While Menko was busy teaching the people the basics of farming, I went ahead and inspected the villagers' homes. Indeed, they were sturdy—balanced, neatly built, and pleasing to look at—but improvements could certainly be made. A home could stand strong and still fall short of comfort.
I began asking around to understand what they struggled with during different seasons.
One villager spread both hands outward, a gesture of discomfort. "In the cold months, the chill settles inside the walls. Our fires help… but only for a short while."
Another tapped the packed-earth floor. "When the rains arrive, the ground becomes damp. Not enough to damage anything, but enough to make sleep uneasy."
A family pointed upward toward the timber supports. "When strong winds come, the beams shift and groan. Nothing collapses—just loud, restless nights."
Their concerns were simple and consistent: warmth, dryness, stability. Three things every proper home should provide but their current methods could not fully achieve.
I walked through the structures again, tracing the lines of their craftsmanship. Their building techniques were respectable for what they knew—layered earth, strong wood, tight weaving. But without reinforced bases, raised flooring, and proper insulation, their homes would always struggle against the seasons.
When enough people gathered, I addressed them calmly.
"Your homes are well-made," I said, "but they can be improved. What you lack is not effort—it is knowledge."
Their bodies leaned slightly forward, the gesture they used to show curiosity.
"I will teach you methods you have never seen. Raised floors to keep out moisture. Stone bedding beneath your walls. Reinforced frames that stand firm against harsh winds. And later—proper heating, so winter will no longer bite through your walls."
I pointed toward the open land near the river.
"We will begin there. This knowledge is new even to Menko, so he will learn alongside you."
Before anything could be built, we needed materials. A lot of them.
I gathered a group of volunteers—four villagers and Menko. A decent team… or so I thought.
"First, we need timber," I said, leading them toward the forest's edge. "Straight trees, not twisted ones."
A villager proudly pointed at the most crooked, miserable-looking trunk I'd seen in a century.
"…Not that one," I said.
He lowered his hand in shame.
We marked suitable trunks. I demonstrated how to cut a wedge on one side before the final cut. Clean, efficient. Physics. Simple.
One villager tried cutting both sides at the same time.
"Why," I asked calmly, "are you attacking the tree from the front and the back?"
He simply shrugged.
Menko gently repositioned him and said, "Just follow the angle he made."
Eventually, the trees fell—mostly where they were supposed to. One nearly hit a shrub, and the villager panicked as if he'd almost killed a god.
"Relax. It's a plant," I said.
Next: stone.
The riverbed was full of smooth, sturdy ones. Perfect for foundations and heat storage.
I pointed to a pile. "We need these."
A villager picked the smallest pebble in existence and held it up like treasure.
"No," I said. "We're building a house, not decorating a crab."
Menko found actual usable stones and the villagers followed his lead. Bless that kid.
Clay was easier. We dug near the riverbank, mixing it with straw and water in a pit.
One villager slipped in again.
At this point, I simply sighed and said, "Just stand still, we'll pull you out."
We carried everything back—logs, branches, stones, clay—while the villagers gasped dramatically at every bit of weight they had to carry.
"It's for your future house," I reminded them.
That improved morale by approximately 4%.
We began construction the moment all the materials were gathered. I chose a flat stretch of ground near the center of the village so everyone could watch. If I was going to win their trust, I needed this house to be so unquestionably superior that even the dullest villager would understand the difference.
I marked out the foundation lines with rope and sticks. A villager immediately walked straight through it, smudging half the outline.
I silently stared at the ruined line.
He froze like someone who had accidentally offended a spirit.
Menko quietly crouched beside me and redrew it, his movements slow and careful. "There," he murmured. The villager nodded, overly grateful for not being vaporized on the spot.
With that, we dug the shallow trenches for the foundation. The villagers gasped at how hard the dirt was—apparently, none of them had touched a shovel in their entire serene, ritual-filled lives.
"Stones go in here," I explained.
One villager placed the smallest pebble he could find into the trench.
"No," I said. "We're building a house, not trying to annoy an ant."
Menko brought actual stones, and the rest immediately copied him.
Once the foundation was set, I began shaping the timber joints. The villagers watched closely, as if I were performing advanced sorcery. I fitted the beams into the stone-lined base, and with Menko's help, we lifted the support posts upright.
One post wobbled slightly, and a villager panicked like it was about to explode. "It's wood," I told him. "Calm down."
We secured the frame with crossbeams and vine ropes. The structure rose, simple but imposing—already sturdier than anything the village had ever seen.
For the walls, I demonstrated weaving the thinner branches horizontally between the upright posts. Steady, tight lines.
One villager somehow tied a knot. In a flat wall. I blinked at it.
He slowly backed away, embarrassed. Menko fixed the knot without a word.
Next came the clay mixture—mud, straw, water. The villagers stomped it in a pit. Too enthusiastically. One slipped in. Again.
"I'm starting to suspect you enjoy this," I told him.
We plastered the clay onto the woven walls, smoothing it with our hands until the surface was thick and solid. The house began taking shape—strong, insulated, practical.
Then the roof.
Bundles of thatch, tightly layered downward. Always downward. The moment a villager placed his bundle pointing upward, he froze, corrected it instantly, and pretended nothing happened.
Progress.
We secured the roof with a ridge pole and tied vines across the top. The final touch was leaving a narrow ventilation gap, just enough for heat to escape without losing warmth.
Inside, I dug a shallow channel under the floor, lining it with river stones. Heated stones could be rolled into the channel to warm the house during cold seasons—primitive, but proven in several ancient civilizations.
We covered the floor with packed clay, smoothing it to a firm surface.
By the time we stepped back, the structure stood tall, sturdy, and clean—better than any home the villagers had ever lived in.
The villagers gathered around, murmuring like they'd just witnessed a miracle.
Menko looked at me with quiet pride. "This… this will help them."
I crossed my arms, pretending I hadn't nearly lost my sanity several times. "It better," I said. "Otherwise, I'll build a castle next just to prove a point."
The house stood there—finished, sturdy, straight, and so beautiful that the villagers circled it like it was some sort of holy artifact. Honestly, I didn't blame them. After all the mud-throwing, log-dropping, rope-tripping, and Menko catching me by the collar every time I was about to yell, the fact that this house existed felt like a personal miracle.
Naturally, we had to test it.
"So… who wants to live in it for a few days?" I asked, expecting a polite pause, maybe a hesitant volunteer.
Nope.
Twenty-seven villagers immediately raised their hands and started fighting among themselves.
Two tripped. One bit someone. Another tried to bribe me with three cabbages.
Menko sighed. "Perhaps… we should choose calmly?"
"Calmly?" I pointed at the man waving a cabbage like a weapon. "Look at that! He's ready to duel for real estate!"
In the end, we did a lottery. A very controlled lottery. One where I physically separated anyone who tried to peek into the bowl.
The winners were a five-person family: a middle-aged couple and their three kids who had the energy of caffeinated squirrels. Perfect testers.
On the first morning, I went to check the house. The family inside opened the door dramatically, like actors on stage.
"Warm!" the father said.
"No wind coming through the walls!" the mother added.
"The floor didn't break even when he jumped!" one kid proudly announced, pointing at his brother.
The boy in question was still bouncing. On my floor. That I built. With my hands. I squinted at him. Menko gently pushed my head so I'd stop staring too intensely.
Day two, it rained.
Heavy.
The kind of rain that turns paths into soup and exposes poorly built homes mercilessly.
I stood outside with Menko, observing like a scientist evaluating an experiment. Villagers clustered behind us, whispering bets.
The roof held beautifully. No leaking. No sagging. The rain ran off exactly where I designed it to.
Inside, the family poked their heads out and gave us a thumbs-up.
I pretended to stay modest, but inside I was absolutely glowing. Yes. Praise your local architect overlord.
On day three, I did a structural inspection. The packed-earth walls had dried evenly. The plaster showed no cracks. The log frame remained straight—remarkably straight, considering two villagers tried to "lean" on it out of curiosity earlier.
Even the villagers admitted they were impressed.
"It feel… strong," one said, tapping the wall.
"I cannot push it down."
"Why were you trying to push it down?" I asked.
He shrugged. "For science?"
Before I could respond, Menko stepped between us. "He understands your curiosity. Please do not test the house's durability with your shoulder anymore."
After four full days, the test family emerged looking happier, dryer, and significantly less annoyed by the wind than usual.
The mother bowed slightly. "We wish to… keep living here."
I raised an eyebrow. "Already attached?"
"No drafts," she said firmly. "We stay."
The father nodded. "Also floor didn't break. This is miracle."
The kids were already digging a hole outside the house for reasons no one could explain.
I looked at Menko. "Well… that's confirmation."
Menko smiled. "A very positive one."
The villagers murmured excitedly, staring at the house like it was a portal to a new world.
And me? I was already mentally preparing to replicate this—many times.
After all, nothing wins over a village like a warm, dry, windproof home.
And nothing increases my influence more than being the guy who can build one.
The test family didn't just like the new house—no, they clung to it like it was their newborn child. They didn't even leave for two days. They dragged their food inside, their sleeping mats inside, and at one point the father leaned toward me and whispered, "If you ask us to pay rent, we might cry."
Naturally, the whole village descended into chaos.
People walked into their own homes and stared at the walls as though the walls had personally betrayed them. One woman poked her roof with a stick and muttered, "You are too thin. "A man stood in a draft and whispered, "Why are you breathing on me…?"
Ah. That perfect, magical moment when dissatisfaction blooms. My favorite tool.
I called an "informational assembly. "They arrived like hungry ducks. Menko stood beside me, calm and responsible, radiating the aura of someone destined to babysit a very questionable friend.
"So," I said, hands behind my back like a wise leader. "You all want new homes?"
Their response was so enthusiastic you'd think I had promised immortality.
"I understand," I nodded sagely. "I truly do… and I am willing to help."
They leaned forward.
"…but," I added.
The entire village froze like prey sensing danger.
"I cannot build ALL your homes alone."
Panic. Absolute panic. Someone dropped a bucket. Someone grabbed my sleeve. Someone screamed, "BUT WE BELIEVE IN YOUR POWER!"
"Yes, thank you," I said, detaching hands from me. "Belief doesn't carry logs."
Menko elbowed me. "Be gentle."
I cleared my throat. "You want good houses. I want to avoid dying of exhaustion. Therefore—we work together. A community effort."
A villager raised a hand. "Is community effort… like training?"
"It's like training," I said, "but with heavy things."
"Ah," they said, enlightened.
I turned to Menko."See? They understand."
Menko whispered, "They absolutely do not."
I ignored him and spread my arms. "If you want those houses, we need workers!"
They cheered.
"A LOT of workers!"
They cheered again.
"Workers who don't mind long hours! Mud! Splinters! And maybe me shouting!"
They cheered louder—concerningly loud.
Menko blinked. "They are… disturbingly motivated."
I grinned. "Comfort is a powerful force."
He sighed. "Just don't call this slavery."
"It's not!" I said proudly. "It's voluntary group enthusiasm."
The next morning, I stepped outside and nearly fell over.
Half the village waited for me—with tools. Doing stretches. Ready for war.
One man saluted me for absolutely no reason.
I clapped my hands. "Alright, volunteers—today we gather materials!"
They roared like I'd declared battle.
Menko whispered, "I think you accidentally created a construction cult."
"They're just excited," I replied.
A villager tripped over his rake.
"…mostly excited," Menko corrected.
I assigned roles: log carriers, clay stompers, mud mixers, stone haulers, water runners, and three people whose entire job was to stand next to me and nod confidently. They trained their necks with pride.
Whenever someone got tired or questioned why they were hauling a boulder heavier than their life's regrets, I pointed to the prototype house.
"Do you want that?"
"Yes!"
"Then carry."
And they carried.
One man stomped clay like the clay owed him money. Another hauled stones like he was fueled purely by envy of the test family's stable walls. Someone tried mixing mud with a fish before Menko gently removed it.
"A fish is not a tool," Menko explained.
"I understand now," the villager said, enlightened.
Every hour someone screamed, "For warm winters!" And the village replied, "FOR WARM WINTERS!"
It was chaotic. Loud. Mildly unsafe.
Perfect.
Without threats or cruelty, without even raising my voice (much), I had an entire village working harder than ants on sugar.
All completely voluntarily.
All blissfully unaware they had signed up for this.
I folded my arms, satisfied. This… this was leadership.
Menko sighed. "As long as no one calls this slavery—"
"They won't," I said. "They love this."
A villager dragged a log twice his size and shouted, "WE LOVE THIS!"
See? Perfect.