1000 Years Later

Precision. It was the only thing that carved kingdoms out of chaos.

Precision. One could not merely swing a sword and hope for the best. One had to know where to cut, and how deep the cut would be. However, precision was not just about the cut.

It was about knowing where, when, how, and with what. It was the difference between a warrior and a mess of swinging blades. In the chaos of battle, precision was a kingdom's architect.

Kairos stared at the 200 grams of dark and exotic coffee beans from the forbidden lands, known for their taste. It was precisely measured. One wrong measurement and his morning coffee would not taste the same.

Next, he took the grinder. Twenty seconds, no more, no less. The coarse blend had to be just right like grains of sand slipping through his fingers.

Fire. Two hundred degrees Celsius, no flickering. The flames licked the vessel, shaping the ritual and heating the water to perfection.

Then, three hundred milliliters of spring water, collected under the light of a blood moon. The elixirs—five drops each. The potion shelf held the key to his concoction.

Obsidian cups—a rare gem that he had found at an auction. The pouring had to be steady and deliberate. Almost immediately, the aroma of freshly made coffee filled the small kitchen around him.

Kairos wasted no time and took a sip of his coffee, eyes narrowed. Precision, not a drop wasted. The coffee was perfect—just how he did his coffee for the last five thousand years of his life.

For a while, Kairos closed his eyes, taking his time and letting the coffee bless his taste buds. Then, Kairos looked at the time from the large wall clock nearby.

As always, he had thirty minutes to spare before he needed to prepare food. He nodded, pleased with himself before he continued his peaceful morning ritual.

He picked up the neatly folded newspaper that awaited him before sitting by the window, his obsidian cup in hand. The newspaper crackled as he turned the pages, eyes scanning every detail. Precision in every word, just like the precision in his coffee-making.

The newspaper rustled in his hands, the sound as comforting as a heartbeat in the otherwise silent shop. Kairos set it down with a soft sigh, the quiet broken only by the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. The groan was a melody he knew well, a testament to the passage of time etched into the very bones of the building. A thousand years. A thousand years of mornings like this, each one as precise as the last.

He descended the basement stairs. Almost immediately, the air grew thick and stagnant, the only light a faint rectangle filtering weakly from the trapdoor high above. He didn't need sight, though. His hand moved with practiced ease, locating the worn wooden box near the back wall.

Another groan, this time from rusty hinges as he lifted the lid. A pungent odor assaulted his nose, a strange mix of damp earth and something vaguely citrusy. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. The orange mushrooms. They looked exactly as he remembered—bulbous and unsettlingly vibrant. Fungi, according to the ancient texts, held the key to immortality.

A hollow chuckle escaped his lips. Immortality. What a curious concept. To live forever, to witness the rise and fall of empires, the dance of history unfold across millennia. He'd had his fill of witnessing, that much was certain. The world had become a pale imitation of what it once was, a stage play with a tired script and a cast of forgettable actors.

"Not ready," he muttered. Two more days and the mushrooms would mature and be ready for harvest. He could then create more potions.

He slammed the box shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stillness. The silence returned, heavy and oppressive. Kairos stood there for a moment, a flicker of something akin to loneliness crossing his features.

A low groan escaped his lips as he shifted the heavy wooden box aside, revealing another beneath it. This one was different. Made from a dark, polished wood he couldn't quite identify, it seemed to hum with a faint, unseen energy.

With a reverence that surprised even him, Kairos ran his fingers across the smooth surface. It sent a tremor through the box, a response that made him pause. Curiosity flickered in his usually stoic eyes. He hadn't felt anything like this in centuries.

Taking a deep breath, he lifted the lid with a slow, deliberate motion. There was another kind of foulness in this box, a different type of ugliness that was unlike the onslaught of orange mushrooms. It was a thick, cloying sweetness that stuck to the back of his throat like cobwebs, heavy and sickening.

Kairos wrinkled his nose in disgust at the overpowering stench of decay covering it that reminded him of a butcher shop's forgotten area during the height of summer's heat.

Millennia of living had dulled most of his senses, but the reeking power of this particular fungus remained potent. Yet, despite the revolting aroma, a spark of excitement flickered within him. This was it. The mushroom that he had been waiting for!

Unlike the orange mushrooms, there was no mistaking when this one was ready. Nestled within the velvety black lining of the box was a single, luminescent blue mushroom that was once called Nightshade Bolete. Just like 1000 years ago, it pulsed with an unsettling bluish light. It was beautiful, in a grotesque and weird sort of way, its bioluminescent glow casting an eerie sheen on the dusty basement walls.

He reached in carefully, the touch of the cool, damp flesh sending a jolt through his ancient body. This was the key. This, combined with the orange mushrooms and a precise sequence of alchemical rituals, would create the elixir that should be enough to help him out.

His research pointed to this very particular mushroom and this time he was almost certain that he was right—almost. With practiced ease, he began the harvesting process. Each movement was precise, honed by countless repetitions and failures over the millennia. He severed the glowing stem from the box, the luminescence dimming slightly as it separated from its source.

He tucked the Nightshade Bolete into a pouch woven from the hide of a long-extinct beast, its touch sending another pleasurable jolt through him. It was a strange sensation, this flicker of excitement every time that he touched this thing thinking it would somehow help him out—the very excitement that would turn into frustration once he failed.

Perhaps, he mused, even immortality couldn't completely snuff out the primal urges that still flickered within him.

He closed the box with a sigh, the silence returning with a suffocating weight. After harvesting the mushroom he quickly ascended the stairs. However, just as he was about to enter his chamber, he heard a creak behind him.

Kairos froze a jolt of surprise momentarily shattering his internal storm. He hadn't heard anyone enter the shop, his senses were usually attuned to the creak of the floorboards even above the background hum of the city. Slowly, he turned, his expression unreadable.

There stood Alex Smeg, a mop of blonde hair framing a perpetually enthusiastic face. At sixteen, he was all gangly limbs and nervous energy, a stark contrast to Kairos' ageless stoicism. Today, that energy seemed tinged with a hint of cautiousness, probably sensing the dark aura clinging to Kairos like a shroud.

"Good morning, Mr. Callahan," Alex chirped, his voice a touch higher than usual. "I, uh, just came in early and thought I'd get a head start on opening the shop." He gestured towards a brown paper bag clutched in his hand. "Have you had breakfast yet? I brought bread."

Kairos cut him off with a curt nod, the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. "Breakfast later," he rasped, his voice rough with disuse.

Alex's smile faltered for a moment before he recovered, his cheer seemingly an unyielding force. "Of course, Mr. Callahan. Stew for tonight then? I found some good cuts of lamb at the market."

Kairos grunted another noncommittal response.

"Hey, Mr. Callahan?" Alex called after him, a hesitant note in his voice. Kairos paused on the bottom step. "Miss Sarina will be here this afternoon to collect the salves," the young man reminded.

Kairos grunted, a low rumble in his chest. "Tell Sarina to come tomorrow," he rasped.

Alex's smile faltered for a brief moment, then snapped back into place, a practiced cheerfulness that seemed to be his default setting. "But Mr. Callahan," he began, then hesitated, fiddling with the paper bag. "We kind of...need the money today. Rent's due, and you know how Mrs. Cher gets..." He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. Mrs. Linda Cher, their grumpy but efficient landlady, was notorious for her lack of patience when it came to late payments.

Kairos didn't reply verbally. He wasn't one for outbursts, his emotions were usually a tightly controlled storm within. Instead, he let out a frustrated sigh that echoed in the small shop. Internally, he cursed his predicament. A thousand years of life, and he didn't even have a single gold coin to his name. His focus had always been on research, on finding the key to regaining his power, not on accumulating wealth. A bitter taste filled his mouth.

"Alright, alright," he finally conceded, his voice rough. "I'll handle it." He wasn't sure how, exactly, but the thought of Alex facing Mrs. Cher's wrath was enough to spur him into action.

He needed a solution, and fast.

...