Back in his room, John shut the door behind him. The small click echoed, and he stood still for a few seconds, letting his heart settle from the rush of emotion.
In his hands was the thick wad of cash. Ten thousand dollars, bound neatly, so heavy that just holding it weighed down his arm.
He sat at the desk and set it down. The lamp cast light across the crisp edges of the bills, as if emphasizing: this isn't just money. This is trust.
Slowly, John lifted the stack again. Its weight wasn't just paper. It was the invisible weight of expectation. For an ordinary working family like his, this was a fortune.
The math appeared in his mind at once: ten bottles of Rank-1 Ability Energy Booster. If used right, enough to sustain someone training in Extreme Body Arts until next year's college exams.
A laugh slipped out, half bitter, half touched. "Ten bottles like that… someone could change their fate. But me… I don't need it."
His gaze drifted from the desk to the bed.
Little Fire was curled up, sleeping soundly. A fat little ball of fluff, wings draped like a blanket. Its golden feathers glowed warm under the light. Now and then it gave a soft cluck, stubby legs twitching like it was dreaming of chasing something. Once, its beak even moved as if chewing, making John chuckle. "Alright, you're dreaming of beef again."
That sight eased the tightness in his chest. But the thoughts returned quickly.
He knew it well. Extreme Body Arts was powerful, but it wasn't his path. Those who chose it had to forge themselves alone, bearing the pain of every limit broken. John had something else—something different.
A bond.
The source of his strength was Little Fire.
The stronger Little Fire became, the clearer the shared stats pulsed through their link, and the stronger John grew in turn. That was the fastest, sturdiest road, with no ceiling in sight.
He whispered, eyes resting on the sleeping chick.
"This money… it's my family's hope. I've got to study it carefully. I've got to use it in the smartest way, to help Little Fire grow as much as possible."
The cash in his hands seemed to warm. Memories of his parents in the living room surged back—his dad's steady eyes, his mom's gentle smile hiding a whole sky of expectation.
Childhood moments rose too: every time he failed a test, sitting gloomily on the porch steps. His mom would come quietly with a milk carton. His dad never said much, just placed a rough, warm hand on his shoulder. Every time, no blame, no scolding. Just being there.
And today was the same. They believed their son was grinding his way through a brutal path, believed in him so much they handed over a fortune.
John bit his lip, a sweet ache swelling in his chest.
He leaned back in his chair, setting the money on his chest. His eyes traced the ceiling, mind spinning through possibilities. If he really used the money for himself, if he pretended to walk the path of Extreme Body Arts, could he survive it?
But the image scattered quickly, replaced by Little Fire: eyes blazing as it pecked furiously through drills. Jiggling fat belly as it tore into beef. That pitiful slump in the corner when it learned "smaller portions."
Every little moment confirmed one truth: John's strength didn't lie in his own body. It was in that golden chick.
He sat upright again, clutching the money, his eyes firming.
"This isn't a burden that'll crush me. This is a sweet burden, the push that keeps me going."
A smile tugged at his lips, soft but brimming with resolve. A faint aura of invisible light seemed to settle over him.
Little Fire stirred, half-opened an eye, and gave a quiet cluck. Through their link, John felt a warmth flow in, hazy yet clear, like a whisper: "I'm here."
He nodded slightly, setting the money back on the desk, his fist tightening.
His parents had placed their hopes on him. Little Fire had given him its trust. So stopping wasn't an option.
No matter how rough the road ahead, with this sweet burden on his shoulders, John Markus would see it through to the end.
Late at night, the blue glow of John Markus's laptop screen lit up his face. The room was so quiet that every click of the mouse sounded sharp and clear. Little Fire was curled up asleep at the corner of the bed, letting out faint "cluck cluck" sounds like it was dreaming of beef.
John sat straight, eyes glued to the numbers in his Excel sheet. He'd just finished a simple calculation: 10,000 USD = 10 bottles of "Level 1 Ability Drink."
That was the safest and most common path. Every student preparing for the university entrance exam chose it. One bottle each month, steady and safe. No risks, no worries.
John propped his chin on one hand, fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk. The screen's glow reflected in his thoughtful eyes.
"Safe… but is it really the most effective?"
He moved his mouse to the search bar and typed: "compare: level 1 ability drink – level 1 beast meat."
Hundreds of results popped up, most of them forum posts from ability users. John clicked on a highlighted thread:
[Sharing: Eating Beast Meat Directly – A Lesson Written in Blood!]
The post began with a glaring red warning line:
"The energy inside raw level 1 beast meat is extremely chaotic and violent. Ordinary people must never try it. Best case, you'll get stomach pains. Worst case, your organs get torn apart."
John frowned and scrolled down.
The top comment read:
"Want to absorb it directly? Keep dreaming. That's why people process it into drinks, to filter out the toxins."
Another reply:
"Don't be greedy. Someone tried eating it raw, ended up in the hospital for 3 months."
And another:
"Raw beast meat is ten times cheaper than the drinks. Only the desperate poor risk their lives on it. Unless you're born with some kind of toxin resistance, forget it."