BUILDING A CIVILIZATION WITH MY ABANDONED WIFE

CHAPTER TWO-THE WHISPERS OF REBELLION

The courtyard of the Valthoria keep was a graveyard in all but name.

Alex stepped through the shattered oak gates, his boots crunching against the bone-dry gravel. The desert wind howled through the canyons, carrying a fierce, scorching heat that felt like a furnace blast against his skin. Scattered across the dust-choked square were dozens of gaunt, hollow-eyed commoners. They leaned against crumbling stone pillars and broken farming tools, their lips cracked, their spirits entirely crushed.

When Alex appeared, no one bowed. No one cheered. Instead, a heavy, suffocating silence fell over the crowd, broken only by a few bitter mutters.

"Look at him," a raspy voice whispered from the back. "The useless prince. Exiled by his own blood, and now he comes out here to watch us die."

"He brings nothing but a curse," another grumbled, spitting into the dry dirt.

Annalise walked half a step behind Alex, her hands still trembling slightly, but her silver hair caught the harsh sunlight like a beacon. She could hear the venom in their voices, and her chest tightened. She knew how cruel families could be,her own father had cast her out like garbage when her house fell from grace. She knew these people didn't hate Alex personally; they hated the crown he represented, the crown that had left them out here to rot.

Alex didn't blink. His modern mind, trained to look at infrastructure crises through numbers and cold data, immediately brought up the floating blue interface of the World Saviour System.

【Ding! Scanning local population...】

   Total Present: 42 adult laborers.

    Average Hydration Level: 14% (Severe Fatigue / Cognitive Decline).

    Average Loyalty: 4% (Hostile / Despondent).

    Current Threat Level: Low (Too weak to riot).

Four percent, Alex thought, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd. If I don't give them a reason to believe in me right now, they won't even have the physical strength to help me dig.

"Your Highness!"

An aggressive, booming voice broke through the silence. A tall, portly man dressed in faded velvet robes pushed his way through the peasants. He had a thick, greasy beard and eyes that gleamed with a calculating, malicious opportunistic streak. This was Steward Garrick, the man sent by Alex's treacherous stepsiblings to 'manage' the outpost...or rather, to ensure Alex never made it back to the capital alive.

Garrick offered a mock, theatrical bow, his face twisting into a patronizing smile. "Ah, the royal couple finally graces us with their presence. I must apologize, Prince Alexander, but as you can see, our water rations are completely spent. The gods have cursed this land with a five-year drought. If you are looking for wine or a soft bed, I'm afraid you will only find dust."

The commoners watched intently, expecting the fragile, spoiled prince to throw a royal tantrum or break down in tears.

Instead, Alex stood tall, his posture perfectly straight, carrying the unyielding confidence of a chief project manager about to take over a failing construction site. He looked directly into Garrick's eyes, his gaze so piercing and authoritative that the steward's smirk briefly faltered.

"I am not looking for wine, Steward Garrick," Alex said, his voice ringing clearly across the courtyard, surprising everyone with its strength. "I am looking for labor. Call every able-bodied man and woman. Gather every iron rod, broken pickaxe, heavy rope, and hollow reed in this keep."

Garrick blinked, letting out a short, mocking laugh. "Labor? For what purpose, Your Highness? To dig another shallow hole in the sand? We have dug twenty wells across this basin, and every single one of them came up dry. The earth here is dead bedrock. To strike against it is to anger the spirits of the waste."

"The wells you dug failed because you lack basic understanding of hydrological topography," Alex replied coldly, using terms that completely baffled the primitive Bronze Age minds around him.

He raised his hand and pointed directly at a specific patch of jagged, cracked bedrock right in the center of the courtyard—the exact spot where his *Creator Engine's Blueprint Eyes* showed a massive, pulsing blue wireframe of pressurized subterranean water trapped just forty meters down.

"We will dig right there," Alex declared. "Right in the center of this courtyard."

The crowd erupted into hushed, panicked murmurs.

Garrick’s face flushed with mock outrage, turning to the peasants. "Listen to him! He wants us to waste our final remaining ounces of strength striking solid granite! Your Highness, that specific ground sits directly above the ancient fault line. The legends call it the 'Serpent's Maw.' To puncture that rock is to unleash a curse that will swallow what little remains of this province! I refuse to let these good people die for a royal whim!"

"He's right," an old miner muttered, taking a step back. "The bedrock there is unbreakable. We'll snap our remaining iron tools within an hour."

Annalise stepped forward, her deep eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce protectiveness. "And what is your alternative, Steward? To sit here and wait for the sun to bake us alive? The Prince is offering a chance. If you have the strength to complain, you have the strength to dig!"

Garrick sneered at her, but before he could speak, Alex stepped closer, towering over the corrupt steward. The invisible blue grids of the system hummed in Alex's pupils.

"Garrick," Alex said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low whisper that only the steward could hear. "I know exactly who pays your salary. I know my brother Darius told you to ensure I starve out here. But let me make one thing clear to you: if my people die of thirst, you will be the first one I bury in the sand. Now, get out of my way."

Garrick’s eyes widened in genuine shock. The weak, cowardly prince he had been told to watch had vanished. Standing before him was a man with the cold, calculating aura of a tyrant—or an emperor. Trembling with a mixture of rage and sudden fear, Garrick took a step back, holding up his hands.

"Fine," Garrick hissed loudly so the crowd could hear. "If the Prince wishes to break his own hands against the sacred stone, let him. But do not look to me when the tools shatter and your lips turn to ash!"

Alex ignored him and walked straight to the center of the courtyard, kneeling over the hot granite. He reached out, his emaciated hand touching the rough stone. Through his *Blueprint Eyes*, the deep structural fault lines illuminated beautifully, showing a microscopic hairline fracture in the rock matrix where a single, concentrated kinetic strike could shatter the upper crust.

He looked up at the quiet, desperate commoners.

"I don't expect you to trust me yet," Alex said loudly, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "But I expect you to want to live. I will strike the first blow. Who will stand with me?"

A young, burly commoner with dirt-streaked skin and a completely hollow stomach stepped forward, holding a rusted iron crowbar. His name was Torren, a local blacksmith’s apprentice who had lost his family to the drought. He looked at Alex, then at the unbreakable rock.

"If we don't dig, we die anyway," Torren muttered, his voice thick with grim resignation. "Show me where to hit, Your Highness."

Alex smiled, a sharp, confident glint in his eyes as he pointed to the exact mathematical center of the hidden fault line. "Right here, Torren. Hit it with everything you have."