But when Adrian baked the first batch in a makeshift kiln, the laughter turned to silence. The bricks came out solid, red-brown, hard enough to knock together with a sharp clack.
"Stone," one man gasped. "You've made stone from dirt!"
Adrian shook his head. "Not stone. Brick. Stronger than mud, lighter than rock, and something you can build with in any shape you want."
The blacksmith, a burly man with soot-stained arms, stepped forward. "If we use the forge fire, we can bake more of them. Twice as strong."
Adrian's eyes lit up. Finally, someone who understands.
Together, they constructed a proper kiln, fueled by the blacksmith's flames. Bricks piled up in neat stacks. For the first time, the villagers touched materials that wouldn't crumble in their hands.
By the end of the week, Adrian had them laying the first foundations. He directed the men like workers on a construction site, teaching them how to level the ground, stagger bricks, and use clay mortar. Women shaped new bricks, children carried them in baskets, and the blacksmith kept the fires roaring.
When the first small house rose—a single-room hut of red bricks, roofed with clay tiles instead of leaves—the villagers gathered around, awestruck.
A woman reached out and knocked on the wall, tears in her eyes. "It won't fall… it won't fall when the storms come."
Adrian folded his arms, heart swelling with pride. It was small, crude by Earth's standards, but here it was a revolution.
The boy from before, eyes wide with excitement, tugged on Adrian's sleeve. "Builder, can you teach me? I want to make houses too!"