"I really am sacrificing here…" John mumbled, rubbing his forehead.
And the so-called "sacrifice" became even clearer when his gaze accidentally drifted to his partner's body.
At first, Little Fire had been sharp and lean, shaped like an arrow. But now, even with muscles bulging under its feathers, a layer of soft fat had wrapped around it, rounding the once-sleek figure into a fluffy golden ball. Every jump made its body jiggle on impact.
John blinked, heart skipping a beat.
In his eyes, the image of a fierce, disciplined war-chicken had turned into… a bouncing cotton puff.
"No… no way…" He swallowed hard, panic flooding his chest.
A scene flashed through his mind: a foggy battlefield, Esper John Markus standing tall, cloak whipping, artifact in hand, face glowing with confidence. And beside him… a fat chicken, panting, flabby belly wobbling with every step, charging at the enemy.
"Sure, I might become a mighty Esper… but damn, that looks anything but cool." John's voice cracked halfway.
He clutched his head, but his imagination just got worse. Online forums exploding with memes. A handsome young beast master riding a fat chicken. Caption: Number One Poultry Fattening Expert. Training clips edited into comedy skits.
"No. No, no, absolutely not!" John shuddered out loud.
Meanwhile, Little Fire was unfazed, hammering a final strike that sent the beef slab smacking to the floor. Without missing a beat, it dove in, tearing off a mouthful and chewing noisily. The crunch and gulp echoed clear in the quiet room.
The smell of beef flooded the space, so thick John's stomach growled. He looked at the scene, tears nearly pricking his eyes.
"You really are getting stronger. But if you keep eating like this…" He pointed, voice breaking, "…my whole image is screwed."
Little Fire lifted its head, a tendon dangling from its beak, eyes sparkling. It tilted sideways, clucked once, as if to say: So what?
John narrowed his eyes, arms crossed. "So what? On the battlefield, strength matters, sure—but presence is what makes people afraid. No one fears a fat chicken."
Little Fire flapped its wings defiantly, gaze as firm as its master's. As if insisting: Fat or not, I'll still win.
"Don't you dare make excuses." John snapped his fingers. "Starting today, diet. For strength, for the future… and for my dignity."
Easy words—but John himself felt the tremor in his voice.
Cutting the meals of a chicken that had already broken through the limits of appetite? Just thinking about Little Fire raging from hunger sent a chill down his spine. But if he didn't, the nightmare of "Professional Poultry Fattener" would become reality.
He drifted to the window in silence. The evening light bled red across the sky, wrapping Little Fire's round figure in a glowing halo. It looked less like a warrior and more like a giant cotton puff shining in the sunset.
John clenched his fist, drew a deep breath, and whispered to himself, "Alright. The diet starts… today."
John Markus let out a sigh that filled the little room, long and heavy, like wind slipping through a crack in the window. After all that resolve, he knew he couldn't just force Little Fire onto a strict diet. Between a man and his bonded beast, strength never came from whips or chains. It came from listening. From sharing.
He closed his eyes, let his breath settle, and reached for the golden chick curled up in the corner. The Heart-Link opened, soft but firm, tying their minds together. John sent a thought, gentle, slow, like whispering into its ear:
"Little Fire… we need a small change. Starting tomorrow, your meals will be a little less. So your body stays leaner, quicker."
And instantly, a strange wave came back from the other side. No fury. No loud rejection. Just a stillness of acceptance, calm but tinged with ache. A muted sadness seeped through, like gray ash spreading across the sea of their bond.
In a blink, images surged through John's mind—juicy slabs of red beef, glistening with fat, steaming hot, tender slices melting on the tongue. Then the vision faded, drifting far out of reach, leaving only a hollow emptiness in Little Fire's chest.
John's eyes flew open, his chest squeezing tight as if gripped by a hand. "Damn it…" he muttered, pressing a palm to his forehead.
That evening, the room felt hollow. No playful pecking, no circling around his feet. Little Fire just stayed curled in the corner, a golden puff of cotton shrunk small, head buried in its feathers, breathing soft and low. Through the Heart-Link, John still felt the sadness washing over him, wave after wave, endless as a tide.
John sat in his chair, silent. The flickering tube light cast his shadow long across the floor until it touched the little ball of feathers. The sight weighed on him like stone.
And memory hit—cold stares from classmates after failure. Snickers behind his back. Mocking words: the chicken keeper. Walking alone, with no hand ever reaching out.
Only one thing had stayed beside him—this little chick. From the moment it hatched, through every clumsy first peck, it had followed. It never betrayed, never mocked, only gave its all for whatever training he set.
"For some shallow image… I was really gonna steal away the only joy you have?" John bit his lip, eyes blurring.
He stood and walked slowly toward the corner. Little Fire looked up, black eyes full of sorrow but flickering with a faint, fragile hope. Its red crest drooped, no longer proud.
John crouched, hand brushing gently over its head. The soft down slid beneath his fingers, warm, alive, like touching his own breath. He bent closer, letting the thought flow through again:
"Alright. Forget the plan. Eat as much as you want. Eat until you're full, until you're happy."
At once, the gray haze shattered. Like storm clouds ripped open by sun, joy burst through the bond—bright, pure, rushing like a flood. The force of it made John laugh out loud, drowned in the tide of happiness.