It was late by the time John Markus made it home. The streets were empty, only the jaundiced glow of streetlights stretching long, broken shadows across the pavement. He dragged himself up the stairs, every step mocking the muscles that had been pulverized all day under the middle-aged teacher's torture. His whole body felt like a cracked log ready to snap, breath heavy, shirt plastered to his skin with sweat.
The moment he opened the door, a flash of red darted at him. Little Fire shot forward, wings beating noisily, the flame atop its head flickering like a neon sign of joy. Its glossy red feathers gleamed under the light, each strand silky and immaculate, as if it had just come back from a grooming session.
John froze at the doorway. The chicken strutted around him in circles, bright and lively, and a wave of injustice burned through his chest.
He was wrecked, barely standing, aching for a bed. And here was Little Fire, looking like it had just returned from a vacation, radiant and bursting with energy.
"Beautiful, huh," John muttered, his mouth twitching. "I'm out there crawling like a lunatic, and you're in here playing supermodel chicken."
Little Fire clucked happily, flapping its wings right in his face, as if showing off its shiny feathers.
John closed his eyes, inhaled slow. A single thought formed: No way was he suffering alone.
His gaze sharpened. A plan clicked into place. Straightening his back, he shed the limp exhaustion and put on the air of a general addressing his troops.
Through their shared mind-link, his voice rang straight into the chicken's head."Little Fire, listen carefully. You weren't born to enjoy life. You were born for greatness. And right now, all you do is eat well, sleep deep, admire yourself in the mirror, preen your feathers. Do you have any idea how much I suffered out there today?"
Little Fire stopped mid-step, tilted its head left, then right. Those round eyes blinked up at him, wide and clueless.
John scowled, closed the distance."Don't play dumb. I ran twenty laps, trained until my muscles almost exploded, while you stayed home watching TV. You think that's fair?"
The chicken blinked rapidly, still clearly missing the point.
John ground his teeth, shifted tactics. His tone turned hard, every word sharp as a blade."If you won't train, I'll pluck every feather off you. All of them. No more mirrors, no more admiring yourself. Then you'll have no choice but to grow stronger."
The threat hit home. Little Fire jolted, wings trembling. Its eyes watered, shimmering like it was about to cry. Even the flame on its head dimmed, shrinking into a weak little spark.
John folded his arms, face stone."Don't give me that look. I say it, I'll do it."
The chicken let out the tiniest cluck, shaky and pleading.
"No negotiations," John said flatly.
He let the silence stretch until the poor thing wilted. Finally, John sighed, his voice softening."Look, I'm doing this for you. You need to understand. To otherworld chickens, Earth chickens are just food. Bottom-tier. Nobody respects you."
Little Fire jerked upright, eyes going wide.
John pressed on, slow and deliberate, every word sinking in."But you're different. You've got the blessing of the Wise Hen. You've got hidden power. You were born to shatter that prejudice. Every chicken back home is counting on you. If you succeed, the whole flock will walk tall. If you keep living lazy… you'll let them all down."
The flame atop Little Fire's head flared, brighter, but not enough.
John's lips curved, and he played his final card, voice coaxing like fire on dry wood."And just imagine this… when you become a legend, when your name spreads, when you strut by, every beautiful hen will crowd around you. Shiny feathers, sparkling eyes, each step worshiping you. They'll all chant your name—'Little Fire! Little Fire!'"
Boom. The flame erupted, blazing so bright it lit up the whole room. Little Fire spread its wings wide, pride blazing in its eyes. Through the bond, John felt determination burst forth like a flood.
With a fierce flap, the chicken clucked loud and clear, a vow in its own language.
John nodded, satisfaction curling through him. He stroked his chin, a thin smile tugging at his lips."That's more like it. You were born to be the chicken above chickens. Not… chicken on a plate."
Little Fire lifted its head high, its flame roaring scarlet, painting the walls with fiery light.
John stood with arms crossed, basking in the victory. He murmured to himself, almost amused."The stick and carrot trick… worked better than I imagined. Perfect."
In that small room, man and chicken faced each other. One had just crawled back from a day in hell, the other freshly tricked into carrying a destiny. But both now stood under the same banner—at least in the fire of belief John had just planted.