"Come with me," he said, not looking back.
Lina's steps quickened. She was small, no more than fourteen, but sharp-eyed and quick with her words. Somehow, in the weeks since his arrival, she had become his shadow, half assistant, half messenger. Ethan didn't mind. She reminded him of the kind of bright student he once taught during lectures in his other life. Here, she was the one voice that seemed to understand him without suspicion.
The faint roar of water grew as they neared the ravine. Soon, the land opened into a narrow gorge where a stream threaded through the wilderness, white foam swirling where it struck stone. It was clean, alive, eternal. A gift from the land itself. Ethan stood at the edge with his hands clasped behind his back, studying its potential.
"So this is it," he murmured.
"Yes, my lord," Lina replied, brushing loose hair from her face. "The people fetch their water here. Buckets for drinking. Barrels for bathing. Washing clothes too."
Ethan winced. "So the same water they drink from… is where they scrub dirt from their shirts?"
She hesitated before nodding. "Yes."
Unacceptable. Ethan's lips pressed into a thin line. He had studied enough history to know that water was civilization. Cities in his past life, Rome, London, Beijing, rose and fell on aqueducts, sewers, and waste management. Here, the people treated water like a shallow pond. They were one outbreak of dysentery away from ruin.
"Tomorrow," he said at last, "we begin another task. There's something I need you to do but not today though."
Lina tilted her head, eyes searching. "Yes, my lord"
"When we're alone," Ethan said with a faint smile, "don't call me that. Just Ethan."
Her lips curved into the smallest of smiles. "Yes, my lo... Ethan."
He chuckled, shaking his head. It was a start.
That night, Ethan sat in the drafty hall that passed for his manor. The wooden beams groaned overhead, patched in places with straw, while the hearth burned low, barely warding off the chill. On the table before him lay a bundle of books scavenged by Marn and a map so crude it was little more than scratches of rivers and borders. No detailed town plans. No record of aqueducts or roads. Nothing useful.
But it didn't matter. He didn't need their maps. He could make his own.
By candlelight, he sketched the town as he remembered it: crooked lanes, collapsed walls, swampy patches near the fields. Then he traced a bold line from the ravine straight into the heart of Greyrest. An aqueduct. A lifeline. Civilization began with water, and he would give it to them.
The following morning, the square filled with uneasy faces. Men leaned on hoes and spades. Women clutched shawls against the chill. Children stared wide-eyed at their strange young baron who spoke like a scholar and worked like a peasant. To them, Ethan was both curiosity and hope.
He stepped forward, his voice steady.
"Good people of Greyrest, hear me!"
The murmurs hushed. Even the wind seemed to pause.
"I am Ethan Greyrest, your baron by name. You must be asking yourselfs about the changes. But I stand before you not as a master seated in a hall, but as one who labors for this land and its future. You whisper that I am unlike my fathers and you are right. My ancestors turned their backs on you. They grew fat while your homes rotted and your fields drowned. I will not walk their path."
His gaze swept across the crowd. Their faces were worn, skeptical, but listening.
"This town is the heart of our land. You are its blood. When you suffer, the land weakens. When you prosper, it thrives. I have seen the cracks in our foundations roofs that leak, walls that crumble, crops that fail, and fear when bandits ride. Shall we let Greyrest die?"
A few shook their heads, others stayed silent.
"I am young," Ethan continued. "Some say weak. Perhaps foolish to dream of a stronger town. But this is no dream, it is duty. A baron is not master alone. He is steward, protector, and builder. I will raise walls to guard you, mend roads to carry trade, and bring clean water to every home. But I cannot do this alone. I need your hands, your sweat, your strength."
He lifted his hand, pointing toward the east. "The ravine flows with clean water, yet we foul it with laundry and waste. That ends now. We will build aqueducts of wood and stone. We will channel clean water into the town square. You will no longer drink filth. Your children will no longer sicken from the very streams that should sustain them."
A murmur spread through the crowd. Hope, disbelief, fear.
An old man lifted his hand, his voice cracked but firm. "And what of waste, milord? Water flows in, but waste must flow out."
Ethan's lips curved into a thin smile. "Wise words. Waste comes next. We will dig pits outside the town for composting. Build public latrines away from the water supply. In time, we'll lay channels beneath the streets, stone if we can spare it, clay if not. But separation is key. Clean water remains clean. Waste is controlled."
He crouched, seizing a stick, and began to draw in the dirt. Lines of trenches, pits marked with circles, clay piping sketched in cross-section. He added layers of sand and gravel for filtration, recalling systems long forgotten in this age. Villagers craned their necks, whispering, awed and doubtful in equal measure.
Finally, Ethan rose. "This is not a dream. It is work. Hard, unyielding work. But if you stand with me, one brick at a time, one trench at a time, we will build a future our children can be proud of."
Silence lingered. Then a voice rang out, hesitant but clear. "I'll dig." A farmer stepped forward, his hands rough with calluses. Another followed. Then another. Soon, the square stirred with a ripple of motion. Not all were convinced, but enough. Enough to begin.
That night, Ethan returned to his manor, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. On the table lay his sketches, maps of aqueduct paths, notes on waste pits. He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the smell of freshly turned earth drift in through the window.
The door creaked. Lina slipped in, clutching a wooden board covered in his own sketches. Her eyes shone with quiet pride. "Milord, the soil is soft near the ravine. But…" she hesitated. "Many are still doubtful. Some whisper that your words are too strange. That you promise too much."
Ethan took the board, studying the lines. He smiled faintly. "That's all right. Doubt is natural. But once they see water flowing into Greyrest, clean, abundant, they'll believe. This is only the beginning."
He rose, walking to the window. Beyond the manor, lanterns flickered where villagers dug into the earth, their silhouettes small against the night. For the first time, Greyrest was not merely surviving, it was moving.
Ethan's hand tightened on the wooden frame. This is where it starts. Not just homes and walls, but something greater. A foundation for a world worth living in.
The night air carried the scent of soil, the whisper of water, and, for the first time since his reincarnation, the faint promise of tomorrow.