A sharp crack rang out as the floorboard under John Markus split open, wood splinters flying everywhere.
"Shit… again." He yanked his foot back from the hole, peering down at the pitch-black gap that led straight to the floor below.
The room went quiet. Only Little Fire hopped around on the bedframe, its thin wings glowing a fierce red against the wall like a living flame. The Phoenix form was complete now, feathers sleek and shimmering, every step carrying an aura that was nothing like a chicken but something with undeniable majesty.
John Markus frowned, the faint green letters of the floating interface still hovering in front of him.
Overall Combat Index: 50
He muttered, "What the hell is an overall combat index supposed to mean?"
A metallic voice drilled into his ears, flat and report-like:
"Combat index is evaluated on four criteria:
Strength – reflects attack power and destructive force.
Speed – reflects movement, reflex, evasion.
Spirit – reflects stamina when using powers, resistance to illusions.
Physique – reflects defense and recovery."
Then silence.
John Markus shook his head. "Cut off halfway and vanish. Typical… just leave me hanging."
Little Fire tilted its head, ember-like eyes flashing as it clicked its beak in a short cluck.
He gave a small laugh, but before it faded, the floor gave way again and another section shattered.
"Hold on." He plopped down on the bed, heart racing. "Don't tell me I got stronger because of this chicken."
The thought hit, and he pulled up his personal status window.
John Markus (Origin) 1
B-rank Power User
Overall Combat Index: 35 (10 + 25)
His eyes went wide, fists tightening without thinking. "So that's it… I'm drawing fifty percent of Little Fire's power."
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. A normal person's combat index at best was like 5–7, yet his body, the same one that had crashed from SSS down to the label of "B-rank trash," had just leapt to 35.
The walls stayed a sterile white. The ticking clock reminded him he couldn't just sit here daydreaming.
He started calculating under his breath. "If I go by the government standard… cultivation level directly affects combat index. Martial Artist at Origin stage, split into three sublevels. Each step up multiplies strength by 1.5."
Sunlight streamed through the window, dust motes floating. It pulled back a memory of a thick report he'd once dug up on a hidden forum, every number based on military research, nothing vague.
Little Fire spread its wings, heat rippling through the air.
John propped his chin on his hand, exhaled. "So if I didn't stay stuck at level 1 but hit 3, how insane would those numbers get?"
The only reply was a long clucking noise, along with a stare that screamed the chicken thought he was stupid.
John gave a crooked grin. "Yeah, right. Like you can just sit at home and think your way up. You're different though, Little Fire."
He let his legs dangle, staring at the broken floorboards. Memories crashed back: the day he fell in rank, classmates' pitying looks, the messages online calling him a "fallen star."
His mom had spent nights sitting outside his room. His dad had begged the school to let him stay home "to recover," but really they were terrified his spirit would shatter completely after falling from SSS to B.
"Staying home's fine, I guess." He chuckled to himself. But it died quick when his eyes landed on his phone's class schedule.
He'd lost track of how many days it had been since he last showed up at school.
A glaring red notification blinked: Too many absences, student may be disqualified from the national college entrance exam.
"Crap…" He shot up, hair a mess. "If I skip anymore, I won't even be allowed to take the test."
Little Fire gave a sharp chirp, as if snapping him back.
He tapped its head lightly. "Got it, I get it. Getting stronger isn't everything. I still gotta live like a normal person."
A spark lit in his eyes, half determination, half fear, but under that shimmered something sharper, almost feral. It was the same madness that had driven him to train until his body broke back when he was SSS, the same refusal to accept being ordinary. His hand trembled, not only from nerves but from a hunger that felt dangerous, like if the world dared to block his way, he'd tear it down with his bare hands. Yet when he spoke, his voice came out steady, almost calm, like he was forcing all that storm back into a single line of resolve.
"Alright. A real man knows when to hold on and when to let go."
The echo of splintering wood still lingered, but this time he didn't let it drag him down.
He yanked open his drawer, pulling out his crumpled uniform. As he shoved it on, he muttered, "Gotta get back to school tomorrow. If I miss the exam, no matter how strong I get, there's no place for me in this world."
Little Fire tilted its wings, crimson feathers glowing like flames that lit up his reflection in the mirror. No despair this time, just a thin smile, shaky but resolute.
The clock struck midnight, sealing his decision.
The window was still wide open, night wind creeping in with a chill, but inside John Markus, something else had just ignited.