Chapter 597: The trials of Ego part 3 (The Red one)

What did people say?

"I’ll be good," Noah said, because that seemed like the response she was looking for.

She reached across the table, squeezed his hand. "I know you will. You’re a good boy, Burt. Better than what they say."

The moment stretched awkwardly before she released his hand and stood, beginning to clear the table.

"Let me get ready," she said. "I need to drop you at the tavern before I head to the castle for my work today."

The castle. Noah’s attention sharpened.

"You work at the castle?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"You know I do," she said, giving him a strange look. "Same as always. Cleaning, laundry, whatever Lady Constance needs done. Why do you ask?"

"Just making sure I remembered correctly," Noah said quickly.

She nodded, accepting the explanation, and disappeared down the hallway toward what Noah assumed was her room.

Gertrude finished her porridge, licking the bowl clean in a way that would have gotten her scolded at any formal meal but here just made their mother smile when she returned.

"You’re staying here today," she told Gertrude. "I’ve left tasks for you. The spinning needs finishing, and the garden needs weeding. Can you manage that?"

"Yes, Mother," Gertrude said, though her tone suggested she’d rather be doing literally anything else.

Noah’s mother returned wearing a different dress, still simple but cleaner than the one she’d had on earlier. She carried a cloth bag over her shoulder that clinked softly with what sounded like cleaning supplies.

"Come on then," she said to Noah. "Best not keep Master Grayson waiting on your first day."

They left the house together, walking down the dirt path Noah had seen from the window. The morning sun was warmer now, burning off the dew, and the path dried as they walked.

The hills rolled gently around them, covered in grass and scattered wildflowers. Other houses dotted the landscape, most of them similar to the one Noah had woken in—stone walls, thatched roofs, small and practical. Smoke rose from several chimneys, suggesting other families were cooking breakfast too.

As they walked, Noah noticed something.

They were heading downhill, following the path as it curved around the base of a larger hill. And when Noah looked up, toward where the path was leading, he saw it.

A castle.

Massive, stone, with towers rising maybe a hundred feet into the clear sky. Walls that had to be at least thirty feet tall, thick enough to withstand siege weapons. The architecture was familiar in a way that made Noah’s breath catch.

’That’s the castle,’ he realized, his feet slowing. ’The one where I fought Ego. Where I fought through all those stages. Except...’

Except in his time, the castle had been alone. Surrounded by empty grassland, no other structures nearby, just a monument to a dead kingdom.

But here, now, the castle was surrounded by a kingdom. Buildings clustered at its base, spreading outward in organic patterns that looked like centuries of gradual growth. Streets wound between structures, and even from this distance, Noah could see movement—people going about their morning routines, carts being pulled, animals being herded.

’This is what Ego meant,’ Noah thought, staring at the living kingdom. ’When he said "a kingdom long dead." This is that kingdom. Before it died. Before everyone died. Before it became the empty castle I walked through.’

A system notification appeared without warning.

[NEW QUEST ISSUED: EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES]

[OBJECTIVE: UNKNOWN]

[TIME LIMIT: UNKNOWN]

[FAILURE CONSEQUENCE: UNKNOWN]

[CURRENT STATUS: PENALTY IN PROGRESS]

Noah stared at the text floating in his vision.

’Extinguish the flames,’ he read, his mind turning the words over. ’What flames? Where? When?’

"Burt?"

His mother’s voice pulled Noah from his thoughts.

"You’re staring," she said gently. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Noah said, forcing himself to look away from the castle. "Just... thinking."

She smiled, reached out to adjust his collar. "I know the clothes are uncomfortable. The fabric is rough, and I’m sorry about that. But once you start earning, once you help with the household a bit more, we can afford to get you something better. Maybe even something that doesn’t itch so much."

The gesture was motherly, caring, and Noah felt guilt twist in his chest because this woman thought she was talking to her son.

"I’ll manage," Noah said.

She squeezed his shoulder. "You’re a good boy. No matter what they say, you’re good. Don’t forget that."

They kept walking, the path leading them closer to the kingdom proper. The buildings grew denser, changing from scattered houses to actual streets lined with structures that served clear purposes. A blacksmith’s shop, smoke rising from its forge. A carpenter’s workshop, the sound of sawing audible from the street. A general store with goods visible through an open door.

And people. Dozens of them, going about their morning business.

Noah noticed something as they walked. People were looking at them. Not openly staring, but glancing, then looking away quickly. Whispering to each other when they thought Noah and his mother couldn’t hear.

"...that’s her, isn’t it?"

"...the coward’s wife..."

"...can’t believe she shows her face..."

The words were quiet, fragmented, but Noah caught enough to understand the tone. These people didn’t like his mother. Didn’t respect her.

His mother kept walking, her head high, her expression neutral. Like she’d heard this before, like she’d learned to ignore it.

"Keep walking, Burt," she said quietly. "Don’t pay them any mind."

But Noah was paying attention. More whispers reached his ears as they passed different groups.

"...and the son too..."

"...scum’s blood..."

"...coward’s boy..."

’Scum,’ Noah thought, the word echoing in his mind. ’They’re calling me scum. Calling her the coward’s wife. Which means Burt’s father—whoever he was—did something that turned the entire town against his family.’

They reached a building with a wooden sign hanging above the door. The sign showed a painted mug of ale, and through the windows, Noah could see tables and chairs inside.

A tavern. This must be where Noah was supposed to work.

His mother stopped at the door, turned to face him.

"Remember what I said," she told him, her voice carrying weight. "Work hard. Keep your head down. Don’t let them provoke you, no matter what they say. Master Grayson is giving you a chance when no one else would. Don’t waste it."

"I won’t," Noah said.

She smiled, reached up to touch his cheek briefly. "I need to get to the castle. Lady Constance will be expecting me, and I have a full day of work ahead. I’ll see you at home tonight."

She turned to leave, the cloth bag over her shoulder clinking softly with cleaning supplies that looked odd—brushes with bristles made from materials Noah didn’t recognize, bottles containing liquids that probably served purposes he couldn’t guess at.

Noah watched her go, her figure growing smaller as she walked back toward the main street that led up to the castle.

Then he turned, pushed open the tavern door, and stepped inside.

The interior was dim compared to the bright morning outside. Tables scattered across a wooden floor, benches and chairs, a bar running along one wall with shelves behind it holding clay mugs and bottles of what was probably ale or wine. The smell hit him immediately—old beer, wood smoke, unwashed bodies, cooking grease.

A man stood behind the bar, maybe fifty years old, with a gut that suggested he sampled his own wares frequently. His face was round, his beard shot through with gray, and when he saw Noah enter, his expression shifted from neutral to something harder.

"So you’re Burt," the man said. His voice was rough, like he’d spent years shouting over crowds. "Your mother begged me to give you work. Said you needed the opportunity, said you’d work hard despite your father’s disgrace."

Noah said nothing, waiting.

The man walked around the bar, stopped maybe five feet from Noah, and crossed his arms.

"Let me make something clear, boy. Labor’s expensive these days. Good workers are hard to find. That’s the only reason I hired you. Not because I like you. Not because I pity your mother. Because I need someone to clean tables and haul barrels and do the work nobody else wants to do."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes hard.

"Your father was scum. A coward who disgraced himself and brought shame to your family. Everyone in this town knows it. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re no better. You’ve got his blood, which means you’re scum too."

Noah felt anger building in his chest, but he forced it down. This wasn’t his fight. This was Burt’s life, Burt’s history, and he was just living it temporarily while trying to figure out what "Extinguish the Flames" meant.

"I’ll work hard," Noah said, keeping his voice level.

The man—Master Grayson, apparently—studied him for a moment, then nodded.

"See that you do. Tables need wiping, floors need sweeping, and when customers come in, you serve them quick and keep your mouth shut. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good. Get to work then. Rag and bucket are in the back."

Noah found the supplies, started cleaning tables that were already mostly clean, and tried to make sense of where he was and what he was supposed to do.

The morning passed slowly. A few customers trickled in—men who looked like laborers stopping for ale before starting their day’s work. Each one who noticed Noah serving them made some comment.

"Coward’s son."

"Scum’s boy."

"Can’t believe Grayson hired him."

Noah ignored them, wiped tables, refilled mugs when Master Grayson told him to, and kept his head down like his supposed mother had advised.

By midday, the tavern was busier. More customers, louder conversations, the smell of cooking food mixing with the smell of ale and unwashed bodies.

Noah was clearing a table near the door when a group entered.

Seven men, all of them loud and cheerful, talking over each other with the easy camaraderie of people who’d worked together for years. They wore leather armor—not full plate, but reinforced jerkins and bracers that could only mean they were used to fighting. Swords hung at their belts, and one carried a spear slung across his back.

The tavern’s atmosphere shifted immediately. Other customers called out greetings, raised their mugs, offered to buy drinks. Master Grayson came out from behind the bar himself, smiling in a way Noah hadn’t seen him smile at anyone else.

"Gentlemen!" Grayson called. "Welcome back! Your usual table?"

"Aye," one of the men said, grinning. "And bring ale. Lots of ale. We’ve got things to celebrate!"

The group settled at a large table near the center of the room, their voices carrying easily over the general noise.

Noah kept cleaning, trying not to look obvious about listening.

"—can’t believe the captain let us take leave," one man was saying. "Three days! When’s the last time we had three full days?"

"When you got married," another replied, laughing. "And you spent the whole time complaining about your wife!"

"That’s because she won’t let me see Margery!"

"Margery works at the brothel in Greenhill! Of course your wife won’t let you see her!"

Laughter erupted from the table, loud and genuine.

Noah moved to a table closer, wiping it down despite it being clean, positioning himself where he could hear better.

"So what’s the plan tonight?" someone asked. "Besides drinking ourselves stupid?"

"Same as always," another voice said. "We head up the mountain, find the red one, put it down before it eats any more livestock."

The red one. Noah’s hand stilled on the table.

"You think it’s actually there?" a different man asked. "Locals say it only comes out at night. Could be they’re just trying to scare us."

"Locals aren’t lying," the first voice said. "We found tracks last time. Big ones. And the burned patches in the trees? That wasn’t from lightning."

"A dragon," someone said, their voice carrying awe. "We’re going to fight an actual dragon."

"We’ve fought worse," another replied confidently. "Remember the wyvern in the western valley? This’ll be like that but with more fire."

Noah’s mind was racing. Dragons. They were talking about hunting dragons on a mountain. A red one specifically.

"—what do you think, Egor?"

The name caught Noah’s attention immediately.

He looked up from the table he was pretending to clean, his eyes finding the speaker.

The man who’d been talking over everyone else stopped mid-sentence, looking sheepish.

"Sorry, captain," he said, addressing someone Noah hadn’t noticed yet.

At the head of the table sat a man who’d been quiet the entire time. While the others had been loud and boisterous, this one had just listened, nursing a mug of ale without contributing to the conversation.

Now, with everyone’s attention on him, he finally spoke.

"The red one is real," the man said. His voice was calm, measured, carrying authority despite not being raised. "We’ll find it tonight. We’ll kill it. And then we’ll bring the carcass back as proof."

The table erupted into cheers, mugs banging against wood, the other six men voicing their agreement with loud enthusiasm.

But Noah wasn’t hearing them anymore.

He was staring at the man at the head of the table. The one called Egor. The one who’d spoken with such certainty about hunting dragons.

The man was maybe thirty years old, with dark hair pulled back in a short tail. His face was strong, clean-shaven, with features that suggested both intelligence and experience. He wore the same leather armor as his companions, but his sat on him differently—like he’d been wearing it so long it had become a second skin.

’Egor,’ Noah thought, his heart hammering. ’Ego. The Last Dragon Knight.’

The man who’d nearly killed him in the castle. The man whose kingdom had somehow died and left only an empty shell and a broken throne.

Here. Alive. Human. Drinking ale with his friends while they planned to hunt a dragon.

The quest notification pulsed in Noah’s vision.

[EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES]

Noah stood there, rag in hand, staring at Egor, and finally understanding that whatever this penalty was, it had placed him somewhere—somewhen—in Ego’s past. In the time before the kingdom died.

And he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do about it.