By nightfall, Adrian had organized them into teams. He directed the young men to cut sturdier logs, the women to braid rope from fresh fibers, and even the children to gather stones for balance. With every instruction, the villagers grew more amazed—he spoke with authority, as if he had rebuilt a hundred wells before.
When the new pulley creaked into place and the first bucket of clean water rose from the depths, the crowd erupted in cheers.
The chief's hands trembled as he touched the rope. "Stranger… what name do you carry?"
"Adrian," he said simply.
A boy's voice rang out, filled with awe. "Adrian the Builder!"
The name spread through the crowd like fire. "The Builder! The Builder!"
Adrian froze, startled by the weight of their worshipful eyes. He had come from a world where betrayal had crushed him. Yet here, people looked at him as if he were a savior.
His chest tightened with a strange, unfamiliar feeling hope.
But then, in the corner of his eye, he saw something. A cloaked traveler, watching silently from the treeline before vanishing into the dark.
Adrian's instincts whispered a warning. In his old world, being useful had painted a target on his back. Would this world be any different?
He clenched his fists.
No. This time, I'll build on my terms. And no one will bury me again.