Chapter 42: Hatching

Fenric returned to his prince’s manor beneath the indigo evening sky, the streetlamps flickering to life one by one like watchful eyes. The guards at the gate straightened as he passed. He gave them nothing but silence. This place—his so-called "estate"—was too quiet, too clean. A gift from the imperial coffers, but more like a forgotten corner of the chessboard where nothing important ever happened. At least, until now. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he exhaled, shoulders loosening. No servants came to greet him. He preferred it that way. He climbed the staircase, boots soft against the velvet runner, until he reached the upper floor. His room—spacious, spartan, and silent—awaited. He placed the Beast Egg gently on the small table beside the bed. The runes flickered faintly in response to his presence. Then he sat down. Straight-backed at the edge of the bed, eyes half-lidded, hands clasped loosely in his lap. And slowly, steadily, he sank inward—into his Mana Sea. It welcomed him like a storm held in suspension. Deep. Vast. Quiet. Not far off, floating above a glowing arc of mana, was Duserdis. Since seeing the scale of Fenric’s Mana Sea, the ancient spirit had decided to take up residence here—leaving the Fairy Ring behind. "More comfortable," he had said lazily. Now, Duserdis cracked one glowing eye open. "What do you want, princeling?" he yawned. Fenric looked at him seriously. "I want the Dragon’s Breathing Art." At that, the dragon snorted lightly in its sleep. Duserdis raised an eyebrow. "You do remember I’m not going to spoon-feed you every answer, right?" he said dryly. "Unless you bring me a damn good reason, I’m not handing you anything." "I figured you’d say that," Fenric muttered. Duserdis sighed and waved his hand. "leave then." Fenric nodded and slowly pulled his soul back into his physical body. As he opened his eyes, he yawned. "Well, I tried," he murmured. Fenric glanced at the Beast Egg resting beside him on the table. "It seems I’ll have to put in real effort to help you evolve into a true dragon," he murmured, his tone soft—like someone trying to comfort a crying child. His fingers brushed the egg’s surface lightly, feeling its faint warmth. Then he sat cross-legged on the bed once more and closed his eyes. He began to circulate his breath. The Flowing Moon Breathing Art. A technique passed down through the Vareldis Imperial Lineage—quiet, refined, and precise. It allowed one to absorb ambient mana from the world and gently refine it into their Mana Sea. Even if the increase was minimal—just 1%—for someone like Fenric, whose sea was already vast, that 1% was still monumental. Mana began to flow. Invisible strands of energy threaded through the air, drawn into the channels opening within his body. He welcomed them with calm control, guiding them inward, where they would condense and settle. Time moved slowly. A knock eventually came at the door. A gentle voice murmured something through the wood. Fenric didn’t open his eyes, but spoke clearly. "Come in." The door opened with a whisper of hinges. A maid stepped inside, pushing a silver-handled food cart. She was young and beautiful, her movements practiced and serene. Without a word, she began setting out the evening meal—one dish at a time, neatly arranging them on the table. Fenric rose from the bed and walked over, pulling out the chair. He sat down. The maid remained standing beside him as he began to eat. She said nothing, only occasionally glancing his way with practiced poise. Once he finished, she quietly cleared the plates and returned them to the cart. As she wheeled it toward the door, she paused, bowing lightly. "Your Highness," she said in a calm, measured voice, "do you require a maid for night services?" Fenric blinked. His expression didn’t change. "No." She nodded. "As you wish." And with that, she exited and gently closed the door behind her. Fenric stared at the door for a moment longer, then muttered to himself: "Why is everyone so eager to sleep with me?" This wasn’t the first time. Even some of the senior staff had casually offered the same. He hadn’t thought much of it at first, but now it seemed... routine. "Probably because the other princes make a habit of keeping a different maid every night," he mused. With a sigh, he returned to the bed and resumed his meditation posture. Mana flowed again, weaving through his core. His breathing synchronized with it. His entire body pulsed subtly with the rhythm of his cultivation—warmth, cold, pressure, release. Like tides beneath his skin. A faint tingling crawled down his spine. Then a flash of energy lit up behind his eyelids—and something inside him shifted. He opened his eyes slowly. "...Fifth stage of Soldier Rank," he murmured, a rare smile tugging at his lips. Another breath. Another breakthrough. Not bad. He leaned back on the bed, exhaled deeply, and let his body sink into the mattress. Sleep came not as a command, but as a reward. He continued to sleep soundly, when suddenly his eyes snapped open.. It was well past midnight when the sound came. Crack. A sharp snap echoed in the quiet chamber. Fenric jolted upright, breath caught in his throat, eyes snapping open. He scanned the dark room—still half-draped in moonlight—his senses sharp, trained. Crack. There it was again. A dry, brittle sound. Like bones breaking or wood splintering. His gaze shifted—then landed. The egg. The Beast Egg was glowing faintly, the runes on its surface pulsing in rhythmic, uneven beats. Small fissures ran along the obsidian-black shell. Fenric sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly. "So it’s just you... choosing now of all times to get dramatic," he muttered, voice drowsy but laced with dry amusement. "Not even a moment’s peace." Still, he got out of bed and sat at the edge, eyes locked on the egg. This was it. The moment the Volcanic Wyvern would hatch. He could feel the mana swirling—thickening around it, heat radiating in waves. The very air in the room was starting to shimmer faintly, like distant mirage heat over sun-baked sand.