There were three things Shen Mingyue was absolutely sure of when she woke that morning:

1. She still only had four Contribution Points.
2. Her next class was “Fundamentals of Alchemy,” which promised a full hour of supervised powder sniffing and cauldron safety lectures.
3. The egg had started twitching.

Not the gentle, warm pulsing it had shown before.

No, this was full-on rocking, glowing, and—at one point—chirping.

She cracked open her spatial ring just enough to peek at it.

A thin line of flame trailed up from the fissure in the shell, curling like incense smoke. The heat was intense but oddly comforting, like a campfire that was vaguely judging you.

“Not now,” she hissed, tucking it carefully back inside the pouch where her portable furnace nestled. “I’ve got class. You can burst dramatically into flames when I’m in private. Preferably near a pond.”

The egg pulsed again, harder.

She stuffed two extra layers of cloth over it and grabbed her satchel.

Alchemy Class – Mist Valley Sect’s Pill Pavilion

The room was warm, fragrant, and vaguely chaotic. Bronze cauldrons lined the rows like squat, judgmental turtles. Disciples filed in with nervous energy, clutching manuals and fire-starting talismans.

Mingyue took a back corner seat, trying to radiate nothing to see here energy.

“Today,” droned the instructor—a gaunt man who looked like he’d personally tasted every failed pill in the valley—“we will practice simple heat-channeling while refining spiritual powder from Goldenleaf stalks. Any combustion is a sign of qi imbalance.”

Mingyue’s eyes narrowed. That sounded suspiciously like a dare.

She lit the flame beneath her cauldron with a practiced flick and poured the ingredients. As the others fumbled through their qi guidance, she settled into a smooth, efficient rhythm. The flame obeyed her. The herbs obediently crisped, not combusted.

And then—

chirp.

It was faint. But it wasn’t in her head.

She froze.

Her satchel bulged. Just slightly. And something inside it glowed.

Mingyue whipped her gaze left and right. No one seemed to have noticed.

Another muffled chirp, louder now, and this time—yes, unmistakably—a puff of heat.

“No, no, no—” she hissed under her breath, slamming her palm down on the satchel to muffle the sound. “You are not hatching in Alchemy 101. This is a controlled learning environment.”

The satchel squirmed. A small flash of golden-red light lit up the seams.

Mingyue panicked.

She threw herself over it like a mother hen shielding her chick from an airstrike.

“Shen Mingyue?” the instructor called from the front. “Are you… injured?”

“Cramp!” she gasped, face contorted in theatrical agony. “Horrible cramp. Qi backlash. Terrible. Probably fatal. I should lie down—outside. Away from the highly flammable ingredients. Safety first.”

Without waiting for permission, she grabbed her cauldron (and bag) and bolted out the side door like her sleeves were on fire—which, frankly, they almost were.

She reached the quiet path behind the Pill Pavilion and ducked behind a large ornamental rock shaped like a tortoise.

“Okay,” she muttered, dropping to her knees and opening her satchel.

The egg was glowing like a mini sun. Cracks spiderwebbed across the shell.

With a sharp snap, it burst open in a puff of golden mist and flame.

Out rolled… a chick.

Sort of.

It was the size of a pear. Covered in bright red down with tiny gold-tipped wings, eyes like molten garnet, and a beak that looked far too smug for something that hadn’t existed five seconds ago.

It flared one wing with majestic self-importance—and immediately toppled over sideways.

Mingyue stared.

The chick chirped imperiously.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “You’re dramatic.”

It sneezed a puff of smoke and promptly tried to peck her sandal. When that failed to get her respect, it burst into a soft ring of flame and strutted in a circle like a runway model showing off a flaming tutu.

Mingyue pressed both hands to her face. “You’re a flaming toddler with an ego problem.”

The chick chirped. It definitely sounded like “Yes, and?”

She looked around. Still alone.

“I can’t let you stay out here. Someone’s going to notice when my satchel starts singing opera and setting their scrolls on fire.”

The chick hopped onto her knee. Its down shimmered with soft ember-light. Her Flame root responded instinctively—recognizing it. Welcoming it. Their qi swirled, just for a moment, in tandem.

And then it clicked.

The jade slip had mentioned something during her speed-reading binge—a line she’d half-ignored at the time:

Beast companions of high spiritual resonance may initiate a shared dantian bond, forming a personal domain for cooperative nurturing. Both cultivator and beast grow stronger through mutual proximity, shared intent, and synchronized qi flow.

Mingyue blinked. “You want to live in my what?”

The chick chirped again. She could swear it was smug.

She exhaled, shut her eyes, and focused inward. She followed the thread of warm, fluttering qi already unfurling toward her core. The sensation was oddly peaceful—like something small and determined had taken root right next to her spiritual sea.

“All right,” she whispered. “Go there. The little side-room in my soul. The one with a nest and possibly no health code compliance.”

The chick flared with light.

And with a puff of flame and feathers—poof—it vanished.

Mingyue slumped back against the ornamental rock and stared at the sky.

“I have a firebird toddler living inside me,” she muttered.

A beat of silence.

“I’ve built a birdhouse in my soul.”

She closed her eyes. “Please let him never find the karaoke function.”