The eighth day of the ritual.
"Good morning." Miss Targaryen arrived on time as the first ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, her voice somewhat weary. "Dragon dung wasn't right, and neither was dragon urine."
"Good morning. Thank you for your hard work." Although Targaryen offered no further explanation, those words brought many things to Brian's mind.
Brian wisely refrained from asking more. Instead, with a certain sense of reverence, he prepared to break out of his shell-yes, reverence. Even if Targaryen only wanted close contact with young dragons, objectively speaking, she was also a pioneer who had paid a tremendous price along some strange path of research.
After all, few wizards in this world could discuss the mysteries of dragon dung with magical plants.
Crack!
Putting those strange associations aside, Brian swung his fist hard, cracking the artificial dragon egg's shell. It was worth mentioning that the artificial shell had been as hard as rock on the first day, but today it was no tougher than thick cardboard.
The Wizarding World had no law of conservation of magic, but evidently, the magic in the eggshell had all been absorbed by the ritual's recipient under its effects. Although Brian had eaten only a single normal day's worth of food over seven days, he felt no hunger at all. Instead, he felt full.
His nose had suddenly become a little itchy yesterday evening, but that had soon passed. If it had been a mild cold, he had probably already recovered.
Crack!
With a little effort, Brian tore an opening in the shell. Yet what greeted him was not fresh air, but a strange smell-its source was Targaryen, who looked no different from seven days ago. At that moment, the beautiful young woman was smiling and applauding him.
Beneath the fiery clouds,