The Immortal Commoner: Sowing Chaos

The throne, surprisingly, wasn't half bad.

Sure, splinters threatened to become permanent residents of his backside.

But for a chair carved with nothing but sharp rocks and sheer bloody-mindedness? It was a masterpiece. At least, in this cave, it was.

He hefted the thing, grunting with the effort. Stone thrones were definitely not designed for portability.

"Though," he mused aloud, "who exactly am I planning to port it for?"

Probably just himself. Immortal royalty on the go, perhaps? Sounded like a terrible stage play.

He decided the throne looked best positioned near the slightly less damp wall. Luxury was relative, after all.

With the seating arrangements more or less sorted, his gaze swept across his cavern home. It was… rustic. Very, very rustic.

"Rustic bordering on 'prehistoric hovel'," he muttered, kicking a loose pebble. The pebble skittered across the uneven floor, disappearing into the shadows with a faint clatter. "And not even a particularly *charming* prehistoric hovel at that."

Time for some upgrades. Big ones.

He rubbed his hands together, a spark of genuine enthusiasm flickering within him. This wasn't just about surviving anymore. This was about thriving. Cave-dwelling, immortal style. The very air in the cave seemed to hum with a nascent energy, mirroring the stirrings within him. A new chapter was starting, etched not in parchment or pixels, but in the very stone around him.

First things first: tools. His current collection of pointy rocks and wishful thinking wasn't exactly cutting it. Pun intended, though it was mostly his fingers getting cut. He examined his hands, tracing the red lines etched into his fingertips. Each was a testament to his… let's call it 'enthusiastic amateur' approach to stonework. Definitely room for improvement.

He needed… better pointy rocks. Sharper ones. Maybe even rocks he could hit other rocks *with*, to make even *better* pointy rocks. He circled the idea in his mind, a primal problem-solving loop. It was a humbling thought, really. After all the ages of human ingenuity, after sprawling cities and soaring towers, here he was, pondering the fundamentals of basic tool construction. But there was a certain purity to it, a stripping away of the unnecessary. Just him, the cave, and the absolute necessity of sharp things.

This was getting complicated. Or, rather, deceptively simple in its complexity. Like trying to explain the internet to a particularly dense badger. The core concept was easy, but the execution… layers upon layers of baffling detail. Tool making, he suspected, was much the same, only with more chipped flint and less existential dread about online privacy.

"Stone Age 2.0," he declared to a particularly judgmental-looking stalactite. It dripped condescendingly in response. "Coming soon to a cave near absolutely nobody." He punctuated his pronouncement with a dramatic flourish of his hand, nearly knocking over his newly-constructed throne in the process. Recovering with a slightly less dramatic but equally necessary grab, he gave the stalactite another pointed look. "Don't you judge my marketing strategies, stalactite. Word-of-mouth is going to be HUGE. Among… the cave crickets."

He ventured deeper into the cavern system, the throne project having ignited a new fire in his belly. Or maybe it was just indigestion from the cave moss he'd accidentally swallowed earlier. Hard to tell. He paused, considering the moss hypothesis. It had been a rather fuzzy, questionable looking patch. Probably best to avoid experimenting with the local flora for a while. Tool acquisition, however, was definitely a less risky venture, gastronomically speaking.

He needed to find different kinds of stone. Something workable. Something… less likely to crumble into dust when he looked at it too hard. The existing cave stone was… enthusiastic in its crumbly nature. Enthusiastic to the point of being actively unhelpful. He imagined the geological processes at play, millennia of patient erosion, all conspiring to deliver him the least tool-friendly rock imaginable. It was almost impressive, in a frustratingly geological way.

The geode chamber, with its shimmering crystals, was a good place to start. He remembered stumbling upon it during one of his earlier explorations, a hidden pocket of glittering beauty tucked away in the cold stone heart of the cave. Pretty, yes, but were those crystals *useful*? That was the real question. Beauty was all well and good, especially when your primary décor was 'damp rock', but utility trumped aesthetics in the tool-making department. At least for now. Perhaps later he'd return to the geode chamber with an eye for… crystal chandeliers? Baby steps first. Functional pointy rocks were priority number one.

He chipped cautiously at a larger crystal, the sound echoing strangely in the silent chamber. The echoes danced and bounced off the crystal walls, a crystalline symphony of tiny impacts. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the sound, a high-pitched ringing that settled deep in his bones. It was surprisingly hard. And sharp. A small shard broke free, landing on his palm with a cool, almost metallic weight. He ran a careful finger along its edge. Indeed. Very sharp. Sharper than anything he'd managed to produce so far. Definitely an upgrade from 'enthusiastically crumbly rock.'

"Bingo," he grinned. A genuine, wide grin that stretched across his face, lighting up his eyes with something akin to childlike glee. It had been a while since he'd felt this simple surge of satisfaction, this pure, uncomplicated triumph of discovery. Immortality might have its drawbacks – like, say, being trapped in a cave for eternity – but moments like this… these were the sparks that kept the embers of enthusiasm burning.

Maybe immortality wasn't just about not dying. Maybe it was about having all the time in the world to learn how to be a decent caveman. To master the basics, to appreciate the slow, deliberate rhythm of creation when time itself was no longer a constraint. He had eons, literally. Plenty of time to become the Michelangelo of sharpened rocks, if that was his chosen artistic path. And frankly, sharpened rocks were looking pretty appealing at this particular moment.

He set to work, carefully breaking off pieces of crystal. He selected a larger, promising-looking crystal cluster and began to chip away at it, using a slightly less crumbly rock as a makeshift hammer. The process was slow, meticulous. Each strike sent vibrations through his arm, each flake of crystal that broke off felt like a small victory hard-won. Crude tools for now, yes. But crude tools that were about to get a whole lot less crude. He imagined the possibilities, the potential held within these raw, glittering shards. Knives, scrapers, even – dare he dream – a spear point? The possibilities were, if not endless, at least significantly expanded beyond 'slightly less pointy rock.'

This cave wasn't just a prison. It was a workshop. And he, Chen Feng, was finally ready to build something. Something… grand. In a very, very small, subterranean way. He wasn't going to build empires or conquer nations, not down here in the earth's silent embrace. His ambitions were humbler, more personal. He would conquer this cave. He would tame the stone and crystal, shape them to his will, and carve out not just a shelter, but a home. A home fit for an immortal, even if that immortal was currently sporting a throne made of splinters and a tool collection that would make a Paleolithic toddler scoff. But it was a start. And for the first time in what felt like a very long time, Chen Feng felt a genuine sense of purpose. He was building. He was creating. He was, in his own small, rock-chipping way, becoming.