving the thought aside, he made his way to the kitchen. He found what he needed¡ªa water bottle, a sturdy pot, a sealed container. A sack, most likely made of animal hide. Durable. Lightweight. He stuffed everything inside. The other rooms held nothing useful. He stopped searching. Not because there was nothing left to find. But because the more he explored, the heavier the unknown pressed in. He had already stepped too deep into the unfamiliar. There was no need to push further. The stairs led him to the rooftop. A helipad stretched across the space, faded markings barely visible beneath layers of grime. A broken transport vehicle lay abandoned in the corner. He ran his hands along its structure, searching for something salvageable. The metal was stripped clean. Whoever had come before him had taken everything that mattered. Nick exhaled, pushing forward until his hands met the guarding rail. He curled his fingers around the cold metal, his gaze sweeping across the silent city. Everything lay still. Then¡ªmovement. His breath caught. In the city¡¯s core, a massive creature¡ªeasily the size of a one-story building¡ªbounded across rooftops. And it wasn¡¯t alone. A pack of dog-sized rat-like creatures pursued it, their metallic scales glinting, strange appendages protruding from their backs. Some moved in shadows, their bodies flickering in and out of visibility. Nick¡¯s pulse hammered. The creatures were hunting. But something else was hunting them. From the ruins, tendrils of red and green lashed out, striking at isolated stragglers. The creatures twisted and shrieked, but the tendrils were merciless. Nick¡¯s breathing turned shallow. His fingers ached from how tightly he gripped the railing. This was not a world built for him. The things he had once stepped on without a second thought¡ªthe ants, the insects, the pests of his world¡ª Here, he was them. His vine armor, sharpened stick, and metal pot meant nothing. And if he wasn¡¯t careful, He would be crushed just as easily. 8. Dicision The scene outside was too terrifying to risk another glance. Nick¡¯s pulse thundered in his ears, sweat dripping down his temple. The sturdy structure of the building was his only protection, and for now, that was enough. He forced himself to move, descending to the fourth floor and choosing the same apartment he had searched earlier. He rummaged through drawers, overturned cabinets, but found nothing new. The silence outside stretched unbearably long. It should have been a relief, but the quiet felt unnatural. Forced. "Are they still out there? Waiting?" His fingers trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face. He needed to leave. Tightening the cloth bag, he secured his scavenged supplies in his sack. --- With careful, measured steps, he climbed to the topmost floor once more. This time, he didn¡¯t just look¡ªhe studied. His eyes scanned every shadow, every broken window, every shifting vine. He turned in slow, deliberate motions, making sure nothing moved where it shouldn¡¯t. Only when he was certain no threats lurked nearby did he finally begin his descent. Leaving the building was a different challenge. "If they see me now, it''s over." This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. --- Nick walked like a thief in enemy territory. His footsteps barely made a sound against the ruined pavement. His breath was controlled, shallow. Even the rustling of leaves felt too loud, too dangerous. "A newborn calf fears no tiger. But I am not a calf." He had seen what prowled this city. He had glimpsed the monstrous things lurking in the ruins. "This is their hunting ground. I was never supposed to be here." --- By the time he reached his basecamp, his muscles were taut, his senses stretched thin. And now, the truth was clear. There were no people in this city. Not because civilization had simply fallen¡ªbut because this place had become a hunting ground. The creatures here did not share. Living in the city was a death sentence. "I''ve never killed anything in my life. Not even a rabbit. What the hell am I supposed to do if I run into one of them?" To those things, he was nothing more than delivered food. But the wild was no safer. The unknown threats in the jungle, the shifting trees, the eerie silence¡ªit carried its own kind of death. Yet, staying here meant starving. His supplies would run out. The land around his basecamp would deplete faster than he could replenish it. The city meant certain death. The wild meant possible survival. "Possible is better than guaranteed." He could work with that. --- Nick sat cross-legged on the ground, counting his gains. A sturdy pot, a sack, a large water bottle, three containers, and clothes. "Not bad. Not great either." It was enough. For now. He resolved himself. No more hesitation. He set up a small fire, boiling mushrooms and berries, drinking the thin soup in silence. It was hot, it was bitter, but it kept him alive. And for now, that was all that mattered. --- Morning came too soon. Nick rose early, moving with purpose. He collected water, washed utensils, and packed his remaining food into containers. He filled the last two with water, ensuring he had enough to last at least two days. Then, he dressed. The clothes, the armor of woven vines, the crude weapons. His stick rested firmly in his grasp, his sack slung over his shoulder. Before stepping away from the shelter, he turned back, taking in the space one last time. A house that once belonged to someone long gone. "Who lived here? Did they have time to run?" He inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment. Thank you, stranger. Then, without another word, he left. This time, he wasn¡¯t coming back. 9. On The road Nick retraced his steps down the same cracked road he had taken into the city. It was familiar. A lifeline. If things went south, he¡¯d know how to get out. He tried not to think too hard about what ¡°out¡± even meant. As he walked, his thoughts drifted home¡ªhis parents, his sister. He could almost hear them. His mother¡¯s laughter in the kitchen, the muffled sound of his father watching late-night TV, his sister humming as she sketched in her room. The memories were so clear they felt like a cruel joke. He swallowed hard. He couldn''t afford to let his mind wander. Not here. Not when something was watching him. He felt it. That prickling weight on his skin, the awareness of unseen eyes locked onto him from the jungle. The undergrowth shifted. Nick froze, breath shallow. Thin, wiry tendrils stretched from the foliage, reaching toward him like fingers testing the air. For a moment, they hovered, uncertain. Then, just as suddenly, they withdrew. His lungs deflated in relief. Good. Whatever they were, they didn¡¯t see him as a threat. He needed to keep it that way. --- After walking for what felt like hours, fatigue seeped into his bones. His legs ached, each step growing heavier. He found a small clearing and sank down onto a patch of dirt, pulling out his meager meal¡ªa tin of mushroom soup. It was barely warm, but he sipped it anyway, letting the earthy taste coat his tongue. It was quiet. Too quiet. His gut clenched. The hairs on his arms rose. Something was moving. A rustle. A shift. Nick straightened, gripping his spear. The sound followed him. At first, hesitant, like something unsure of its target. But the moment he slowed¡ªit grew bolder. His heart thumped against his ribs. "I''m being hunted." If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. His mind raced. Run? Hide? Fight? No. Not yet. He needed to know what he was dealing with. So, he kept walking. --- The realization hit him like ice. This wasn¡¯t Earth. He had tried to tell himself it was¡ªa hidden part of the world, some isolated jungle untouched by time. But he wasn¡¯t stupid. That box. The one that had appeared in his apartment¡ªthe one that had vanished the second he touched it¡ªit had done something. It had taken him. And it had given him nothing in return. No instructions. No warnings. No way back. "This isn¡¯t a one-way trip," he muttered under his breath. "It can''t be." He needed to believe that. Because so far, he had seen no people. No signs of civilization. Only strange creatures, twisted landscapes, and the unrelenting, merciless rhythm of survival. Had this world been lived in once? There were signs. Ruins. A past. But something had happened here. Something big. Either they left¡­ or they didn¡¯t get the chance to. Either way, this place wasn¡¯t meant for him. And it wasn¡¯t going to let him stay. --- Two hours later, he reached the place where he had first woken up. His eyes swept over the dirt, desperate for any sign. Nothing. Not a footprint. Not a shift in the earth. It was as if he had never been here at all. His stomach twisted. "I came here in a damn birthday suit." Whatever had transported him, it had erased its own tracks. He exhaled sharply, shaking off the frustration. No time for self-pity. Stick to the road. Keep moving. --- Then, finally¡ªsomething new. A vehicle. Massive. Rusted. At least twice the size of an Earth truck. Nick slowed, eyes narrowing at the damage. An explosion had ripped through it. The metal was blackened, warped. But that wasn¡¯t the worst part. Skeletons. Scattered around the wreckage. Hundreds of them. His breath caught. Humanoid. Once, this truck had carried people. And something had ensured they never reached their destination. His fists clenched. "What the hell happened here?" --- He forced himself forward, eyes scanning for supplies. Then¡ªmovement. Fast. Too fast. Blurs darted through the wreckage, too quick to track. Nick¡¯s instincts screamed¡ªRUN. But before he could react, fire ripped through his left leg. A deep, clean cut. He staggered back. Blood seeped into his boot. His brain caught up a second later. "Shit." Sweat slicked his palms. This was bad. --- Nick¡¯s breath came fast and shallow. The things¡ªwhatever they were¡ªwere already gone. But if they had wanted him dead¡­ they could have finished him. They hadn¡¯t. They were testing him. A warning. He pressed a shaking hand to his leg. The wound wasn¡¯t fatal. But it would be, if he didn¡¯t act fast. Gritting his teeth, he ripped a strip of cloth from his boiled rations and tied it tight around his calf. His vision blurred with pain, but he forced himself to stand. "If they come back, I''m done." --- He took a step back from the truck and picked up a stone. Hurling it at the wreckage, he waited. Silence. His pulse pounded. Nothing moved. Exhaling sharply, he edged closer. Most of the truck¡¯s contents were destroyed. What wasn¡¯t was too heavy to move. Then¡ªsomething. Tucked beneath twisted metal. A knife. Untouched by rust, as if time had forgotten it. Nick pried it free. The blade wasn¡¯t particularly sharp, but it was sturdy. It had survived. And now, so would he. Tying it to his wooden spear, he let out a dry laugh. "At least now I can poke the air with confidence." The humor was thin, but he clung to it. Because right now, this spear¡ªthis flimsy thing¡ª Was the only thing keeping him from feeling utterly helpless. --- He limped forward, every step a fresh stab of pain. The jungle grew darker. The rustling thickened. Now, twigs snapped. Now, something hissed. Nick¡¯s fingers tightened around his spear. He wasn¡¯t just walking alone anymore. He was being followed. 10 Furball Nick dragged himself forward, every step a battle against the crushing fatigue. His legs ached, each movement slower than the last. It wasn¡¯t just tiredness¡ªsomething was wrong. His limbs felt heavier than they should, as if the jungle itself was trying to pull him down. A sharp sound cut through the silence. Whoosh. His instincts screamed at him to move, but his body lagged behind. Before he could react, something slammed into his back. A burst of pain shot through him, sharp and immediate. He stumbled, barely keeping himself upright. Another impact. Then another. His brain caught up¡ªhe was under attack. Adrenaline spiked through his veins, dulling the exhaustion. He twisted around, breath ragged, just in time to see them¡ªsmall, green furballs, no bigger than a fist, darting through the air like living projectiles. There were dozens of them, moving in erratic, unpredictable patterns. The next hit sent him staggering to his knees. This isn¡¯t good. If they kept this up, he¡¯d be battered into the dirt. Heart pounding, Nick tightened his grip on his spear. Think. He swung at the creatures, but they were too fast, slipping through the dark like ghosts. The dim jungle made it worse¡ªhe could barely see. He tried again, and by sheer luck, his spear struck home. The thing let out a high-pitched squeal as a thick, gel-like substance spilled from its punctured body. They weren¡¯t invincible. That changed everything. Nick pushed through the pain, jabbing at anything that got too close. He wasn¡¯t graceful¡ªit was messy, desperate. He missed more than he hit, but it didn¡¯t matter. They weren¡¯t used to resistance. As their numbers dwindled, hesitation crept into their movements. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. Then, as suddenly as they had come, they scattered¡ªmelting back into the jungle. Nick didn¡¯t move right away. His chest heaved, his hands gripping the spear so tightly his knuckles ached. His body hurt. Not just from the bruises¡ªsomething else. A deep, biting pain spread through him, separate from the blows. His wounds from earlier throbbed angrily, and when he touched his side, his fingers came away wet. He needed rest. Desperately. But the jungle wasn¡¯t silent. The distant rustling, the occasional growl¡ªthis place was still alive, still watching. If he slept now, he wouldn¡¯t wake up. So he moved. Every step sent fresh jolts of pain through his body, but stopping wasn¡¯t an option. He forced himself forward, gripping his spear like a lifeline. The jungle around him whispered with unseen threats¡ªthe drone of insects, the sickening sound of flesh being torn, guttural noises from something too large to be ignored. His skin prickled, his mind screaming at him to run, but his body couldn¡¯t manage more than a slow, unsteady march. Was this worth it? The thought came unbidden, a bitter whisper in the back of his mind. He¡¯d left the city to survive, to find something better. But now, trudging through this nightmare, bruised, bleeding, and alone¡ªhe wasn¡¯t so sure anymore. Still, what choice did he have? He pressed on, barely aware of time passing. He was attacked again¡ªonce, twice¡ªby things he couldn¡¯t even see. He fought them off on instinct, his world reduced to nothing but movement and pain. His feet, raw and cut from the rough ground, screamed with every step. He was running on empty. Then, finally¡ªa break. A sliver of red crept across the horizon. Dawn. The jungle exhaled. The tension in the air loosened just enough for Nick to feel it. The creatures lurking in the dark eased back. The oppressive weight of the night lifted ever so slightly. He should keep going. But his body had other plans. His limbs barely obeyed him now, sluggish and uncoordinated. His mind felt like it was swimming through fog. Eventually, survival wasn¡¯t about moving¡ªit was about knowing when to stop. Nick collapsed. His spear dug into the dirt as he slumped against it, legs folding beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps. Every inch of him hurt. He wanted to stay alert, but his eyelids grew heavier by the second. He fought it. Lost. Darkness swallowed him whole. 11 first contact He didn''t know how much time had passed. He was dreaming, unsure if it was dream or reality. He was flying in the air, giving the middle finger to Newton, who was standing on the ground, seemingly disproving the theory of gravity. He felt immense happiness as he effortlessly passed through the clouds. But suddenly, a planet-sized green fur-ball sent its tentacle toward him. He tried to pierce the tentacle with his spear, but it wasn''t there. Then, the tentacle stuffed water into his mouth, and he drank greedily, despite a strange urge to kiss that damn green ball. Then, he felt something wet on his lip. He slowly opened his eyes and saw the bright sky, his body aching. He was still holding the spear and sitting on the road. The only difference now was water coming from a wooden bottle, which he was drinking. Then he saw a man holding that bottle. He took the bottle and drank the water. Yesterday''s fight had caused him to lose all the resources he was carrying; only the spear remained by his side. He thanked the person. It was the first time he had spoken a complete sentence, and though the language he spoke was different, it came effortlessly and felt natural. The man offers Nick water. Nick drinks, then hands the bottle back, saying, "Thank you." The man looks at him, his eyes assessing. He is in poor shape, the man thinks. Bruised, lacerated wounds, clothes torn to shreds. He has lost his weapons and provisions. He is vulnerable. The man considers Nick. An outsider, coming from the direction of the ruined city. I have never seen anyone come from that place. The man decides to help him. He asks, "Can you stand?" Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Nick tries to stand. His body protests with aches and stiffness, but with a visible effort, he manages to get to his feet. The man nods, observing Nick''s struggle. "My vehicle is parked some distance from here. If you can walk to it, I will help you reach my settlement." Nick, with each step a reminder of his injuries, starts to walk alongside the man. After a moment of silence, he asks, "What were you doing out here?" The man replies, "I came to hunt. To find meat." After a few moments, the man turns to Nick and asks, "Tell me again of this¡­ beast. Where did your team encounter it?" Nick, trying to keep the story short, says, "It was outside the city. We encountered two of them. Huge, like monstrous rats, but with metal scales. To escape, we were scattered. Many didn¡¯t make it." The man''s eyes gleam with a strange intensity. "The city? You saw these creatures near the city?" A tremor runs through his hands, and his voice tightens. Nick, sensing the man''s unusual reaction and the strong focus on the word "city," becomes cautious. He decides to downplay their proximity to the ruins. "No, not near the city. We came to hunt on the other side of it. That''s where we met them." As they walk, Nick, curious about his savior, asks, "What do you do for a living?" The man laughs, a short, humorless sound. "In this world? We do everything for survival. But mainly, I hunt. I hunt with my hunting party." After walking a little further, they reach the "vehicle" the man mentioned. Nick observes it closely. It is a wooden cart, crudely made entirely of wood. The wheel rims are lined with some kind of animal skin, providing a bit of traction. The cart''s bed holds a variety of animal carcasses: large rabbits, the green fur-balls Nick encountered, some overgrown vegetables, and other fruits and animals he doesn¡¯t recognize. Two strong men, similar in build to his savior, are guarding the hunt, their eyes alert. 12 negotiation As they approached the cart, the guards immediately recognized the hunter standing beside it. One of them, a wiry man with a scar etched across his nose, smirked with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Roric, why¡¯d you start hunting humans now?" he teased, his tone light but laced with an undercurrent of dark humor as his eyes flicked to the injured man¡ªbarely clothed, battered, and embodying the despair of an outcast. Roric¡¯s jaw tightened as he adjusted his grip on the frail man. ¡°Found him half-dead in the middle of the road. Figured I¡¯d do something about it,¡± he replied, his voice betraying a weariness that went beyond mere fatigue. Then Roric ask Nick to settle down, Nick sat in cart with carcass of the dead Nick, a silent observer, felt his heart quicken as he absorbed every word. The guards¡¯ conversation, though mundane, resonated with the raw brutality of this world. Garrik, the older guard whose rough hands had seen too many battles, rubbed his jaw as he recounted, ¡°You hear about Joss¡¯s hunting party? Ran into a nest of red furballs. Lost two outta six.¡± His tone was laced with a sorrow that came from witnessing too much loss. Tav, the younger guard with eyes as sharp as broken glass, leaned in. ¡°Damn. Those things don¡¯t let go once they bite. How¡¯d they even get away?¡± Garrik¡¯s reply was grim, ¡°Burned ''em out. Had no mercy.¡± Nick¡¯s pulse thudded in his ears, each word sinking into him like a cold shock. Amidst these exchanges, the dense jungle around them seemed to whisper with hidden threats, its murmur intensifying his inner dread. Suddenly, a shout tore through the oppressive air. ¡°Chickens are coming!¡± In an instant, the casual banter gave way to urgency. Tav and Garrik moved with practiced haste, their bodies coiled like springs as they mounted the cart over the horses. Roric¡¯s hand on Nick¡¯s shoulder was both a command and a shield. ¡°Get in. Now.¡± Inside the cart, Nick¡¯s mind raced. His legs, heavy and numb, barely obeyed his frantic efforts to climb aboard. The pounding of approaching footsteps hammered his chest, and his eyes widened as a burly man burst from the undergrowth, clutching a massive egg with trembling determination. Two younger men flanked him, their expressions etched with raw, unspoken terror. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Then¡ª A cry of agony shattered the moment. One young man was yanked skyward. Nick¡¯s breath hitched as he watched in horror. A barbed vine, as if imbued with malice, had sprung from beneath fallen leaves, coiling around the boy and the treasured egg. It waited, cold and calculating. The boy¡¯s struggles were frantic, panic painting every line of his face. Roric acted swiftly, his eyes hardening. With practiced precision, he drew a disc-shaped weapon from his belt and hurled it. The spinning blade cut through the vine like a beacon of hope, and the boy, released, landed roughly before scrambling desperately toward the cart. Yet, there was no time to settle¡ªanother threat loomed. The rustling in the jungle swelled into a chorus of movement as massive, imposing chickens emerged. These were no ordinary fowl; their eyes burned with a feral intelligence, and their presence was suffused with an almost palpable menace. Six of them encircled the cart, their low clucks forming a rhythm that felt like a death march. Then a blur of black feathers struck¡ªa sleek, aggressive form aimed directly at the burly man with the egg. In a heartbeat, the man raised his axe, a reflex born of countless skirmishes, and met the attack with resolute force. The clash of metal against claw echoed like a death knell, and sparks flew, each a fleeting burst of light in the encroaching darkness. A sudden, sharp cry announced that the assault wasn¡¯t over. The attacking chicken, its talons still flailing, twisted desperately, but Roric¡¯s arrow found its mark, embedding in the creature¡¯s side. A screech of anger and defeat filled the air as it retreated into the shadows. Then the sky filled with the rapid beat of wings. More chickens emerged, their numbers swelling to a staggering fifty. Their coordinated clucking created an eerie, almost ritualistic atmosphere¡ªan unspoken promise of violence if their demands were not met. The leader, a monstrous chicken nearly two meters tall, descended with a gravitas that silenced even the turbulent heartbeat of the jungle. Its immense claws dug into the earth as it landed, and its eyes locked onto the humans with a judgment that was as intimidating as it was inscrutable. For a long, breathless moment, no one moved. Nick¡¯s own heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the hopelessness and raw fear of the moment. The leader¡¯s imposing figure, standing like a dark god of nature, pointed its talon toward the egg. The silent command was clear: return what was theirs. Roric exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders a testament to the heavy burden of choices made in desperation. He then pointed first to the distant settlement, and then to the eggs. A fragile negotiation unfolded in that charged silence. The great chicken¡¯s head tilted, and after a suspended moment, it nodded¡ªa gesture that resonated with ancient, almost primal understanding. Relief mingled with lingering apprehension as Roric signaled a retreat. The cart lurched forward, and though the threat of the chasing fowl lingered in the distance, the immediate danger had passed. As the vehicle rattled along the bumpy road, Nick¡¯s mind churned with conflicting emotions¡ªfear, wonder, and a profound sadness for a world where even negotiations were fought with raw, unfiltered survival instinct. Finally, seeking clarity amid the chaos, he turned to the injured boy and asked, ¡°Why do they care so much about the eggs?¡± The boy, his voice steadier than his trembling hands as he cleaned his wounds, replied with a wry smile, ¡°Because they¡¯re special. These aren¡¯t just any eggs. They¡¯re mutated¡ªsomething we¡¯ve been tracking for months. Didn¡¯t think the chickens would go this far to reclaim them.¡± Nick nodded slowly, his mind a turbulent mix of understanding and bafflement. Mutated animals and relentless predators were within the realm of his comprehension, but a world where chickens negotiated like ancient guardians was beyond his grasp. Two long, torturous hours later, they reached the settlement¡¯s edge. Nick¡¯s body ached with exhaustion, yet his heart, heavy with the day¡¯s emotional toll, knew that this was only the beginn ing of a journey filled with both terror and wonder. 13. The settlement The air thickened as Nick passed the gateway, heavy with smoke, roasting meat, and a sharp chemical undertone. The jungle''s quiet yielded to a low, grinding hum: rhythmic hammering, curt bartering voices, the distressed cry of penned creatures. His injured calf pulsed with each step on the muddy path. The spear felt flimsy in his grip, the lashed knifea desperate measure. Buildings huddled close, patched with rust-streaked metal and cloudy polymer sheets, leaning against dark timbers salvaged from colossal ruins. Ditches oozed refuse beside the paths. Roric strode ahead, the hunters flanking the cart, eyes constantly scanning. Nick matched their pace, feeling the quick, assessing glances slide over him. Outsider. Burden. Work was relentless. A man hammered warped metal. Women scraped hides with brutal efficiency. Children sorted scrap or hauled wood, their faces small, serious masks. Guards paced the low walls, clutching crossbows or weapons cobbled from pipes and salvaged parts. Makeshift stalls displayed worn tools, dried herbs, rough textiles. Deals were struck in low murmurs. This was a place stripped to function. Roric stopped the cart before a larger structure. A woman emerged, wiping grime onto a leather apron. Lines scored her face; her eyes missed nothing. Her gaze swept the cart, Roric, then settled on Nick, hard and appraising. "Yield?" Her voice was worn smooth, like river stone. "Enough," Roric replied, his tone flat with exhaustion. "Chickens were thick near the line. Torvin''s boy..." The name hung, a shared loss. He jerked his chin towards Nick. "Found him. Roadside. Came out of the boneyard. Says fast things with metal hides got his group." The woman¡¯s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Nick. "The boneyard? Nothing walks out." A grim statement of fact. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. "Torn up," Roric stated. "Needs Kaelen." She chewed her lip, weighing the risk. A curt nod. "Fine. Kaelen''s." Her eyes flicked to Nick. "But then he stays put. Don''t need ghosts following him." She turned away, instantly focused. "Right. Strip this cart. Night watch needs the meat." Roric nudged Nick towards a dark hut leaking the faint, sharp smell of primitive antiseptic. Relief was cold, brief. Ghosts. He wasn''t just an outsider; he was potentially contaminated. The hut door groaned. An old man, bent like a weathered tree, peered out. His eyes, startlingly bright, beckoned Nick inside. The cramped space smelled of dried plants and chemicals. Herbs hung like talismans. Shelves crammed with pots, vials, and tools of bone and metal lined the walls. Kaelen pointed to a stool. Nick sank onto it, wincing. The old man worked silently, fingers surprisingly deft as they cleaned Nick¡¯s wounds . A soft ''tsk'' escaped him over Nick''s calf. He applied a thick green salve. Coolness flooded Nick¡¯s skin, immediate, profound, muting the pain to a dull echo. He stared at the paste, astonished. Impossible magic in this broken place. Kaelen wrapped the wounds tightly, then straightened, holding up three fingers. Payment. Nick untied the knife, his only real tool, offering it reluctantly. Kaelen examined the blade, tested its edge, nodded once. From a pouch, he produced stiff hide strips marked with crude symbols. He counted five, tapped the knife, handed two strips back to Nick. Nick pocketed the strange currency. Healed, but disarmed. He cleared his throat. "Thank you. Is there... somewhere I can stay? Get food?" Kaelen¡¯s gaze was distant. "Place is earned." He rubbed his chin. "Gutter block takes traders. Ten strips a night." He saw Nick''s lack of reaction. "Or, ask around. Find someone takes pity." A dry shrug. "Risky." He paused. "Shrine, south wall. Roof holds. Can lie down there. Quiet." Another shrug. "Won''t feed you." Nick nodded slowly. "Food?" "''The Grit Pot''," Kaelen said, naming the communal cookfire. "Stew. One strip." He turned away, shuffling back to his shelves, the transaction complete. Two strips. Maybe two meals. Shelter, possibly, in a ruin. Nick pushed himself up, the salve already working its strange coolness. He stepped back out, heading towards the rising smoke and smell of cooking. Time to face the hunger, the crowd. Time to figure out how not to die next. 14. The Grit pot The queue inched forward. Nick kept his eyes on the mud-caked boots ahead, the two hide strips sweating in his fist. He could feel the rough texture, a flimsy weight against his palm. Worthless, yet everything. Around him, the low murmur of the waiting crowd blended with the crackle of the fire pit and the clang of the cook¡¯s ladle against thick iron. Heat radiated from the pit as he finally reached the front, carrying the greasy, unfamiliar smell of the stew ¨C meat, sharp roots, something almost metallic underneath. The cook, built like the pistons Nick had seen on the shrine, didn''t look up. Just snatched the offered hide strip, slopped stew into the heavy ceramic bowl Nick held out, and bellowed, "Next!" Nick retreated, shielding the bowl, the warmth a stark contrast to the chill air clinging to his clothes. He found space against a wall of corrugated scrap, the cold metal biting through his thin layers. He sank down, the movement pulling at sore muscles, balancing the precious bowl on his knees. Steam rose, carrying the scent directly into his face. Hunger twisted low in his belly. He dipped hesitant fingers into the murky gravy. The first taste was jarring ¨C tough, chewy meat, fibrous roots that tasted faintly of dirt, all swimming in a thick, salty broth. It wasn''t food he recognized, merely fuel. He ate mechanically at first, then with increasing urgency, scooping and swallowing, the gnawing ache in his stomach slowly receding. Grease slicked his fingers, his chin. He didn¡¯t care. This raw sustenance felt more vital than anything he¡¯d ever eaten from a clean plate back home . He scraped the last dregs from the bowl, the rough ceramic scratching his skin. A heavy warmth settled in his gut. He stood stiffly, placing the empty bowl on a growing stack near the fire, and turned away, clutching his last hide strip. The path towards the south wall felt longer this time, his steps dragging slightly. The sounds of the settlement faded behind him, replaced by the whisper of wind through gaps in the outer wall and the distant, unsettling hum of the jungle beyond. He found the shrine tucked against the perimeter, a low shape of mud brick and stone interwoven with panels of smooth, dark material that seemed dead to the touch ¨C salvaged bones of a world utterly unlike this one. The patched roof sagged, looking barely capable of holding back the rain. He pushed the heavy plank door inward. Stillness. Cold air thick with the cloying smell of burnt animal fat from the single, sputtering lamp. Shadows leaped and stretched on the dusty earth floor. Nothing else. Just emptiness. He slumped into a corner, pulling his knees tight against his chest, leaning his spear against the rough wall. The cold of the ground seeped into him relentlessly. Images flickered behind his closed eyes ¨C faces he knew, voices he missed, a life lost in the space of a breath. Here, only the cold ground, the flickering shadows, and the crushing weight of being utterly alone. Sleep was a slow surrender to exhaustion. Grey light, filtering through cracks overhead, nudged him awake. He sat up, joints stiff, muscles protesting, but the sharp edge of yesterday''s pain had dulled, thanks to Kaelen¡¯s potent salve. He felt marginally less broken. The shrine¡¯s interior resolved itself in the dawn. His gaze landed on the altar ¨C a heavy, scarred engine piston, mounted upright . An icon of lost power? Before it, the clay bowl held its clear liquid offering, catching the weak light. He couldn''t decipher the meaning, only register the strangeness. He grabbed his spear, its wood smooth and familiar in his hand, and pushed himself outside. Cool air greeted him. The settlement was already stirring. His hand tightened on the single hide strip in his pocket. Today meant finding more. Today meant learning, watching, figuring out the rhythm of this place before it crushed him. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Near the gate, groups prepared to leave. Hunters checked the mechanisms of their crossbows; gatherers adjusted empty baskets on their backs. Their low voices were practical, focused. Nick watched them disappear through the gate, a knot of envy and fear tightening in his stomach. He scanned the area. Work. He needed work. He spotted the guard from yesterday ¨C broad-shouldered, leaning impassively, crossbow held loosely. He approached, keeping his steps slow, deliberate. "Excuse me." His voice felt thin. "Is there... any work? For strips?" Her eyes flicked over him. Measured. Unimpressed. "Gate list is full." Her voice was flat, bored. "Hunt teams won''t take greenhorns." A pause, maybe a flicker of pity, or just pragmatism. "Joril, the farmer. West wall. Always needs help turning his shit pile." She jerked her head vaguely westward. "If you ain''t too proud." Her gaze slid away. Joril. The farmer. A possibility. Nick nodded, turning west, the word ''farmer'' conjuring images alien to this landscape. The plots near the west wall defied expectation. No neat rows of familiar vegetables. Instead, thorny bushes bearing fruit like pale, oversized melons. And the leaves¡­ they seemed to hold a faint light, a soft, internal pulse that made Nick¡¯s skin crawl. Joril was already there, bent low, examining the soil around one of the luminous plants. He looked up as Nick approached, suspicion etched onto his leathery face. "Something you need?" His tone was rough, proprietary. "The guard... she said you might have work." Joril straightened, dusting his hands on patched trousers. His eyes raked over Nick ¨C soft hands, inadequate clothes, the stance of someone unused to hardship. "Work?" He grunted, skepticism plain. "Got the compost heap. Needs turning. Smells bad." He gestured. "Think you can handle that?" Nick looked at the steaming pile, the stench hitting him even from a distance. His stomach clenched. But necessity gnawed harder. "Yes," he said, meeting Joril''s doubting gaze. "I need the strips." Joril squinted, then gave a short, humorless chuckle. "We''ll see. Fork''s there. Whole pile, ''fore midday." He turned back to his glowing plants, leaving Nick with the reeking reality of his first real job. The pitchfork was heavy, splintered. The compost heap radiated a damp heat along with its foul odor. Nick jammed the tines in. The pile resisted, dense and wet. He strained, muscles screaming almost immediately. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, dripped into his eyes. The air felt thick, unbreathable. He worked in short bursts, leaning on the fork, chest heaving, fighting nausea. He didn''t look at Joril, just focused on the task, one forkful at a time. Hours blurred into a cycle of strain, stench, and aching exhaustion. Finally, trembling, coated in filth, he¡¯d turned the last section. He staggered back, leaning heavily on the fork. Joril ambled over, kicked at the pile, peered closely. He grunted again, a sound that might have held a fraction less skepticism than before. "Didn''t run off," Joril observed, stating the obvious. He nodded towards a crude lean-to behind his hut. "Sleep there tonight. Keeps the worst off." His eyes narrowed. "But stay clear of my plants." He fished out two hide strips, held them out. "Day''s pay." Nick took the strips, his hand filthy against the worn hide. Shelter. Pay. Earned. It felt monumental. That evening, muscles screaming with every movement, Nick joined the queue at ''The Grit Pot'' again. He handed over a strip, received his bowl, found his familiar spot against the wall. The stew tasted the same ¨C bland fuel. But tonight, he listened more intently to the conversations swirling around the fire pit. "...nasty biters," a woman was saying, rubbing a bandaged arm. "But the nest is cleared. West fields should be safe from the green furballsfor a bit." Her companions nodded, relief evident even in their exhaustion. Near the settlement leader, a scout spoke quietly, urgently. "...confirmed. ''Glow Pods''. High energy readings. Sector''s unstable, though." The leader''s reply was low, decisive: "First light team. Secure it. No mistakes." And the burly hunter held court again, voice loud, expansive. "¡­bolt went right through its skull! Big chickendropped like a bad habit! Teach it to raid our stores!" Laughter followed, rough and brief. Nick finished his stew. Furballs, Glow Pods, giant chickens hunted like pests. Scraps of information, painting a picture of relentless, pragmatic survival. Every day here was a battle fought on multiple fronts. He was learning the rules, slowly, painfully. 15. Strange roots Days settled into a harsh rhythm. Nick woke before dawn to the lean-to¡¯s chill, forcing stiff muscles into motion to report to Joril, who was always already amongst his glowing plants. The work remained grueling: turning compost, hauling gut-mulch, clearing stones, patching fences. Nick¡¯s hands grew calloused, blistered, then calloused again. He learned to work steadily, conserving energy under Joril¡¯s watchful, critical eye, driven by the necessity of the two hide strips earned each evening ¨C payment for stew and shelter. During breaks, Nick watched the plants. Their leaves pulsed with an eerie luminescence. The large, pale fruits hung heavy. Joril tended them meticulously, applying strange concoctions, pruning with care. Nick wondered about them but didn¡¯t dare ask, sensing the farmer¡¯s possessiveness. Evenings at ''The Grit Pot'' were for stew and listening. He learned names, relationships, settlement politics ¨C disputes over salvage, guard rotations, failing water filters. He heard of patrols lost, strange sicknesses from the ruins. Each scrap reinforced the community''s fragility. He remained an outsider, ignored, but learning. His tasks expanded. One morning, Joril nodded towards a handcart. "Need gut-mulch. Butcher block." The ''butcher house'' was a blood-stained patch of ground where kills were processed, thick with the stench of blood and viscera. Intestines and organs were dumped onto a festering pile. "Load the cart," Joril instructed. Nick scooped the decomposing mess, fighting nausea. They hauled the foul load back in silence. Another day: "Bone dust," Joril announced, handing Nick a sack. "Grinder''s shop." In a noisy hut, a man operated a crude grinding machine. Piles of bones were fed in, emerging as powder or shaped into tools and arrowheads. Nothing wasted. Joril exchanged a strip for a sack of bone powder. Back at the farm, Joril began teaching Nick plant care, demonstrating how to mix bone powder, gut-mulch, and other substances into fertilizer. "Not too much," he cautioned, working it into the soil. "These ain''t weeds. Need specific feed." He showed Nick how to check for pests, prune branches, test soil moisture. He demonstrated more than explained. Nick was learning the secrets of these valuable, unnatural plants, perhaps earning Joril''s grudging trust. A few days later, Joril twisted a large, pale fruit from a bush. "Eat," he commanded. Nick hesitated ¨C the glowing leaves, the strange fertilizer ¨C but obeyed. The flesh was dense, creamy, sweet with a tart aftertaste. Filling. Joril handed him a waterskin. "Drink." The liquid was clear, viscous, tasteless. A profound weariness washed over Nick. Heavy. Sleepy. "Good," Joril grunted. "Go lie down." Nick stumbled to the lean-to, collapsing as darkness swallowed him. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Light filtered through gaps in the roof. Nick blinked awake, mouth dry. He sat up. The deep soreness was gone. He felt¡­ lighter. Less burdened. Confused, he looked at his calloused hands. The underlying fragility had lessened. How long? He stood, looked out. Joril inspected his plants. The sun felt wrong. Joril looked over. "Awake then." "How long...?" Nick croaked. "Ten days," Joril stated flatly. "Slept like the dead." He peered at Nick. "The fruit¡­ and the binder liquid¡­ forces adjustment. Integration." He gestured vaguely. "Won''t break so easy now. Less fragile." Nick stared. Ten days? Forced adjustment? Joril added, "Still weak, though. Weak compared to settlement-born . Maybe won''t die tripping now." He turned back to his plants. "Get up. Work needs doing." Ten days gone. Changed. Less fragile, but weak. Nick stood reeling, trying to grasp the transformation. The next month passed. Sweat, stench, survival. Nick fell into the farm''s rhythm. Every ten days, Joril provided the fruit and liquid. Each time, the deep sleep, waking marginally stronger, though the gap between him and the settlement-born remained vast. Joril imparted slivers of essential knowledge, blunt pronouncements delivered while working. "See that shimmer?" pointing to rusted metal. "Blue tint? Don''t breathe near it if air''s still. Lung rot." Or, indicating insects: "Bite don''t hurt. Fever after. Stay clear near dusk." He showed Nick edible versus poisonous roots side-by-side. "This one, good. This one, you bloat up dead. Learn the difference." He explained bartering: "Always check weights. Act like you don''t need it. They''d sell their mothers for an extra strip." Knowledge stripped bare, honed sharp by necessity. One evening at ''The Grit Pot'', the talk was louder. Nick nursed his stew, listening. "...cleared the nest," a woman recounted, rubbing a bandaged arm. "Nasty biters. Lost Gren, but the green furballs are gone from the west fields." A scout reported quietly to the woman leader: "...confirmed. ''Glow Pods''. High energy. Sector''s unstable." The leader''s sharp reply: "First light team. Secure it. Quietly." A hunter boasted: "...bolt went right through its skull! Big chicken dropped like a bad habit!" Nick finished his stew. Furballs cleared, scouts lost securing Glow Pods, giant chickens hunted. Life and death tallied like a ledger. He stood up, feeling the evening chill and the weight of his own precarious place.