The square of Valic Ville was little more than a patch of hard-packed dirt framed by timber homes, yet when Kai and Misk entered it might as well have been an arena. Hammers stilled, baskets dropped, and wary eyes turned. Mothers gathered children close while farmers gripped their pitchforks with pale knuckles.
Misk shuffled forward first. His shoulders sagged, his words cracked but loud enough for all.
"We… no know goats yours. We eat. Sorry. Sorry much."
The crowd rippled uneasily. A woman hissed, "A goblin that apologizes?" An elder leaned on his staff, blinking slow. "Strange words for stranger lips. But we accept—no more goats."
The tension thinned. Kai's voice rose, steady and clear. "If forgiveness is possible, then trust can follow. I don't just want fences between us—I want to build something greater. A nation."
That word struck like a hammer blow. Murmurs rolled through the crowd.
"A nation? Here?"
"He seeks a crown."
"No… listen, perhaps he means unity."
Kai stood firm. "A place where your children and Misk's children live without fear. Where strength is shared, not stolen."
After a long silence, the elder dipped his chin. "You may live near us. Not in our homes, but close enough. We will send one to trade."
Misk's face lit up, his eyes wet. "Dream… dream true."
Kai turned toward the golden fields. Wheat swayed in the wind, untouched, wild. "Between here and the goblin camp, I saw this grain. Where I come from, we grind it to flour, bake it, and make bread."
A boy peered up at him. "Bread? What's that?"
The question landed heavy. This world had never known the word. "Bread is food born of patience. Grain stripped, ground, mixed with water, and baked by fire. It fills the belly and warms the spirit."
Skepticism stirred. "Grass into food?" "Madness." "Yet his words ring true…" A woman spoke up. "We boil roots, dry meat, stretch broth thin. Enough to live, not enough to live well."
Kai nodded. "I will show you. Jars can cure meat for months. Stone ovens can bake evenly. Pipes can carry clean water into your homes."
Their whispers sharpened.
"Magic tricks?"
"Not magic. Tools."
"If it saves children from hunger, we should listen."
The elder's voice dropped. "Beyond us, there are dwarves. They dwell beneath mountains, in halls of stone. They trade nothing, share nothing. We know them only by story."
Kai's gaze hardened. "Dwarves… another people entirely." He folded the thought away.
Later, the villagers brought him to their unfinished hall: leaning beams, scattered stones, no roof. "We mean to finish, but lack hands," one man admitted.
Kai placed a hand on the frame. Energy pulled through him like breath. Timber locked. Stone fused. In moments, the hall stood whole—roof sealed, walls tight, doors swinging free.
Gasps broke loose. "By the gods!" "He built it whole!" Children clapped, one boy shouting, "You're amazing!"
Kai said nothing. Power always carried cost.
At dusk, he led them to the fields. He showed them how to strip stalks, beat heads on stone, and grind kernels into pale flour. Dust floated in the amber air.
"This," he told them, raising the powder, "is the beginning. Bread is fire away."
The people stared, caught between awe and hunger. Torren, the boy, blurted, "Will it taste better than broth?"
Kai smiled faintly. "Better. Broth warms. Bread strengthens. You'll bite it and know you can last the day."
The elder challenged him. "Strangers promise much. Why help us? What do you gain?"
Kai lifted the flour. "I gain neighbors who thrive. A nation is not built by one—it's built by many. If you are strong, my dream is strong."
The elder frowned. "Men like you usually want bows and tithes."
"No bows," Kai said. "Just bread."
A nervous laugh rippled.
A hunter sneered. "What about goblins? You want them in our market, eating beside us?"
Misk puffed out his chest. "Yes! We no bite if no bite us!"
That drew chuckles, but doubt lingered.
A woman asked, "Pipes carrying water… no more buckets from the stream?"
"Yes," Kai said. "Water at your hand. No mud."
Another villager scoffed. "What next? Light without fire?"
Kai answered calmly. "One day. But for now—bread."
The elder tapped his staff. "Show us then."
Kai knelt by the stones. With Misk hauling rock and villagers passing clay, he built an oven: stone laid tight, clay sealed, a mouth for fire, a dome for heat. He explained each step—why stone held warmth, why vents fed flame, how patience made fire steady.
He mixed flour with water, kneaded until dough stretched like muscle. He set it to rise, speaking as he worked. "In the human realm, there are bakers. Men and women who feed entire towns with ovens like these."
A farmer muttered, "So the big cities already know."
"Yes," Kai said. "But here, you can know too."
He slid the dough into the glowing oven. Minutes stretched. The air filled with a smell none of them had known: warm, rich, alive. Children leaned close, noses twitching. Adults shifted restlessly, hunger sharpening their patience.
When he drew it out, the crust crackled golden. Steam curled as he tore it open, passing pieces into eager hands.
The first bite silenced them. Chewing turned to wide eyes, to gasps, to laughter. Torren stuffed his mouth, grinning with crumbs. His mother, once doubtful, closed her eyes as warmth spread through her face.
"It's… it's good," someone whispered.
"Better than broth."
"It's life."
The elder held his piece like a relic. "This… changes everything."
Kai brushed flour from his hands. "This is only the beginning. A hall to gather, water to drink, bread to share. This is how nations rise."
And as night fell, the people of Valic Ville sat together for the first time, eating bread in wonder, tasting the future.