Little Fire sprang up, wings flapping, dashing circles around his legs. It leapt and clucked wildly, belly wobbling with every step, energy back in full force, as if the gloom had never happened.
John collapsed back into his chair, head tilted up, laughing until his shoulders shook. The joy flooding through him was so pure it lightened even his own heart.
"Ah, screw it." He sighed, clicking his tongue, a helpless smile tugging his lips. "If I'm the Poultry Fattening Expert, then I'm the Poultry Fattening Expert. As long as you're happy… I'm happy too."
The light above flickered, shining down on the round golden figure bouncing across the floor. Its feathers glowed like sunlight, shimmering against the gray tiles. In John's eyes, the sight was ridiculous. And beautiful.
He leaned back, eyes drifting shut, letting the cheerful clucking sync with his heartbeat. Out there was a world of mockery, coldness, betrayal. But here, this simple joy was worth more than any reputation, any so-called "image."
As long as Little Fire was happy, what else could matter to John Markus?
Early morning. Pale sunlight slipped through the old window frame, falling across a room that used to be a student dorm. If you didn't look closely, you'd never think it was a training hall. Steel wires crisscrossed the ceiling, dangling chunks of beef, big and small. The tiled floor was covered with claw marks, some spots stained with dried blood. The air was thick with the smell of raw meat, iron, and dampness, sharp yet familiar.
John Markus stood in the middle of the room, holding a pulley controller he'd cobbled together from spare parts at the campus workshop. He pulled a lever. Wheels screeched on the ceiling, wires tightened, and the dangling meat swung and shuddered.
"Good." He nodded, then turned to his partner. "Little Fire, today we're upping the drill. You've gotten used to the big chunks. Now you'll handle the ones no bigger than a chopstick tip."
"Cluck!" Little Fire flapped its wings, black eyes gleaming.
John chuckled. "That's the spirit. But listen, today I want a record. At least ninety-nine clean hits, got it?"
The chubby golden chicken dipped its head. Its round body almost made John burst out laughing, but in those eyes, there was nothing but focus and hunger.
He yanked the lever hard.
"Go!"
At once, the meat chunks shot off in chaotic arcs. The quiet room filled with the clatter of pulleys and the squeal of taut wire.
Little Fire launched itself, wings thrumming.
Whack! A big chunk dropped.
Whack! A piece no bigger than a corn kernel fell after it.
John narrowed his eyes and started counting. "One… two… three…"
Every peck landed crisp and sharp, like a needle tapping glass. Each piece fell perfectly, not an inch off. A chill went through John—his own eyes could barely keep up with the movements.
"Forty-two…"
Sweat streamed down his forehead, not from effort but from tension. Little Fire, despite being fat, moved with startling speed. Each time that round body sprang up, it was like a golden ball flying through the air, only every strike was razor-precise.
"Seventy-six…" John clenched his jaw, eyes locked on every beat. "Come on. You can do it."
Little Fire panted, wings beating harder, feathers soaked through. But its gaze never wavered, locked only on the flying targets.
"Ninety-five… ninety-six…"
The air seemed to thicken. John's heartbeat pounded in his ears. The number crept toward the goal, every second stretching forever.
"Ninety-nine!" John almost shouted.
Right then, a meat sliver no bigger than a chopstick tip spun down from above. Fast, unpredictable.
Little Fire bent its legs, body tensing. For a heartbeat, its eyes blazed and its whole form stilled.
Whack!
The peck landed dead center.
The tiny meat piece hit the floor with a sharp thud.
The room went silent for half a breath. Then John exploded:
"A full hundred! Perfect!"
He clenched his fist, shouting so loud the room rang.
At that moment, the familiar sound chimed in his head.
Ting!
[Your chicken has reached the limit of accuracy through grueling training, obtaining the title "Hundred Shots Hundred Hits."]
[Title "Hundred Shots Hundred Hits": Focus increases greatly. In battle, Little Fire can enter a state of heightened concentration, making every strike more precise. At the same time, John Markus's senses become sharper, allowing him to dodge enemy attacks with ease.]
John froze for a few seconds. That sound—he knew it. The system's reward chime. But what made his skin prickle was the last line: "John Markus's senses become sharper."
"So… this means both of us get the reward?" he blurted.
Little Fire lifted its head. Even panting hard, its eyes burned steady. It gave a long "cluck," as if confirming.
Suddenly John felt lighter, his vision sharper. He could see the faint scratch on the controller, the tiny dust motes drifting in the sunlight. His hearing sharpened too, picking up the hiss of wind through the door crack, the faint rustle of Little Fire's feathers.
"This is… unreal." He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling every beat of his heart.
He looked at his plump chicken. Round body, drenched golden feathers, panting like it had just rolled out of boiling water. But those eyes—blazing with an unyielding fire—made John laugh.
"All the beef… all the money I burned… every nickname people may throw at me in the future, calling me the 'fattening expert'…" John shook his head, laughing out loud. "It's all worth it."
Little Fire clucked again, spreading its wings wide like it was basking in the praise.
John dropped onto the floor, leaning back, laughing until his chest shook. In his mind, a vision formed: on the battlefield of another world, he stood proud, senses sharp as a hunting cat. And beside him, a golden fluffball soared, every strike hitting its mark.
"Alright, Little Fire. From today, you're not just my fat chicken anymore. You're Hundred Shots Hundred Hits."
John Markus looked at the chubby little chicken panting hard, golden feathers drooping with sweat, yet its eyes still burned steady and bright. He couldn't help but smile, and this time the smile wasn't forced at all.
Every bit of effort, every cost, every coin spent on prime beef, even being stuck with the label of "fattening expert" — all of it was worth it for this result.
His Little Fire might be plump, from a distance looking no different than a waddling puffball. But in those eyes, and with the brand-new title "Hundred Shots Hundred Hits," it had become a chicken with senses as sharp and precise as a hunting leopard.