John Markus sat blankly in his chair, notebook still open, the tally marks for Little Fire's training session unfinished. The "Ting!" of a new title had just faded, the thrill still buzzing in his chest. But before he could think about the next step, his mom's voice drifted up from downstairs, gentle yet firm.
"John Markus, come down here. Your dad and I have something to tell you."
His heart jolted. That call wasn't like the usual scolding tone. It carried a strange sense of formality. He glanced back. On the bed, Little Fire was curled up like a ball of golden fluff, wings rising and falling in tired rhythm after the brutal round of drills.
"Stay put, just rest," John bent down, brushing the tuft of red feathers on its head. "I'll come back and tell you."
The chick lifted its head, black eyes blinking once. Then a soft "cluck," like it understood.
John pulled the door shut and stepped down the stairs. Warm yellow light spilled from the living room, coating the stairwell with a solemn glow.
The living room was tidy, a small tea table set with two steaming cups. His parents sat side by side on the sofa, posture straight, as if they'd been waiting. Both smiled when they saw him. The air was warm… but tense.
His mom spoke first, voice soft yet every word weighed carefully.
"You're here. Sit down, son. We know… you awakened a life-skill job raising chickens. And we know how much it hurt you to lose your SSS talent."
John sat stiff, spine locking up. The words felt like someone had quietly pulled back the curtain and exposed the pain he'd been hiding all this time.
His dad continued, his voice steady, every word solid.
"All the effort you've put in, we've seen it. Since you were little, you've been more mature than your friends, independent early, never once made us worry. But remember this—you're not alone. We'll always be with you."
John lowered his head, hands clutching his knees. His nose stung, his throat tightening. He'd always carried everything by himself. Hearing those words, something hard inside him began to crack.
Then suddenly, his dad reached into his coat and pulled out a thick wad of cash, dropping it on the table with a heavy thud.
The sound rang out sharp in the quiet room. John's eyes widened, staring at the fresh green bills stacked tall. Ten thousand dollars.
"Dad… this is…" His voice shook.
His dad met his gaze, calm smile steady.
"We know you're not willing to give up. We know you've been secretly grinding upstairs, not skipping a single day. College entrance exams are coming. Take this money, buy more energy drinks, take care of your body. Don't worry. We're proud of you."
The words hit, and John's chest felt crushed by a wave of heat.
In that instant, he understood. The pulley squeaks, the pounding thuds, the running overhead at night… and the ridiculous amount of beef he'd ordered—of course his parents had noticed.
They thought he was choosing another path.
In this world, there was a certain group of people. They had no flashy abilities, only so-called "trash jobs." But instead of bowing to fate, they chose to fight it. They trained their bodies to the extreme, pushing limits day after day, while learning to absorb the ambient energy in the air to strengthen themselves. That path was known as Extreme Body Arts.
Those with the best physical talent, when they unleashed their full strength, could rival S-rank ability users.
His parents thought he was walking that road too. That all the noises, all the beef crammed into the fridge, were part of his harsh training.
John looked up. His dad's eyes were firm. His mom's eyes were gentle. Both shone with absolute trust.
He wanted to laugh, to confess it was all just for a fat chicken. But his throat was stuck, no words coming out.
In the end, John only gave a quiet nod.
This unconditional support, this unquestioning belief—they were worth more than any SSS power.
Upstairs, Little Fire lifted its head, wings trembling. Through the mind-link, John sensed it was… curious. The plump chick tilted its head, listening closely. And when it caught the words "cash" and "nourishing the body," it suddenly clucked softly, eyes shining with… hope.
"Don't even think about it," John bit down, pushing the thought back across the link.
Little Fire answered with the image of a mountain of sizzling grilled beef.
John almost burst out laughing in front of his parents. He had to fake a cough to cover it. His parents, thinking he was moved to tears, patted his shoulder comfortingly.
Right then, John Markus saw it clearly. In front of him were his parents, a solid backing that would never waver. Upstairs was Little Fire, a loyal partner at his side on every "frontline."
One side family, one side comrade. Together, they formed a support he never thought he'd have.
John lowered his head, placing both hands on the stack of bills, chest heaving. "Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. I… won't let you down."
His parents nodded, smiles gentle.
And in his heart, John swore: as long as he had them, no matter how winding the road ahead, he'd never be afraid again.
John Markus's eyes burned bright, like a flame just lit. He raised his head, looking straight into his parents' eyes. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight of steel.
"Mom, Dad, you believe in me. Your son is the toughest there is. I won't let you down."
The words came out sharp and steady, like an oath whispered into the air. For a heartbeat, the whole living room fell silent. Only the ticking of the wall clock broke the stillness.
His parents gazed at him, relief and pride shining in their eyes. His dad nodded, the corners of his mouth curling, deep wrinkles etched deeper yet softened by warmth. His mom gently held John's hand, squeezing like she wanted to pass him more strength. The solemn air suddenly melted, wrapping the family like a warm blanket.