Once Little Fire's body hit a certain threshold, John Markus knew brute strength alone wasn't enough. A real warrior needed brains and skills too. He looked at Little Fire, the creature that would one day be half his strength, and a bold idea popped into his head. He wouldn't train it like an animal. He'd raise it like a child.
"Shh, quiet, this part's important."
John pressed a finger to Little Fire's tiny beak, lowering his voice like he was soothing a kid. The chick tilted its head, round eyes staring up at him, looking curious but also annoyed. In the silent library, a few students turned to glance and snickered softly. John didn't care. He bent over the thick book in front of him, its cover stamped with the words Intellectual and Emotional Development in Children.
"Memory through direct interaction… trust built through repeated habits." John muttered, scribbling notes into his journal. The chick stretched its neck out and pecked at the corner of the page, crumpling it.
"Messing around again, huh? Fine. When we get home, you're studying with me." He shot it a glare, though the corners of his lips betrayed a grin.
His house was nothing fancy, clutter everywhere, but John cleared out a little corner. A small cushion by the bed, a tiny pillow, and a pale blue towel on top. Little Fire gave it a look, then hopped on, kicking around before burrowing into the soft cloth.
"Already enjoying yourself, huh?" John sat down on the floor, stretching his stiff arms. Then he turned, tone stern like a teacher. "From today on, I'm not treating you like a pet. You're… my student."
A sharp "cheep" rang out, almost like a reply. John smiled, opening his notebook. "Lesson one. Listen when someone's talking. No interrupting, no random noise. Only respond when I stop."
He started telling a story, his voice sometimes deep and steady, sometimes stressing each word like he was reading aloud. "Long ago, on Earth, there was a place called school. Kids went there not to fight, but to learn letters. Only after learning letters could they do something greater."
Little Fire lifted its head, blinking over and over. When John paused, it let out one "cheep." John nodded. "Good. At least you know how to answer."
The next morning, instead of making the chick run laps, John turned on the TV. A children's cartoon blasted out, colorful and fast-paced. He set Little Fire right in front of the screen, then sat down behind it.
"This is called coordinating sight and hearing," John muttered, watching closely. A character with bright green hair appeared, singing in a high-pitched voice. The chick tilted its head, staring intently, eyes sparkling.
"See? I wasn't joking. Bright images help you focus, and music trains your emotions." John spoke as he scribbled notes.
When the cartoon switched scenes, Little Fire flapped wildly, almost smacking into the TV. John yanked it back in a panic. "Hey, don't dive at it! It's just pictures!"
He sighed, but his eyes were glowing. At least it had strong reactions. That was something.
In the days that followed, the room was always filled with a mix of human voice and chick chirps. In the afternoons, John told stories. "Do you know the strongest warriors don't just use muscle? They need brains. They need to read their enemies, to control themselves."
Little Fire sat snug in his lap, head lifted high. When John stopped, it let out a tiny chirp. He chuckled softly, stroking its smooth feathers. "Yeah, I'll take that as a yes."
At night, the TV lit up the room with color. Sometimes John leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, while the little chick nestled against his shoulder. He found that if children's music played in the background, Little Fire fell asleep faster, breathing steady, its small body warm against him.
One night, when John turned the TV off early, the room fell into darkness. Before he could climb into bed, he heard faint scratching. He turned and saw Little Fire trying to hop onto the mattress, wings flapping frantically.
"You wanna sleep here?" John picked it up and set it next to his pillow. The chick instantly burrowed into his arm, chirping rhythmically like the breathing of a child.
John lay there, staring at the ceiling, lips curving. That bold idea of his had turned into habit. In that cramped room, man and chick shared food and sleep, like father and child.
That night, the faint blue glow from the TV lingered on the gray walls. On the bed, John and Little Fire lay close together, sharing warmth, building something deeper.
"Little Fire."
John whispered, voice hoarse after a long day. On the floor, the chick stopped pecking at a cardboard box and lifted its head, tilting to the side as if confirming.
John squinted, tried again. "Little Fire."
The chick stood still, black eyes locked on him. No noise. No jumping around. John burst out laughing, setting his pen down. "Good job. At least you know your name now."
Lately, the changes had been impossible to ignore. When John told stories, Little Fire no longer chirped over him. It waited for his pause, head tilted. When cartoons played, it sat still in front of the screen, wings tucked tight, eyes glued every second.
One time John whispered, "Do you really understand me?"
The chick chirped, soft as a breeze. He rested his chin on his hand, staring into those eyes, and a chill ran up his spine. That gaze wasn't empty anymore. There was… something alive in it.
He shook his head, scoffing at himself. "If you ever turn into a spirit, I'll be the first guy to sign a birth certificate for a chicken."
That night, John sat by the bed, halfway through an old story about a boxing match back on Earth. His voice was slow, his hand occasionally brushing through Little Fire's soft feathers. The room was quiet—until a clear chime rang inside his head.
Ting!
John jerked, almost dropping his notebook. "What the hell…?"
The sound wasn't from the TV or his phone. It rang straight in his skull, sharp as a bell. Then a glowing line of text lit up in his mind:
[Ting! Little Fire has broken through the limits of intelligence, gaining the blessing 'Wise Chicken.' Its ability to absorb, memorize, and process information has increased.]
John's eyes went wide. "Wise… Chicken? You've gotta be kidding me."
Little Fire lifted its head, eyes shining brighter than usual, like it was proud of itself.
John pressed a hand to his forehead, heart hammering. Alright. This wasn't a hallucination. Which meant… it really had evolved.
Before he could calm down, another chime rang out, flowing right after the first.
[Ting! Little Fire, raised in your love-filled environment, has acquired the skill 'Heart-Link.' You and your chicken share an invisible bond, able to sense each other's desires and emotions.]
"Wait, what? Heart-Link?" John repeated, afraid he'd misheard.
And right away, something surged through him. A warmth. A trust. Pure joy, like a kid bouncing with candy in hand. John sucked in a breath and turned to look. Little Fire was still there, eyes black and gleaming.
"That… came from you?" he whispered.
The chick gave a soft "cheep," but John didn't need the sound. The invisible thread between them carried it all: trust, closeness, delight.
John's chest tightened. He let out a small laugh, stroking its head. "You really caught me off guard. This isn't master and pet anymore. From now on, we're teammates."
Little Fire answered by snuggling deeper into his palm.