A civilization arrives already half-ruined, its walls breached and its old agreements abandoned by people who found tending them tedious. Repair is unglamorous work. The honorable calling still falls to whoever picks up that wreckage and makes it fit to live in again, harder though it is than tearing the rest down.
A breach is the gap in the wall where the enemy pours through, and someone has to stand in the rubble and set the stones back. That person restores the roads other people will walk and the houses they will sleep in. The name worth earning belongs to the one who mended what was falling apart so the next generation had somewhere to stand.