The familiar ache in Haider's legs had barely faded after absorbing the endurance orbs when he pushed himself up. The surge of vitality from the orbs was undeniable – his breathing was steady, his muscles felt dense and resilient – but the sheer scale of the world's distortion was a crushing weight. He reached the fork in the path where the shortcut to his home village should have branched off, only to find it gone, swallowed by a vast expanse of shimmering, waist-high grass that hadn't existed yesterday.
Instead of the path, his view was dominated by a scene of primal terror.
**The Bovine Wall:** Fifty meters ahead, where the main road should have curved towards the highway near his home, the land had stretched impossibly. Blocking the entire width of the newly widened dirt track and spilling into the fields beyond was a herd of creatures that froze the blood in his veins. They were *like* cows, but scaled up into nightmares. Towering at least three meters tall at the shoulder, their hides were a patchwork of thick, scarred grey and brown leather, stretched taut over bulging, unnatural musculature. Their heads were massive, crowned with horns that weren't curved anymore, but thick, sharpened spears of bone, easily two meters long. Foul steam snorted from wide nostrils, and their eyes, when they lifted massive heads from their grisly feast, glowed a dull, malevolent red.
They were feeding. Not on grass. Haider's stomach lurched as he saw one massive beast tear a ragged strip of cloth and flesh from a half-buried corpse – likely a victim of the initial surge or the jombies. Another used a horn to flip over a shattered rickshaw, revealing more gruesome remains beneath. The sound was a low, guttural chorus of tearing flesh, crunching bone, and deep, rumbling growls that vibrated through the ground. *Mutated cattle. Spirit Beasts.*
**The Crushing Realization:** Home was *that* way. His family, living near the highway on the village outskirts, were on the other side of this monstrous blockade. The desperate hope that had fueled his run evaporated, replaced by icy despair. Fighting one of these behemoths unarmed was suicide. Fifty? Impossible. The road wasn't just blocked; it was a gauntlet of living siege engines. A new, agonizing thought crystallized: *They might already be gone. Or trapped. But I can't reach them.* He clung to a fragile hope – maybe his family escaped *towards* the highway, away from the village center where the jombies first appeared? Maybe the open road offered a chance he couldn't take?
**The Shift in Priority:** Survival instinct, honed by the last brutal hour, slammed down the rising panic. If he couldn't go home, he had to survive *to* find them later. He needed power, real power, and fast. His gaze snapped away from the terrifying herd, scanning the distorted landscape behind him. The nearest town – that was the key. It had a police station (guns!), a market (supplies!), and crucially, an Armed Forces camp on its outskirts. Soldiers. Weapons. Fortifications. It was his only viable destination now.
**The Practicalities:** He slowly, silently backed away from the fork, keeping low in the tall, strange grass until the monstrous herd was out of sight, though their low rumble still vibrated in his chest. He pulled out his phone automatically. The cracked screen showed the dreaded icons: "No Service." "Emergency Calls Only" was greyed out. The final tether to the old world, severed. He pocketed it, the gesture final.
**The New Path:** He turned onto the alternate road, wider now but eerily empty, leading towards the distant town. His mind, sharpened by the agility orbs (which had left a faint, buzzing energy in his nerves, making his reflexes feel lightning-quick), began formulating a plan with cold clarity:
1. **Weapons:** A proper blade, a spear, ideally a gun. The town was the source.
2. **Food & Water:** His stomach growled. The three bottles of water he'd looted from jombie kills wouldn't last. He needed non-perishables.
3. **Shelter:** He pictured a place – the old, abandoned brick kiln on the outskirts of the town. It was semi-fortified, off the main paths, with high walls and only a couple of entrances. Defensible. *That's the bolthole.*
4. **Power:** Keep killing jombies. Absorb the orbs. Grow stronger. Only strength would let him navigate this hellscape, reach the town, and eventually, find his family.
**The Hunt Intensifies:** The journey towards the town became a deadly game of stealth and opportunity. He moved like a shadow, using the expanded ditches, strange new rock formations, and patches of luminous, oversized ferns as cover. Twice, he froze, pressing himself flat as larger groups of jombies (5-7) shambled past, drawn by distant sounds or some unseen instinct. Their moans were a constant, oppressive soundtrack.
But the landscape's expansion also meant more isolated stretches. Lone jombies, separated from packs, became his prey. He learned quickly. The purple Strength orbs were common, each absorption adding a tangible layer of power to his muscles, making his strikes with scavenged iron rods or heavy branches more devastating. Then came the surprises.
One jombie, an old man in tattered pajamas, crumpled after Haider caved its skull in with a concrete chunk. Instead of purple, a small, shimmering *amber* orb floated up. Touching it sent a jolt of pure speed through him. His next step felt unnervingly light, his dodge around a grasping hand almost effortless. *Agility.* Another jombie, this one looking unnaturally bloated and tough, dropped a deep *crimson* orb. Absorbing it felt like warm iron settling into his bones and lungs. When a jombie lunged unexpectedly moments later, the heavy blow that glanced off his shoulder hurt, but didn't buckle him. He retaliated instantly, shattering its neck. *Endurance.*
He now carried the imprints of his kills: 5 Endurance orbs (a reservoir of stamina and resilience), 2 Agility orbs (nerve-like speed and reflexes), and the lingering power of multiple Strength infusions. The difference was profound. Where facing a single jombie had been a life-or-death struggle before, he now moved with predatory confidence. He baited a group of three near a collapsed shed. Using his speed to dart in, shatter a knee with a reinforced bamboo pole, then duck away before the others could react. He isolated the second, using his strength to crush its skull against a wall, then turned his endurance to weathering the clumsy blows of the last one before finishing it efficiently. Three orbs – one crimson, two purple – were his reward.
He stashed the new water bottles he found (one half-full, one sealed) in his makeshift bag, fashioned from a torn jute sack. Each orb absorbed, each small victory, was a step away from the terrified boy in the field and a step towards something harder, sharper. He looked towards the horizon where the town should be, smoke now rising from multiple points. The Armed Forces camp was out there. Weapons were out there. Safety was a myth, but power was real. And power was the only currency in this vast, mutated world. He adjusted his grip on his latest weapon – a heavy, fire-hardened stake – and moved on, the moans of the dead a grim counterpoint to the thrum of newfound energy in his veins. The kiln awaited. The hunt continued.