The idea of a "midnight snack" sparked. John froze a second, then nodded vigorously like he'd found the truth itself.
"Exactly! More meals, more bloodline, faster progress. Makes perfect sense!"
He jumped up, eyes shining like headlights, voice booming through the room.
"All of it's worth it—for your growth… no, for my handsomeness!"
Little Fire looked up, beak smeared with meat, blinking at him like, you've lost your mind.
John waved it off, grinning.
"Don't give me that look. You just eat, I'll handle the thinking!"
Not long after, the tiny kitchen clattered again. John pulled out two more slabs of Flamebird meat, diced them fast, splashed on ginger and liquor, then dumped it all into the blender. The sharp stench mixed with spice rose once more, the ceiling fan whining louder and louder.
As he worked, he muttered,
"People fatten pigs and chickens to sell for meat. Me? I'm fattening a bird to turn it into a legend. What a gap!"
The blender roared, red froth spraying onto his arm. John clicked his tongue, wiped it with a rag, and smirked.
"If my mom saw this, she'd think I switched careers to making meatloaf."
A while later, a fresh bowl of steaming mince was set before Little Fire. John rubbed his hands, voice solemn.
"This is the first midnight snack, a turning point in history. Your only job—eat, get fat, and get strong."
The little bird gave him a look, then dug in without hesitation. Two or three pecks and it was already swallowing hard, wings flaring, body trembling. Each gulp set its feathers sparking, tiny flames shooting off.
John leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, lips pressed tight to hide his grin. In his eyes, it wasn't "a fat chick snacking," but "a Phoenix gathering its undying fire."
Late at night. Outside the window, neon signs flickered. The traffic noise thinned, leaving only the ceiling fan screeching in the small room.
John flopped onto bed, gaze still on Little Fire devouring the bowl. In his mind, more scenes unfurled: riding a Phoenix over flyovers, livestreaming "for the sake of handsomeness"; or stepping onto a battlefield, enemies trembling before the fight even began, while the crowd cheered his name.
He chuckled softly, pulling the blanket up.
"Yeah… forget diet eras. From now on, it's officially… the era of rapid fattening!"
The fluorescent light swayed, casting the shadow of a teenager laughing in delight and a crimson bird feasting with all its might. In that cramped room, a grand vision had just been planted, maybe for handsomeness, and for a mythic path never seen before.
"Open wide, come on, just one bite, then you'll see the difference."
John Markus's voice echoed through the smoke-stained kitchen, his hand steady as he held up a silver spoon. The lump of Flamebird meat on it still flickered with faint sparks.
Little Fire blinked, red pupils glinting with doubt. But in the end, it obediently opened its beak. The burning-hot meat slid down its throat, a charred taste filling its mouth, then that dense energy rushed straight into its marrow.
At first, it was like a dream.
Flamebird meat—something so rare they might not even smell it once a month before—was now on the table every single day. Sometimes, John Markus even turned on the kitchen light past midnight, carrying in another steaming plate.
Little Fire used to sneak and stash scraps under its straw nest for a midnight snack. Now there was no need. Its master himself offered extra portions, so generous the bird's feathers literally stood on end from joy.
"You see? That's how I treat you," John Markus chuckled, setting a jar of black pepper beside the plate.
"So good… too good…" In their "Shared Link," Little Fire sent out a ripple of glowing gratitude.
A week passed.
By the hundredth bite, the thrill had dulled. Little Fire pecked slowly, chewing without interest. The blend of spicy and salty just made it sigh. But the moment the energy surged through its veins, flames lit across its body, and the warmth made it tremble in guilty pleasure.
"You feel that? You're stronger already," John Markus tapped the bird's chest, where the bloodline boiled like molten rock.
Little Fire gave a faint nod, but sent a thought: Could we… change the dish a little?
John raised a brow, silent for a beat. Then he came back with a plate of half-seared meat and a bottle of glaring red chili sauce.
"See? I always listen."
Little Fire pecked a bite, and the spice exploded on its tongue. Tears welled in its eyes. It swallowed hard and sent back a weary impression: Different, yeah… but still Flamebird.
A month dragged on like a century.
Every day John Markus tried something new: deep-fried, steamed, stir-fried, charcoal-grilled, boiled with herbs, even European-style stews. The kitchen turned into a battlefield, littered with onion skins, spice jars, and charred pans.
"Don't worry," John panted over the skillet, "I read about this. Change the cooking, change the experience. Trust me."
Little Fire perched on the table, staring at the sizzling meat like a death row inmate awaiting the verdict.
The energy was still there, but the joy had faded like dying coals. Eating had become duty, nothing more.
"Master… if this keeps up, my throat can't take it," came its tired thought.
"Push through. I'm exhausted too, but I won't quit." John's dark-circled eyes burned with grim resolve.
Day after day crept by.
Each time he stepped into the kitchen, John saw despair in his partner's eyes, flickering like a lamp about to snuff out. Knowing he couldn't keep up the lie, he turned to his last strategy—pity.
That meal, John coughed, sitting down beside the bird, hand trembling on the spoon.
"You know, I've been working overtime, saving every penny just to buy this meat. If not for you, I wouldn't be pushing myself like this…"
Little Fire flinched, eyes shimmering with sympathy.
The next day, John propped his chin on his palm and sighed, "I was up till three trying a new recipe. The kitchen almost blew up. I thought I'd burn alive with the pot."
Little Fire's neck feathers shot up. It lowered its head quickly and swallowed the meat.
On another night, John opened a self-help book and read aloud like a preacher:
"You have to imagine every piece of meat as a step toward your goal. Not food, but the dream of your life."
Little Fire stared blankly, sending back a muddled, despairing thought: Dreams… why do they taste like fire and salt?
John clicked his tongue, tapping the book cover. "Hey, that's what the author said, not me."
Every cough, every complaint was a knife twisting into the little bird's heart. It was a good chick, too kind to let its master suffer on its behalf. So even when its throat begged for mercy, it kept swallowing each bite.
One day, John laid a hand on its head and whispered, "We're both walking the bitter path, you understand?"
A wavering flame flickered in Little Fire's eyes. It bowed slowly, a lump of meat stuck in its throat before sliding down at last.
For the first time, it understood: strength wasn't a feast, but long days of chewing through tears, enduring the same taste until the heart grew numb.
In the yellow kitchen light, smoke and oil filled the air. John's coughs mixed with the sound of dry gulps from Little Fire.
The final image: the chick's damp eyes staring into a plate piled high with Flamebird meat. The fire in them no longer born of joy, but of sheer endurance as it forced down bite number five hundred.