Building Foundations
Sweat trickled down my forehead, and the hammer's rough handle bit into my palm with every swing. The sun beat down, merciless, a constant reminder that this world had no concept of comfort.
"Make sure those beams are straight," I called out, keeping my tone steady. Outwardly, I was the picture of calm authority—a baron helping his people rebuild. Inside? A simmering storm ready to explode.
This shouldn't have been my life. I used to sit in leather chairs softer than most of these peasants' beds, signing deals worth more than their entire village. Now I was here, waist-deep in mud and splinters, pretending to care. Pretending. If my enemies saw me right now I just don't want to imagine the face they will make.
I didn't do this out of charity. Let's be clear. The better they lived, the less they'd whine, the less they'd die, and the more they'd owe me. Nothing was free, not even a helping hand.
The villagers murmured their thanks, sweat-streaked faces brightening when I offered advice on the frame's stability. They called me "Baron," some even smiled, like a goddamn miracle had descended to dig trenches with them.
If only they knew. If only they heard my thoughts.
"Lift it higher, you idiots!" I barked at two men struggling with a beam, but I softened it with a forced smile. Charm, they called it. To me, it was just another tool.
The night before, I'd burned through my one-hour cheat—an hour of internet access that came with a searing migraine—researching medieval housing techniques. Log cabins, wattle and daub, thatched roofs… all the basics. I jotted notes until my fingers cramped, knowing that each fact could make this backwater hovel a little less unbearable.
Because I wasn't going to live in dirt. Not me. If I had to suffer this hell, I'd twist it into something better—my own little patch of civilization.
"Baron, is this right?" a boy asked, holding up a crude mallet.
I glanced at it. "Close enough. Keep the stakes firm."
The kid grinned like I'd handed him a treasure. Pathetic. But useful.
I moved to the next site. Logs were being aligned, gaps filled with mud and straw. The place still stank like a dying forest, but it was an improvement. Not good enough for me, but better than rotting in their disease-ridden hovels.
I imagined tearing it all down, building a manor with thick walls, glass windows, a library, a grand hall. But that was a dream. For now, I needed them to survive. Needed them grateful. Loyal.
A woman offered me a rag to wipe my sweat. I took it with a nod, hiding the disgust I felt. Greasy, stained, but a gesture of goodwill. These people thought I was their savior. Their noble protector.
Wrong.
I was their master. And every beam they lifted, every wall they raised, was another reminder of that.
"Don't forget the drainage ditches," I called. "A house is useless if it floods."
They nodded, eager to follow. Hungry for praise. Some of them worked harder just because I stood near. Like children desperate for a teacher's smile.
But the work was progress. Real progress. And as I watched the first walls rise, something dark and hungry twisted in my chest. They needed me. They saw me as a savior because I showed them how to do more than just survive.
And one day, they'd repay that debt. One way or another.
By dusk, the first structure was done—a sturdy, simple hut, but solid. The peasants cheered, a few even called for a blessing.
I raised a hand, all benevolent smiles. "You did this. Your strength built this. Together, we will survive."
Lies. Sweet, necessary lies.
The woman who'd given me the rag smiled, her son beaming at her side. The old man with the bad knee nodded like I'd become a saint.
Pathetic.
But as I walked back to the manor, I couldn't help but smile too. Because for all their naive gratitude, for all their desperate loyalty… they were mine.
My hands ached. My clothes were filthy. But the village was taking shape. And with each beam they raised, so did my control.
I entered the manor, slamming the door behind me. My smile vanished. The mask fell away.
"What a bunch of simpletons." I hissed, wiping my hands like I'd touched something foul. "Grateful for scraps. Happy with a hovel."
I slumped into a rickety chair, the springs groaning beneath me. I could've laughed. The mighty Kain Kluvert, billionaire, reduced to babysitting peasants. My fingers throbbed, a mix of strain and lingering rage. I clenched them until the pain sharpened.
But this was the game. My game. One I'd win. I'd turn this backwater dump into something worth ruling. I'd make them need me, love me, and fear me.
And one day, I'd make the gods themselves answer for dragging me here.
I just had to be patient.
And keep smiling.