The lock clicked, the iron door swung open.
"Chirp!"
Little Fire shot out from the corner of the coop, crimson wings spread wide, beating hard. A gust of hot air hit John's face, making him squint. The bird landed on the concrete floor and rubbed its head against his pant leg.
John bent down, running his hand over the sleek red feathers. Heat spread into his palm. The faint burnt smell of chicken feathers mixed with the smoke drifting from the neighbor's kitchen.
"You knew I was coming back already, huh?" He chuckled under his breath, though his eyes darkened.
From the pulse of energy inside, John could tell right away: Little Fire's growth had slowed down. The flames in its eyes still burned, but no longer boiled the way they used to.
"If you keep going like this, sooner or later someone's gonna notice me."
He tossed his heavy backpack into the corner, let out a breath, and sank down onto the floor. The streetlight outside the window cast a slanted orange streak across the table, splitting the room into light and shadow.
The first thought that flashed through his head was factory-farming methods.
He knew well from memory: industrial farms usually fed their chickens "growth feed" made by agricultural mages. With that stuff, a chicken could be ready for market in just one month—big, plump, glossy feathers, looking all majestic on the outside.
"Should I really feed you that junk?" he muttered, his eyes wavering.
Little Fire tilted its head, wings flapping like it was waiting for him to decide.
But then John clenched his fist and shook his head. He remembered the price: chickens raised on that feed had hollow bodies, mushy meat, weak vitality. If he used it on a beast with divine blood, it'd be the same as cutting off its future for a little short-term gain.
"No way. You're a Phoenix's descendant, you're not gonna turn into some factory chicken."
Little Fire chirped, burying its head into his palm, like it agreed or maybe didn't get a thing.
John stood up, opened the old wooden cabinet, and pulled out a vial of level-one energy potion. The pale blue liquid glimmered under the light, like a drop of noontime sea. He grabbed a pack of frozen beast meat, chopped it up, and mixed it with the potion.
"Alright, try this."
He set down the bowl. Little Fire dove in, pecking with sharp "tok tok" sounds. Each swallow sent out a tiny puff of flame from its beak.
John crouched close, staring hard, his breathing slowing without him noticing.
At first he expected a surge—energy boiling over, fire bursting across its body. But as he watched carefully, he only saw the energy sink into its stomach, then spread sluggishly through its body. When it wasn't eating, Little Fire just let its body passively absorb faint spiritual energy from the air, like a plant photosynthesizing.
John frowned, tapping his finger against the tiles.
"So that's it "
When Little Fire finished, it flapped happily, then curled up and fell asleep.
John propped his chin on his hand, staring blankly.
Now he understood: beasts grew slower than humans because they had no cultivation method. People could run techniques, actively draw in energy. Beasts just ate, and other than that, depended on nature.
"If you're not active about it, how can you grow fast?"
A strange idea flashed in his mind. If Little Fire had its own cultivation method, it wouldn't have to rely only on food.
That thought slowly took shape, carrying a name both ridiculous and determined: the plan to raise a cultured chicken.
John chuckled. "Sounds like I'm opening a kindergarten for beasts."
But the more he thought about it, the more possible it seemed.
He dragged an old cardboard box out from under the table. Inside was a stack of preschool books his mom made him study as a kid. The pages were yellowed, but the illustrations were still bright.
"Here we go. A, B, C start with this."
Little Fire perked up, eyes shining. It hopped onto the table, pecked at a red fish picture, chirping with excitement.
"You can pick colors, huh?" John laughed, nudging its head. "Slow down, we gotta learn the letters first."
The bird ignored him, pecking wildly, flipping pages with a flurry. A giant "A" appeared, with an apple drawn beside it. Little Fire tapped its beak on it, then cocked its head at John like it was asking.
John froze, then burst out laughing. "A apple. Yeah, that's the letter A."
And just like that, he realized he was seriously teaching a chicken.
He grabbed his tablet, scrolled online. The screen filled with videos teaching kids to read and sing the alphabet. He saved a bunch of animated ones into a private list. Cheerful songs rang out, colorful characters bouncing across the screen.
Little Fire tilted its head, eyes glowing red as it watched. When the melody went "A, B, C ," it flapped, spun around on the table, chirping in rhythm.
John leaned back in his chair, clutching his stomach with laughter, then suddenly fell silent. In the dim room, the tablet's glow reflected off the broad steel blade propped against the corner. One side was a weapon, the other, a children's lesson. Strange, but full of hope.
He carefully stacked the books on the table, saved the videos into a folder, like laying the foundation for something long-term.
The gloom in his eyes was slowly giving way to light. Even if it was just a chicken, Little Fire needed its own cultivation method. And for that, first it had to learn.
The chick's soft chirps mixed with children's songs echoed in the room. A bizarre but determined plan had just begun.
The plan to raise a cultured chicken was officially underway.