John Markus tilted his shoulder and slipped past two men in thick coats haggling at the top of their lungs. The deeper he went into the trading zone, the quieter it got. Fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling spilled down on dusty stalls, patchy light and shadow falling like a checkerboard.
A sharp, metallic stench mixed with fried oil rushed into his nose, making him grimace. His steps slowed without him realizing when his eyes caught a stall tucked in the corner. On the worn-out wooden shelf, among pale slabs of meat, one chunk of dark red flesh stood out, like it had just been torn from the chest of something still alive.
"Flamebird meat – Rank 1."
John muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
The stall owner, a bald guy in a tank top, jerked his chin.
"Kid, you're seeing it right. Cheaper than farmed meat, but if you eat it, remember… watch your liver and kidneys."
John didn't reply, but his head was already flipping through files of info. Flamebird, a predator from volcanic realms, feathers blazing red that blocked heat, rich folks fighting over each plume to sew fireproof clothes. But nobody liked the meat. The things only ate reptiles, toxins soaked in deep, and their energy was wild and impossible to tame.
"How much?" he asked flatly.
"Twice the price of beef at the market."
At that, John's lips curled. Only double? With the violent energy packed in every fiber, that was dirt cheap. For Little Fire, the system that turned poison into nourishment, this was basically a walking gold mine.
He raised his hand to point right away, then froze. An old image from his past life popped up: a meme of a rooster in a hat, happily leading his chicks into a KFC. John choked back a laugh and glanced at Little Fire, nestled in the small cage hanging at his side.
"Hey, you feel gross about eating… your own kind?" he murmured, half teasing, half uncertain.
The little bird tilted its head, amber eyes clear, like it couldn't get what he was worrying about.
"Forget it. If I keep hesitating, we'll starve." John clenched his fist, shoving the doubt down.
He lowered his voice to the stall owner.
"Ten kilos. Wrap it tight, I'll take it now."
The door to his rented room slammed shut, cutting off the market's noise completely. John set the bag of meat on the table and let out a slow breath. The place was cramped, walls yellowed with age, a ceiling fan groaning as it turned.
He opened the bag. A hot, bloody stench rolled out, so strong it stung his eyes. He rushed to push open the window, then grabbed a knife and got to work. The blade hit the cutting board with sharp clacks, carving the dark red slabs into smaller pieces, thick blood oozing and pooling on the tiles.
"Gotta mask the smell first, or it'll notice." He muttered, tossing in minced ginger, white liquor, and chili powder, mixing fast. The spicy heat quickly smothered the reek.
In the corner, his laptop sat in sleep mode, the faint glow casting his shadow like some guy brewing poison. John leaned close, pressed the blender button. The roar filled the room as strands of red meat ground down into a thick paste.
A moment later, a bowl of bright red minced meat sat on the table, the stench mostly hidden under sharp spice. He set it on the floor, tilted his head, and called softly,
"Little Fire, come eat."
The small bird fluttered down, claws tapping on the tiles. It lowered its beak to the bowl, eyes flickering with doubt.
"Just try one bite," John whispered, sweat beading on his temple.
Little Fire pecked a strand of meat. The instant it swallowed, its eyes flashed, pupils blown wide. Its tiny body shuddered, then burst out with a piercing cry, high and sharp like fire hissing.
John froze, gripping his knee hard.
And then, all hesitation was gone. Little Fire dove at the bowl, beak stabbing nonstop, so fast it blurred. Chunks of red meat flew, splattering the wall in streaks, heat rising until the room felt like a furnace.
"Hey, slow down!" John frowned, but the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, unable to hide his thrill.
Each gulp sent its feathers bristling, sparks flickering between them. Heat surged, the ceiling fan screeched uselessly against it.
Little Fire roared, the sound slamming into John's chest, shaking his heart. Its wings spread wide, flapping hard, rattling the plastic table. The bowl tilted but didn't spill, half emptied already.
"Crazy…" John panted, eyes glued to the tiny bird that was turning into a beast.
The broken-down meat released a stench so sharp he felt dizzy. Wet gulps mixed with crackling fire, a manic rhythm filling the room.
In minutes, the bowl was nearly empty, only streaks of thick red liquid left. Little Fire raised its head, eyes burning like twin coals, breath so hot the notes on the desk curled up.
John slumped against the wall, fists clenched on his pants. To him, this scene looked like some heretic ritual, the little bird devouring its own kind while he sat witness, caught between horror and greed.
Outside, car horns echoed faint in the distance, blending with the fan's creak. Inside, the room sweltered, the flickering light reflecting off blood streaks on the wall, hanging there like a cold, mocking grin.
The little room still reeked of that spicy, bloody stench, heat hanging in the air like a haze that wouldn't fade. John Markus leaned against the wall, his thin shirt soaked through, eyes locked on Little Fire panting on the tiles. The Flamebird meat was gone, only streaks of red liquid left behind, drying into thin crusts like old blood.
He let out a shaky sigh, voice rough.
"Yeah… heresy for real. I'm even disgusted with myself."
Guilt crept in, but before it could sink deeper, a familiar chime rang in his head.
Ting!