The chief finally approached, voice quiet. "You've proven you're no raider. You've saved us. But know this, Builder—men who bring change always draw the eye of greater powers. Tonight was just the beginning."
Adrian looked past him, at the distant forest where the raiders had fled. His lips curved into a cold smile.
"Good," he said. "Let them come. I'll be ready."
The battle was over, but the scars remained.
Blood stained the dirt near the trenches. Broken weapons littered the barricades. The villagers celebrated their victory, but Adrian saw only weakness.
If this is what they call surviving, he thought grimly, then they've been clinging to life by threads for generations.
That night, he sat by the well, staring into the water. In his reflection, he saw both himself and the broken village behind him.
They don't need another battle. They need a foundation.
The next morning, he gathered the villagers in the square.
"You all fought bravely last night," Adrian said, voice steady. "But bravery isn't enough. If we keep living in huts made of mud and sticks, raiders will come again and again—and one day, we'll lose everything."
The crowd shifted uneasily. Mothers clutched their children. Men looked down, ashamed.
Adrian pointed to the flimsy huts. "These homes… they're not protection. They're invitations for disaster. If you want a future, we need something better. Stronger. Houses that don't fall when the wind blows. Walls that don't burn when raiders torch them."
The chief leaned on his cane, frowning. "And where will such miracles come from, Builder? Our ancestors have lived this way for centuries."
Adrian smirked. "Then your ancestors never met me."
He began with clay.
Down by the river, he showed the villagers how to dig the thick, wet earth and mold it into rectangular shapes. They laughed at first, calling them "mud toys."