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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  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 – 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 – 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 – 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.