We’ll remember June 4th, 2025, as the day I discovered the first man-made, cast ancient limestone block!
This will be the most important thread you’ll read all year — and it’s only July. I’m not kidding.
So where’s that stone?
2. It’s a limestone block in the basement of Diocletian’s Palace in Split — specifically, a lintel. This will be hugely significant later on.
A limestone block — and it’s got MUD CRAKC patterns.
What? 😱
Cracks formed from shrinkage during drying.
Wait, what? Drying? Shrinking? A limestone block? That’s IMPOSSIBLE.
Yeees! That’s the point!
3. Exactly — natural limestone doesn’t behave like that.
It doesn’t soak up water like a sponge, doesn’t soften and doesn’t shrink.
That’s why it’s perfect for building cisterns and water reservoirs without needing any kind of lining.
Medieval cathedrals and ancient cisterns don’t shrink.
Limestone is waterproof. Full stop.
4. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this stone was found with those cracks already in it and someone just carved it into a lintel anyway.
Now look at it from underneath. There’s no way anyone would deliberately build a lintel out of a stone in that condition.
Mathematically? That’s a zero percent chance.
If this were just any other stone in the wall, I’d shrug and say, “Eh, whatever, maybe they threw it in.” But for a lintel? No f way.
5. And yet, there it is.
If it wasn’t installed broken (because they weren’t idiots), then the only remaining option is: it cracked after it was placed.
Which brings us right back to the artificial limestone theory — because natural limestone just doesn’t crack like that.
The circle is complete — and it just snapped shut on every naysayer’s nonsense.
Lo-gic!
Oh, one last classic naysayer line: “Maybe it’s a modern restoration job.”
Well, first of all, it’s a pretty bad one if it is. Second — even then we’re back to square one: mud cracks. That restorer would’ve needed the recipe for artificial limestone.
So even in that case — it’s still artificial limestone. Just maybe not 2,000 years old — maybe 50.
6. The bottom-view photo also answers the question: could it just be a cracked surface layer on top?
Nope. There’s no extra layer — the block sits flush with the ones beneath it.
(And by the way, yes, the one next to it is also cast — for the same exact reasons.)
7. It’s important to note: I’d already decided this was cast, not carved before I even pulled the secret weapon — my XRF analyzer — from my backpack.
I got there using basic logic. You know, thinking. Not chemistry.
The XRF is just the cherry on top. This lintel is cast limestone, period. If the XRF agrees — great, bonus points. But it’s not essential.
Here’s the XRF spectrum of that lintel: that peak at 3.31 keV? That’s the potassium alpha X-ray signal.
This rock contains potassium. Full stop.
Naysayers, you are free to go there to repeat my measurement. You’ll end up with the same result of course.
8. Now show me a limestone quarry where you can mine potassium-rich limestone. I’ll wait…
So where was this stone quarried? NOWHERE.
Oh.
And how much potassium does natural limestone normally have? Basically zero.
There’s no potassium in natural limestone. (Close to) zero.
Why?
Because of how elements dissolve in nature. Potassium (and sodium too, by the way) is super water-soluble.
So instead of settling into the forming limestone, it just dissolves and washes away — even from dead plants and animals.
So this potassium? It was put there by humans. No way around it.
9. Wait! Couldn’t it just be coated with some potassium-based substance that I just happened to measure?
That’s the question I wasted (unnecessarily) two days on — until my dumb brain finally remembered: “mud cracks.”
Who cares if UNESCO forbids potassium-based restoration techniques — and they definitely didn’t smear it on — if there are mud cracks?
And who cares if Vicko Andrić, the local mason who started the excavations in the 19th century, might’ve coated it? Again: mud cracks.
This stone got wet, then dried — and cracked. The potassium is just 🍒 on the cake. Extra evidence. If you’re a naysayer, ignore it — and it’s still artificial stone!
10. For those who missed the experiment — here’s the potassium-rich cast stone I made in my backyard, behind my car, using wood ash extract.
No idea if it’ll hold up — that’s the whole point of the test.
Thankfully, geopolymers tend to get stronger over time. So there’s hope.
11. Back to the basement.
Since I was there, I started waving the XRF around at other stones.
Tried looking for more potassium-bearing blocks by hunting for random cracks.
But then I realized that’s stupid — they couldn’t have screwed up every cast stone. Surely some of them came out just fine. Looking for cracks is dumb.
So how do you spot artificial stones?
Took me a while, but I finally got it.
Simple as this:
If it’s carved, it’s not cast.
And vice versa:
If it’s cast, it’s not carved.
🤣
Your turn now — make a guess!
12. Take a good look at this stone in the wall not far from that lintel. Based on simple visual observation, would you say it’s natural or cast?
Good job — it’s carved. The chisel marks are obvious.
It’s natural limestone, so naturally there’s no potassium in that one. And yes, I checked it with the XRF tool too.
13. And this one? What do you think?
Correct!
No chisel marks — so it wasn’t carved. If there’s potassium, it’s definitely cast.
So? I scanned it — and yep, there is!
That’s it — you’ve graduated. You’re now a certified artificial limestone expert. Congrats!
14. The two types of stones — natural and artificial — are all mixed together in this wall.
Check out this quick video showing the two stones from earlier — they’re about a meter apart.
I didn’t have time to figure out the pattern of how they’re distributed — had to leave.
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This is not bedrock and not carving, I’m 100% sure of that.
A hundred percent sounds a bit much—where does that confidence come from? From the fact that the same thing showed up in my little lab while I was messing around with Inca “stone softening.”
If it’s not bedrock, then what is it? I wouldn’t call it casting; it’s more like a kind of plastering: a layer of artificial Inca stone smeared onto the real bedrock underneath.
2. First, let’s see how I killed the long, boring hours of the Christmas break.
Well, I cooked stone soup—Inca stone soup, to be precise. Here’s the recipe:
100 g water, 25 g NaOH, 25 g KOH, 100 g sand.
Why exactly NaOH and KOH? That's a long story, it's just simulated peruvian wood ash lye, accept it as is.
If you cook this slowly, over low heat, on a regular hot plate, all the way to full hardness—by that I mean concrete hardness—then some portion of the sand (we don’t know how much) turns into waterglass.
The reaction isn’t complete because the temperature is too low, but that foam is definitely waterglass, born from the marriage of sand and alkalis.
3. I did this about 28,000 times, no problem there. The problem was what came next.
First of all, it took an absurd amount of time for my stupid brain to realize that no matter how pretty the foam looked, the reaction was incomplete, and my waterglass was still contaminated with the two alkalis above.
I just kept pouring and pouring and pouring new Inca stone samples into plastic cups, and it wasn’t waterproof, and it wasn’t waterproof, and it wasn’t waterproof.
I didn’t open a nub in them because I felt bad about cutting the bottoms off the plastic cups. (I’m an idiot.)
I showed that huge crack in one of my Inca samples a few days ago—now I know why it’s there, but for months I had no clue.
Then one day the darkness lifted from my stupid brain and I realized the core problem: the imperfect reaction.
After that I proceeded to waste another two months chasing the perfect reaction. I cooked so much stone soup it was unreal. Of course, I never achieved a perfect reaction with homemade methods.
And if I couldn’t achieve it, I had to accept that the Incas couldn’t either. Dead end.
In July 2025, armed with an XRF device, I traveled to Croatia to find out whether the limestone blocks with nubs contain any foreign material — in other words, whether they’re natural or man-made.
This device can determine which atoms are present in a thin surface layer of a material by analyzing its X-ray backscatter. Since my artificial stone mixture contains potassium, that’s exactly what I was looking for in the ancient stones.
2. Ancient Croatia
Croatia is full of megalithic relics, though most of them date back to the Roman era. There are about a dozen abandoned towns like this one scattered along the ridgeline of the Dinaric Alps.
I visited five or six of these sites and eagerly pressed the XRF device’s lens against the walls, but it didn’t detect any foreign material. Instead, I found something else: mortar between the stones. And where there’s mortar, it’s not true polygonal masonry, so it’s no surprise there was no potassium.
3. Brač
Searching for ancient sites led me to this limestone cave on the island of Brač. It’s called Dragon’s Cave, and I wouldn’t recommend anyone attempt the hike without the official guide — the scorching heat is one thing, but at the end of the trail the cave will be locked. The guide is the one with the key.
Well, guess what — was there any potassium in this rock? You win! There wasn’t!
Today we’re going to settle the question that keeps coming up over and over again 🧵
“This stone casting is bullshit! I tell you why: where did the ancient Egyptians get their crushed granite from??"
"Do you think they crushed granite with no tools? You see? Got you!”
I found the CORRECT (and mind blowingly simple) answer to this question myself when I started looking for crushed granite (granite grit/powder) that was cheap—or even better, free.
2. Sure, you can buy 5 grams for 50 dollars on Amazon, but trying to cast a multi-ton stone block with that… well, it’s not exactly cost-effective.
So I started tracking down local quarries (in Hungary), and what I discovered honestly shocked me too. Here it is:
The overwhelming majority of quarries in the world—roughly 80–90%—produce nothing but crushed stone (aggregate).
Solid granite slabs, let alone thick monolithic blocks (for obelisks, for example), are quarried in only a tiny handful of places.
Really.
It’s no coincidence that if you die in Europe, you’ll probably end up with a gravestone from South Africa, India, or China.
And that’s not because we’re chasing luxury—it’s because those are the “closest” places where decent-quality solid granite slabs can actually be extracted.
3. Quarries don’t produce almost exclusively crushed stone because they’re stupid or because they wouldn’t love to make a hundred times more money than they get selling aggregate for road base (about $10 a ton).
They do it because flawless, unbroken, high-quality solid granite is rare. Like extremely rare!
And there’s one main reason for that: this planet we call Earth is incredibly old.
Four billion years is no joke!
Wherever you look, the rock is falling apart. In fact, most of it has already fallen apart. Topsoil is nothing but ancient disintegrated rock mixed with organic material.
Suddenly I gained another 500 followers, so for their sake, I'll briefly summarize what the game is all about here. It seems we're going to rewrite the first few chapters of human history.
What started as "let's figure out how the unfinished obelisk in Aswan was made" has evolved in a direction where we can now confidently say the past didn't happen the way we thought.
Our ancestors were apparently capable of chemically altering stones, dissolving them, and then reassembling them. The evidence for this is that countless others besides me have done this, and it works, and it’s not even hard to do.
Unfortunately, there's no need for UFOs or ancient advanced civilizations to transport stone blocks of, say, 20-25 tons, or God forbid, 1000 tons. They weren’t hauling the stone blocks around, but just the raw material. In buckets.
The megalithic structures are masonry works, just that the mortar is a completely different material than what we use today. What could it be?
First Act
When I started to decipher the secret of the Aswan unfinished obelisk, I naturally had no intention of rewriting the early history of humanity. This realization came later. The mystery of the unfinished obelisk lies in the mysterious scoop marks, approximately 50x50 cm indentations, which look as though someone gouged out the granite with a giant ice cream scoop.
The official explanation is completely wrong, I won’t even go into that, it’s nonsense.
However, my experiment was successful, and indeed, I was able to chemically etch the supposedly indestructible granite with simple tools in my own backyard. All it took was a grill chimney starter, some charcoal, and - natron.
As it turned out, modern humanity of course knows that molten natron dissolves granite, or more accurately quartz, and this is used in several industrial processes, from pottery (cracking glazes) to recycling rare metals (liberating metals from circuit boards).
It's just that archaeologists didn’t know.
Which I have no problem with, other than the fact that they know now but still ignore the facts.
Second Act
Now that we've successfully etched the granite, let's see what material is produced in the chemical reaction, because maybe our ancestors could use it for something, considering they didn’t know the concept of waste. What could this white stone foam be good for?
As it turns out, the white stone foam is nothing but waterglass, Na2SiO3. This is fascinating because waterglass is one of the main components of modern geopolymers.
What do our ancestors do if they get their hands on a material with which they can make stone? They make stone with it! And here we reach the point of rewriting history. All those civilizations that were able to produce waterglass were obviously capable of casting new stones from waterglass.
The simplest form of this, when wood ash is mixed into the waterglass, results in a beautiful black, Inca stone.
The giant stone blocks of Inca walls fit so precisely together that not even a piece of paper can be slipped between them because they were simply cast next to each other, directly into the wall.
Many people know that for my artificial (fake) granite, I use waterglass and whiskey (ethanol)🍹.
Specifically, I precipitate amorphous silica gel from the waterglass using ethanol, and that’s what I use as a binder.
All fine and good, but it’s a fair question: how much alcohol did the ancient Egyptians have to distill and effectively waste to produce that unimaginable quantity of granite objects?
Instead of drinking it, right?
Yeah, it’s a fair critique. Humanity would rather drink lighter fluid than use good brandy to cast stones.
2. And while I was thinking about this, I remembered a much earlier experiment when I tried to make glass lenses from silica gel.
That experiment failed, mostly because as the thick silica gel dried, it turned from transparent to snow white. Which, as you can guess, doesn’t make for a great optical lens.
For that experiment, I used baking soda—I added it to the waterglass, and as the baking soda slowly broke down, it turned the waterglass into completely transparent silica gel.
That’s the point where I should’ve been smart—but I wasn’t!
Even though “it’s in my book”!
3. I wrote it down myself, yet didn’t realize what I’d actually done.
I didn’t just add baking soda to the waterglass (well, I did), but if I’d been an ancient Egyptian chemist, I wouldn’t have used that—I would have used…
NATRON!
😮WTF?
Yeah. To this day, I somehow missed the fact that Egyptian mined natron isn’t pure Na2CO3, but contains about 15–20% baking soda, NaHCO3.
So if I wanted to achieve the same effect, I should have added the very same stuff to the waterglass that was originally used to make the water glass: natron.
On the last day, I found myself climbing a hill—XRF device in hand—heading toward the top, where this spectacular cave is hidden.
I’m writing this mainly so others can find the place too, and also to warn: don’t go alone.
For one, you probably won’t find the cave, and even if you do, it’s locked. The key? That’s with Zoran.
And who the hell is Zoran?
2. Before I answer that, a bit of geography. Just off the coast from Split are a bunch of small islands. One of the larger ones is Brač.
That’s where the cave is—up in the hills.
You get there by ferry. I recommend bringing a rental car, because once the ferry drops you off, it’s still about a 40-kilometer drive to the tiny village where the cave is.
3. I tried buying ferry tickets online in advance, but apart from ten scammy sites that popped up in paid ads, I somehow couldn’t find the official website. None of the fake ones let me book a car ticket either.
Turns out, they just don’t sell car tickets online. You have to buy them on the spot. Probably to avoid the chaos of overbooking and ending up with more cars than the ferry can handle.
Speaking of which—don’t count on getting on the first ferry. Just assume you won’t. Forget the timetable.
You show up at the port at some hour, wait around, and eventually—maybe an hour later—you’ll get on a ferry. Just not the one you thought you’d catch.