A sharp clang rang through the cramped room as John Markus hooked a steel rod into the ceiling and hung up a slab of fresh red beef. Under the pale glow of the fluorescent lamp, the meat swayed, casting a faint bloody sheen across the wall.
"Little Fire, this one's your training."
The chick hopped onto the wooden table, its tuft of red feathers standing on end, black eyes glinting with a coal-like glow. Through the Heart-Link, John's thought streamed into its mind, vivid as a dream: a sharp beak piercing a heart, blood spraying, a clean victory.
Little Fire tapped its claws against the tabletop. Clack, clack. It pulled its neck in, body coiled like a spring. Then it lunged.
Thud. Its beak scraped off the wire, missing the mark. The meat still dangled, swaying mockingly.
John's voice stayed calm. "Again."
This time, the chick held itself longer. Its neck drew tight, then shot forward like an arrow. Crack! The beak tore straight through the meat, a bead of blood bursting out bright red.
John gave a small nod. "Not bad. But not enough. You've got to hit every single one. No misses."
He hung more pieces. The steel wires clinked, filling the room with dangling slabs until it looked like a maze of red flesh.
Little Fire's eyes burned hotter. It dove in, strikes raining down. Thud. Smack. Slash. Meat scattered, droplets of blood splattering the wooden floor.
John stood with arms crossed, watching intently. A good strike wasn't just raw neck power. It was in the angle. The rhythm. Like a nail, it needed a hammer dead-on, no tilt. Precision was the root.
The lamp threw the chick's shadow high across the wall, the outline of a tiny warrior dancing with a spear.
"That's enough."
John's firm voice cut the storm of sounds short.
Little Fire stopped, chest heaving, wings half-spread, eyes still glowing.
John bent, picked up a fallen piece of meat, blood dripping down his fingers. "You hit three out of five. Still too slow."
The little fire-chick tilted its head back, letting out a rough "cluck," like a protest.
The corner of John's mouth tugged upward. "Good. If you've still got the strength, I'll raise the difficulty."
The next day, the meat was sliced smaller, barely half a finger wide. Hung up, they looked like floating droplets of blood.
Little Fire launched forward. Snap. A chunk vanished down its throat in one clean strike. It twisted, went for the next. One target after another disappeared, not even swinging long enough to tease.
John nodded. "Good. But that's just the start."
By the third day, the steel was swapped for soft nylon rope. Each strip swung wild, its path unpredictable. One half-beat late, and the beak would stab into air.
"You've got to read the rhythm, not chase the shadow," John warned, eyes narrowing.
Little Fire froze, watching. Its head bobbed with each swing, neck syncing with the rhythm. Then suddenly—crack. A strike nailed dead center, freezing the meat mid-swing.
"Nice." John broke into a rare laugh. "That's the right feel."
Days blurred. The room turned into a maze of prey. Dozens of tiny meat strips dangled from soft rope, swaying in every draft through the cracked window. Ropes hummed whoosh whoosh, meat thudded thump thump as they dropped one by one.
Little Fire glided silent, a small golden shape weaving like a ghost. No more frantic pecking. Every strike was measured. Cold. Precise. Meat fell clean, blood painting streaks across the floor.
John's arms stayed folded, his gaze sharp. His thoughts whispered: "Chickens have been tamed for thousands of years. But instinct never dies. It only sleeps. All I'm doing… is waking it."
Through the Heart-Link, he felt it. That smoldering fire. The hunger to tear. The thrill of combat. The satisfaction when beak struck true.
A final thud landed as the last piece dropped. The room was thick with the iron scent of blood, ropes swaying softly.
Little Fire stood tall, red crest raised, eyes glowing like embers, breath ragged.
John walked forward, resting a hand on its head. A thought flowed into the bond: You're starting to earn your fangs and claws.
The chick shut its eyes, body trembling faintly, like it was drinking in the recognition.
In the flickering light, the shadow of man and bird overlapped, one tall, one small, radiating the same battle aura. Deep inside Little Fire, that primal instinct was stirring awake, each strike sharpening it further.
Boom—boom—boom!
The small room shook with the pounding of beak on meat. A slab of red beef swung wildly on its wire, squeaking against the ceiling hook as Little Fire lunged at it with unbelievable speed. Under the harsh white tube light, its golden feathers fanned wide, blazing bright and dazzling.
John Markus stood with hands on his hips, nodding along to every strike. Training had gone so smoothly he sometimes wondered if he was dreaming. Day after day, Little Fire grew quicker, sharper, smarter. Its pecks now had enough force to punch straight through plywood, its movements so fast the naked eye could barely track them.
"Yeah. That's the future right there," John muttered, pride sparking in his eyes.
But pride didn't last long. Because alongside that terrifying progress, a problem was starting to swell.
Little Fire had long since outgrown the stomach of an ordinary chicken. It ate double, triple what any normal bird could handle. And John, determined to fuel his partner, hadn't held back—feeding it only the best cuts of beef. At first, a few chunks were plenty. After half a month, even half a kilo barely made a dent. Now? Every day, at least two slabs as big as John's forearm were the minimum needed to stop the endless "cluck cluck" of hunger.
Every dollar he'd saved up for his dream gaming PC had turned into raw beef, all of it vanishing down the golden chick's throat. He hadn't even installed a new game yet and his wallet was already bone dry.