Re-Awakened :I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner-Chapter 596: The trials of Ego 2 [The Scum’s Son]

[QUEST FAILED: DEFEAT THE CASTLE BOSS]

[PENALTY - ACTIVATING]

The words hung in Noah’s vision, glowing softly against the darkness of his closed eyelids. He felt heavy, like his body had been filled with lead, every muscle refusing to respond to his mental commands. The text faded slowly, dissolving into particles of light that scattered like embers from a dying fire.

Then he felt nothing at all.

---

"Big brother Burt! Big brother Burt, wake up!"

The voice cut through the fog of unconsciousness. Small hands grabbed his shoulder and shook.

"Wake up, sleepy head! Mother says the woods need chopping before she can start cooking!"

Noah’s eyes opened to find a face hovering inches from his own. A little girl, maybe ten years old, with dark brown hair pulled into two pigtails that stuck out from either side of her head. Her eyes were bright hazel, wide with morning energy.

"The sun’s already up and you’re still sleeping!" She bounced on her feet. "Come on, come on! Mother’s waiting and I’m hungry and you know she won’t start breakfast until the firewood’s ready!"

Before Noah could form a response, she was gone. Her footsteps thundered across wooden floorboards as she ran from the room, her laughter echoing down what sounded like a narrow hallway.

Noah sat up slowly, his head spinning.

The bed beneath him was simple. A wooden frame, maybe five feet long and three feet wide, with a mattress that felt like it was stuffed with straw or hay. The blanket was rough wool, gray and scratchy, with patches where someone had mended it multiple times with thread that didn’t quite match.

The room came into focus gradually. Stone walls, maybe two feet thick judging by the depth of the single window opening. The window had wooden shutters propped open with a stick, no glass, just an opening that let in cool morning air and pale sunlight. The light suggested early morning, maybe an hour or two past dawn.

A wooden table sat against one wall, holding a clay pitcher and basin for washing. A three-legged stool. A chest at the foot of the bed, plain wood with iron corners that had rusted over time.

Noah looked down at himself.

He wore a nightshirt made of undyed linen that reached to mid-thigh. His hands were his hands—same size, same proportions, same slight calluses on his knuckles from months of combat training. He flexed his fingers, watched tendons move beneath skin that showed no scars from the fight with Ego.

No broken ribs. No internal bleeding. No pain at all.

’Where am I?’ Noah thought, his mind trying to catch up.

The girl had called him something. A name that wasn’t his.

"Burt?" Noah said aloud, testing how it sounded in his voice.

The word felt wrong in his mouth, foreign, like wearing someone else’s clothes.

A shirt lay draped over the chest. Noah stood, his bare feet finding cold wooden floorboards, and grabbed the shirt. Same rough linen as the nightshirt but dyed a dull brown. He pulled it on. The fabric scratched against his shoulders and chest, loose and designed for work rather than comfort. The sleeves ended at his elbows, and the neck tied with a simple cord.

Noah’s eyes went to the water basin.

He walked over, looked down into the clay pitcher. Half-full of water, the surface still and reflective in the morning light coming through the window.

He leaned forward, tilted the pitcher slightly to catch his reflection.

Dark hair. Brown eyes. The same face he’d had for nineteen years stared back at him. Lean features, strong jawline, the face of someone who’d spent months in combat training rather than sitting behind a desk. No changes at all.

’I still look like myself,’ Noah thought, setting the pitcher down carefully. ’So I’m not in someone else’s body. But that girl called me Burt. Called me her brother.’

He looked around the room again, really taking it in this time. The construction was old. Not ancient, but decades at least. The stone walls had been laid by someone who knew what they were doing, each block fitted together tightly. The wooden beams overhead were dark with age, showing cracks and knots that came from trees that had grown for a long time before being cut.

This wasn’t Earth. Or if it was Earth, it was Earth from a time period that shouldn’t exist anymore. Medieval construction, no electricity, no modern materials. Just stone and wood and clay.

’What happened?’ Noah thought, his chest tightening. ’I was fighting Ego. He threw me outside three times. The last time I came back in, he beat me to ten HP. Then he grabbed me, started walking toward the throne, and I passed out.’

The memory was hazy, fragmented by pain and blood loss, but he remembered the system notification clearly.

’Quest failed. Penalty activated.’

But what penalty? Being sent here? Wherever here was?

He tried pulling up his status screen mentally, the way he’d done thousands of times before.

Nothing happened. No health bar, no void energy counter, no stat distribution. Just empty space where familiar information should be.

’The system’s not responding,’ Noah realized, anxiety building in his chest. ’I can’t access anything. My interface is completely locked.’

Footsteps approached from the hallway. Lighter than the girl’s, more measured.

A woman appeared in the doorway. Middle-aged, maybe forty or forty-five, with brown hair pulled back in a bun that showed streaks of gray. She was short, maybe five foot three, with a build that suggested years of manual labor. Her face was kind despite obvious tiredness, and when she saw Noah standing there, her expression softened.

"Good, you’re awake," she said. Her voice was warm, maternal. "Gertrude said you were finally up. The wood needs chopping, Burt. I can’t start the fire for breakfast until it’s done, and your sister’s already complaining about being hungry."

Gertrude. The little girl’s name.

And this woman had called him Burt again, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Noah’s mind raced. ’She thinks I’m her son. Gertrude thinks I’m her brother. Which means I’m supposed to be someone named Burt who lives here, who chops wood for breakfast, who has a mother and sister.’

"I’ll get right on it," Noah said, testing how his voice sounded saying words this woman would expect.

She smiled, the expression reaching her eyes. "Thank you, dear. The axe is where you left it yesterday, by the back door. And don’t forget to bring in enough for the whole day this time. I don’t want to run out again by evening."

She left, her footsteps fading back down the hallway.

Noah stood there for a moment, processing.

’This is real,’ he thought, looking at the rough walls, the simple furniture, the medieval setting that surrounded him. ’This isn’t a dream. The system sent me here. But where is here? When is here?’

He turned from the window, his eyes going to the doorway the woman had disappeared through.

’She called herself my mother. Gertrude is supposedly my sister. Which means I’m living someone’s life. Someone named Burt who has a family, who chops wood, who does whatever it is people do in places like this.’

The thought of reincarnation crossed Noah’s mind. Stories Mrs. Harper used to bring him when he was younger, back before his parents left for the Ark, back when he’d been a quiet kid who read too much because there wasn’t much else to do. Novels about people dying and waking up in other worlds, in other bodies, with systems and quests and second chances.

’Is that what this is?’ Noah wondered. ’Did I die fighting Ego? Am I dead right now? Is this some kind of afterlife punishment?’

No way to know. Not yet.

He left the room, finding himself in a narrow hallway with stone walls and a wooden floor that creaked under his weight. Three doors total—the one he’d come from, one on the opposite side that was closed, and an opening at the end that led to what looked like a main living area.

Noah walked toward the opening, his bare feet cold against the floorboards.

The main room was maybe twenty feet by fifteen feet, with a stone fireplace taking up most of one wall. The fireplace was cold now, just ashes from yesterday’s fire sitting in the hearth. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, rough-hewn with benches on either side. Clay dishes and cups sat stacked on a shelf. A spinning wheel in one corner. Bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams.

The woman—his supposed mother—was at the table, kneading dough in a wooden bowl. Gertrude sat nearby, swinging her legs and humming something off-key.

"The axe is by the back door," the woman said without looking up. "And Gertrude, you can help your brother carry the wood once he’s done chopping."

"But Mother," Gertrude whined, "I helped yesterday! It’s his turn to do it alone!"

"And he’ll do the chopping alone. But carrying is something you can both do. Now hush, or you’ll wait even longer for breakfast."

Gertrude huffed but stopped complaining.

Noah found the back door, a simple wooden affair with iron hinges that squeaked when he opened it.

The axe leaned against the outside wall. Single-bit head, wooden handle maybe three feet long, the edge showing nicks from use but still reasonably sharp. A pile of unsplit logs sat nearby, each one maybe two feet long and eight inches in diameter.

’Alright,’ Noah thought, picking up the axe. ’I chop wood now, apparently.’

He set one of the logs on a flat stone that looked like it served as a chopping block, raised the axe, brought it down.

The blade bit into the wood, splitting it cleanly. Two halves fell away, and Noah felt the impact travel up the axe handle into his arms.

’My strength is still here,’ Noah realized, setting up another log. ’Whatever this place is, my physical abilities are still active. Which means I can still fight if I need to.’

He worked through the pile methodically, each swing splitting logs that would have taken multiple hits for someone without enhanced strength. The pile of split wood grew quickly, and within maybe fifteen minutes, he’d finished all the unsplit logs.

Gertrude appeared at the back door, her eyes going wide.

"You did it already?" She sounded surprised. "That usually takes you forever!"

’Does it?’ Noah thought, looking at the split wood. ’Which means Burt, whoever he is, doesn’t have enhanced strength. Which means I’m stronger than the person whose life I’m supposedly living.’

"I’ll start carrying it in," Noah said, grabbing an armful of split logs.

Gertrude helped, taking smaller pieces, and together they brought the wood inside. The woman—Noah still didn’t know her name and calling her ’Mother’ felt wrong—directed them to stack it beside the fireplace.

Once the wood was in, she started building the fire. Kindling first, then smaller pieces, striking a flint against steel until sparks caught. The kindling smoked, then flared, and she fed it carefully until flames grew strong enough to add larger logs.

"Burt, go fetch water from the stream," she said, gesturing at two wooden buckets near the door. "We’ll need it for washing after breakfast."

The stream. Right. Because of course there was no running water.

Noah grabbed the buckets, found they had rope handles, and headed back outside.

Now which way was the stream?

Noah looked around but didn’t need to for too long as he could hear running water not too far away. It was probably due to his ability to perceive things more than most humans could.

The path from the house led downhill through grass that came up to his shins. His feet were still bare, and the ground was cold, slightly damp from morning dew. Small stones pressed into his soles, but his enhanced durability meant they didn’t hurt, just felt uncomfortable.

The stream was maybe two hundred feet from the house, running through a shallow depression in the hillside. Clear water, maybe two feet wide and six inches deep at the center, flowing over smooth stones.

Noah knelt at the bank, dipped one bucket in, let it fill. The water was cold, almost shockingly so, and his hands went numb after a few seconds of holding the bucket underwater.

He filled the second bucket, stood, and started back toward the house.

’If I died,’ Noah thought, walking carefully so the water didn’t slosh too much, ’then that means Eclipse thinks I’m gone. Sophie, Lila, Seraleth. They’d have no idea what happened. Would just know I disappeared into that domain and never came back.’

The thought made his chest tighten.

’My team would keep looking. Kelvin would try to track me somehow. But how would they find me if I’m not even in the same time period? Or dimension? Or whatever the hell this is?’

He reached the house, brought the buckets inside, set them near the hearth where his mother gestured.

"Good boy," she said, and the casual affection in her voice made Noah uncomfortable because it was directed at someone who wasn’t him.

Breakfast came together quickly. Porridge made from oats, cooked in a pot suspended over the fire. No salt, no sugar, just plain grain with a texture like paste. The woman served it in wooden bowls, and they ate at the table in silence broken only by Gertrude’s occasional complaints that it was too hot or too thick.

Noah ate mechanically, the food sitting heavy in his stomach.

’This is real,’ he thought, watching steam rise from his bowl. ’Not a dream, not a vision. I’m actually here, wherever here is. Which means I need to figure out what’s happening and how to get back.’

"Burt."

Noah looked up. His mother was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

"You remember you’re starting at the tavern today, yes?"

Tavern. Job. Right.

"I remember," Noah said, despite not remembering at all.

She smiled, relieved. "Good. Don’t be nervous. Master Grayson said he’d give you a chance despite..." She paused, her smile faltering. "Despite what people say. Just work hard, keep your head down, and don’t let anyone provoke you into trouble."

’Despite what people say,’ Noah repeated mentally. ’What does that mean?’