The first step to making my grinding stone was ensuring I wasn’t followed. I took a long, winding route to the river, stopping occasionally to "check for Fae traps"—a dramatic gesture that involved looking behind bushes and peering into the forest like a paranoid lunatic. Paranoia is just survival instinct with flair, I told myself, ignoring how ridiculous I probably looked.

  Once I was sure no one was tailing me, I knelt by the riverbank, pulling out an iron coin from my pouch. This wasn’t just any iron coin—it was spelled, charged with just enough mana to make this tedious process bearable.

  I placed my hands on a smooth stone near the river and focused my aura, feeding mana into the coin to shape the stone into a grinding surface. The process wasn’t elegant. The stone groaned and cracked under the pressure of the spell, flecks of rock flying off like tiny insults to my craftsmanship.

  I cute some wood for the handle.

  When it was done, I stepped back to admire my work. It wasn’t the most beautiful hand-powered grinding stone, but hey, beauty isn’t everything. Functionality trumps aesthetics—at least in the Stone Age.

  “Good enough,” I muttered, brushing off the dust and wiping sweat from my brow. The stone was functional, sturdy, and ugly as sin—just how I liked it.

  ----

  Back at the cave, I spotted my mother in the middle of a lively chat with a group of women. Perfect. With a confident stride, I approached, plastering on my most winning smile. “Mother,” I began, my tone deliberately casual, “I’ve done my part. The grinding stone is ready. Now, we just need someone to hand-power it and make flour. Can you find someone for the job?”

  Her eyebrow shot up, and the chatter around her quieted. “Someone to grind, you say? And what exactly are you planning to pay them with, my son? Good intentions?”

  The women snickered, their eyes darting between us like they were at the tribe’s newest entertainment. Stone age culture has low standards for comedy.

  I grinned back at her, unshaken. “Pigeons. Everyone loves pigeons.”

  My mother didn’t even blink. “Yes, I know. But where are these pigeons, Anir? Payment first, or do you expect these women to work on promises?”

  Shit. Payment upfront, huh? My grin faltered, but I recovered quickly, straightening up like the resourceful son I was. “Right. Of course. I'll be back in no time.”

  Her gaze followed me as I set the grinding stone down near her with a bit more flourish than necessary. “Don’t take too long, or someone else might decide to claim your little invention for themselves.”

  The subtle jab wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t let it show. I gave her a quick nod and turned, heading back toward the forest.

  As I walked away, I could hear the faint murmurs of the women behind me. One of them said, “At least he’s trying to be useful.”

  Another replied, “Or trying to get out of trouble, more like.”

  I smirked to myself. They weren’t wrong. But hey, if I came back with enough pigeons to pay someone to grind flour, no one would care why I was doing it. They’d just see results. And if there was one thing I knew how to deliver, it was results, And explosives.

  ----

  By the end of my hunt, my mother had found two women willing to work in exchange for pigeons. They were stout, practical, and wore the kind of wary expressions that spoke of years spent navigating barters and backhanded deals.

  I led them to the grinding stone and gestured proudly. “Look, it’s simple. You put the grains here, turn this handle, and voila—flour.”

  “Voila?” the younger one echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

  I sighed. “It means ‘it’s done.’” I waved dismissively, hoping she’d drop it. She didn’t.

  “Why not just say ‘it’s done’ then?”

  “Because I didn’t,” I snapped, then immediately forced a polite smile. “Shall we move on?”

  The older woman ignored us both and examined the grinding stone with a skeptical eye. “Is it cursed?”

  WTF? I blinked at her. “No. Why would it be cursed?”

  She crossed her arms, her stare unwavering. “You’re always sneaking off into that cursed forest, Anir. Don’t think we don’t notice. You dragged this thing back from there, didn’t you?”

  Okay, fair point. “It’s not cursed,” I said, my tone carefully measured. “Just a grinding stone. I spent all those days hunting and working on this to make it for my mother.”

  She didn’t look entirely convinced, but her curiosity was sated enough for her to get to work. With a shrug, she positioned herself at the handle, and her companion joined her. Their hands moved steadily, turning the stone with practiced ease.

  It wasn’t long before the younger woman piped up again. “Can we keep this when we’re done?”

  I leaned forward, my voice firm but deliberately friendly. “Absolutely not. The grinding stone is family property. You’re being paid to use it, not to take it.”

  The older woman snorted. “We’re not stupid, you know.”

  Say that again when you stop shitting in the river you drink from. I forced a grin. “Good. Then we’re on the same pa-rock same rock.”

  With the property dispute resolved, I turned and walked away, leaving them to their work.

  As I stepped into the fresh air outside the cave, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. Those two would no doubt spread the story of the grinding stone far and wide. And my bullshit excuse about spending days crafting it for my mother? That would probably make it into the retelling too.

  Perfect. It wasn’t just about flour or pigeons—it was about planting seeds, building a story. And stories? Stories were reputation and power.

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  ---

  Later in the day, I prepared myself for the task of gathering more honey. I remembered his past experience well, and I knew how to handle the bees without bringing harm to himself or disturbing the hive too much. Using the tools I fashioned—a bundle of smoldering sticks wrapped with thick leaves to create gentle smoke—he set out to find a few different hives nestled in the trees on the edge of the forest.

  I approached the first hive with calm, controlled movements, coaxing the bees with the smoke as they buzzed around me. The bees grew drowsy, their defensive hum softening to a gentle buzz as I collected the rich, golden honeycomb. As I moved from hive to hive, gathering as much honey as I could without over-harvesting, I felt the satisfaction of a job well done. The afternoon sun warmed my skin as I made my way back to the cave, the sweet, earthy scent of honey filling the air around me.

  Now I have on last thing to test and see if my plan can work perfectly or sub-optimally.

  ---

  I crouched near the riverbank, the wooden bowl resting on the ground before me. Around me, plants swayed gently in the breeze, their silent green faces none the wiser to the robbery about to occur. With a flick of my wrist, I began weaving an alchemy spell, my aura buzzing faintly in the still air.

  The plants trembled as my spell took hold, their very essence bending to my will. From one, a sticky residue seeped forth—oil. From another, tiny crystals formed on its leaves—salt. And from the third, the sweetest prize of all, sugar dripped like golden nectar.

  The spell wasn’t easy; it never was. Alchemy was a demanding art, requiring precision and focus. But the satisfaction of the results made it worth the strain. I gathered the extracted ingredients into a small leather pouch and released the plants from my spell. They seemed relieved, if plants could feel anything.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll grow back,” I muttered. “Probably.”

  Back at my workstation—just a flat rock by the river—I poured the contents of the pouch into a large wooden bowl. A pinch of salt, a dollop of oil, and a sprinkle of sugar joined the heap of flour I’d prepared earlier. Now, for the final touch.

  Using a small clay pot, I scooped steaming water from the fire I’d kept burning nearby and poured it into the mixture. Steam rose as the water hit the flour, carrying the faint scent of sweetness and warmth.

  Grabbing a sturdy wooden spoon, I began to stir, the ingredients combining into a sticky, unrefined dough. It was rough work, my hands straining against the thickening mass.

  “Alchemy and cooking,” I said aloud, smirking to myself, “basically the same thing, except one of them doesn’t explode. Usually.”

  The dough began to take shape, soft and pliable under my hands. As I kneaded it, I allowed myself a small moment of pride. I’d created something from nearly nothing—another step toward self-reliance in this Stone Age nightmare.

  If this worked out, bread might actually become a thing again. And who knew? Maybe I’d even start charging the tribe for a taste. After all, nothing says “power” like controlling the food supply.

  I know I should be storing my mana for few days and prepare to use the iron and gold I collected, but this task needed to be done, I distracted the nosey people and get to eat the breed I keep craving.

  Actually, now that I thought about it, this wasn’t just about bread. I could coat fish or meat with flour before frying it—something I’d only dreamed of since being stuck in this prehistoric culinary wasteland. The thought of crispy, golden-brown meat made my stomach growl. I made a mental note to test it soon, preferably before anyone in the tribe caught wind of my genius and tried to take credit for it.

  But for now, I had to focus. I wiped the flour dust off my hands and set the wooden bowl aside. There was still daylight, and I wasn’t about to waste it. My alchemy spell was taxing, but it worked wonders. I couldn’t risk coming back here every time I needed supplies, so I decided to gather as much oil, salt, and sugar as I could and take it back to the cave.

  I set to work, repeating the spell with the remaining plants in the area. My aura hummed as I drew out more oil, watching it pool like liquid gold in a small clay jar. The salt crystals sparkled as they formed, and the sugar dripped like honey, thick and glistening.

  The spell was efficient but exhausting. With each cast, I felt the drain on my mana, a dull ache spreading from my core to the tips of my fingers. Still, I pushed through, determined to make this haul worth the effort.

  Once I had enough, I carefully packed everything into a leather satchel I’d brought with me. The jars clinked softly as I tucked them in, the weight reassuring. With this much oil, salt, and sugar, I could experiment with more than just bread. Maybe sauces? Marinades? The possibilities were endless.

  I glanced back at the river, the plants swaying peacefully again, as if forgiving me for stripping them of their essence. “Thanks for the contributions,” I said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth it.”

  With my satchel full and my mind buzzing with ideas, I headed back to the cave. My feet crunched on the rocky ground as I climbed the familiar path. Thoughts of crispy, fried meals danced in my head, keeping me distracted from the growing ache in my legs.

  When I finally reached the cave, the air was thick with the smell of smoked meat and the distant chatter of the tribe. I ducked inside, greeted by the familiar warmth and flickering firelight. As I set my satchel down and began unpacking my spoils, I couldn’t help but grin as my mother took the ingredients to the women helping her.

  As for the others. Let the others wonder what I’d been doing out there. Let them whisper their rumors and spread their wild theories. Because while they gossiped, I was building something—step by step, spell by spell.

  And tonight? Tonight, maybe I’d fry some meat.

  ---

  As night fell, the tribe gathered inside the cave, the familiar warmth of the evening small fire casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. People chatted and laughed as they prepared for their meal, the hum of their voices a comforting melody in my ears. Tonight was special, though. Tonight, I would share something new.

  With the help of my mother and the other women, I had prepared the Msemmen—soft, layered bread, folded and cooked over the fire until it turned golden and crisp. The smell was intoxicating, a rich, buttery scent that filled the cave and made everyone’s mouths water in anticipation. And beside me lay the jars of fresh honey I had collected today, glistening in the firelight like liquid gold.

  The The smell attracted attention the moment the first layered bread touched the oiled hot stone. Everyone knew there is something new on the way, in this small tribe there are no secrets that last long.

  When everything was ready, I stood up, drawing the tribe’s attention with a smile. I held up a piece of Msemmen, drizzled with honey, the sticky sweetness glistening as it stretched between my fingers.

  “From now on this is called Msemmen, its our tribe new joy in this hard life” I announced, my voice carrying over the curious murmurings. “It’s a special bread, and tonight, I want to show everyone how to enjoy it together—with honey.”

  With that, I took a bite, my face lighting up as I tasted the sweet, rich flavor. The others watched him, their curiosity quickly turning to enthusiasm as they each took a piece of the Msemmen, dipping it in the honey, and tasting the soft, sweet bread for the first time. Gasps of surprise and murmurs of approval filled the air as they savored each bite, laughing and nodding to one another, sharing in the delight of something new.

  Around the fire, faces lit up with joy, smiles spreading from one person to another. The children laughed as they licked honey from their fingers, the adults exchanged appreciative glances, and a sense of warmth and community filled the space.

  I looked around, feeling a deep sense of fulfillment at my well planed distraction. This wasn’t just a meal—it was a moment of false unity, a bond strengthened by the sharing of food and tradition. I had given them a taste of something that was mine, something that had come from my memories of another life, and they had embraced it with open stomach's.

  As the night wore on, I didn’t allow my heart to swell with gratitude. Here, surrounded by this tribe, I cultivated in them a sense of my belonging and purpose, the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of the honey reinforcing my trap.

  Am not naive in this world I am tribe of two me and my mother everyone else was just resource.

  It was a simple meal, but in its simplicity lay a powerful connection—a memory that would linger long after the last bite of Msemmen was gone. I learned that I don't need silver fork to enjoy good food.

  But see the funny thing about people is that if you feed them honey with your hand they think that your flesh must be sweet. That is something I will re-learn.

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