[ Six month later ]
High above the endless fires of the forge, on a stone platform hanging over the lava, a man swung his hammer.
The sound rang through the caves like a steady drumbeat.
This was Edison, but he looked nothing like the man who had arrived half a year ago.
His bare chest shone with sweat under the red glow of the flames.
His body muscles coiled with lean efficiency rather than brute bulk—the physique of a man who had spent months wielding steel rather than lifting weights for show.
A short, rough beard covered his jaw. When the light hit his eyes just right, they flashed red.
At his hip hung a simple belt, dangled a single peculiar item—a thumb-sized purple orb that shimmered faintly even in the oppressive heat.
With a practiced motion, he lifted the glowing blade with a pair of tongs and plunged it into the nearby quenching trough.
Steam erupted in a violent hiss, the water bubbling furiously as the superheated metal cooled.
When he withdrew it, the sword gleamed with an unnatural sheen, its dark surface shimmering with veins of molten orange, as if the fire within had never truly died.
Words appeared in the air above the sword:
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[Black Steel Sword]
Grade: Elite
Properties: Edge retains it's sharpness longer, Strikes inflict lingering burns (scalding damage), Moderately resistant to magic dispersion.
---
Edison exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.
Six months ago, when he first try his hands on this, he was intrduced to four different equipment grade.
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Normal - Regular plain weapons.
Elite - Great pieces of work, could contain minor magical effects.
Master - One of a kind, could contain singular or multiple strong magical enhancements.
Legendary - Divine work, rarely came out of mortal hands.
---
Edison exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. Six months ago, he'd barely survived his first night in the Freljord.
Now?
Elite-grade weapons were his baseline.
Guide's voice cut through his thoughts, dry as ever. "Took you three months to start making Elite-tier weapons. Not bad. Then again, most smiths don't have Hyper Adaptability slowly rewriting their cells to tolerate primordial flames."
Edison rolled his eyes. "I know, alright?"
He set the sword beside the others—a row of dark, flame-veined blades, each humming with latent heat.
He grabbed a cloth, mopping his face. "Show me my stats."
A translucent screen flickered into view:
NAME: Edison Fletcher
SKILLS:
Hyper Adaptability (Passive)
Primordial Flame (Minor) (Active)
Survival Points (SP): 2710
INVENTORY:
Inventory Orb (224 square feet)
Food/water stores
Spare clothing
Assorted tools
Note: Whithout magical enhancement physical capabilities now comparable to a Noxian conscript. Congratulation you're slowly moving up in the world.
Edison smirked. The changes were undeniable.
Hyper Adaptability had done more than just help him adapt to everything—it had integrated the primordial flames into his very blood. Now, the fire coiled beneath his skin, a living thing he could call upon.
And he was standing on the largest concentration of primordial flame in Runeterra after all.
He flexed his fingers. A wisp of flame danced along his knuckles.
Primordial Flame wasn't just for smithing. In the Freljord's endless winter, it meant he'd never freeze again. The cold couldn't touch him now.
"The cold never bothered me anyway..." he muttered with a chuckle.
Guide groaned. "Ugh. Was that a Frozen reference? What are you, five?"
Edison scowled. "Shut up. It just came to me."
As Edison and Guide bickered, a deafening CLANG reverberated through the cavern—the sound of the strikes of Ornn's hammer.
Edison glanced toward the central platform, where the forge roared endlessly, casting molten light across the cavern.
Six months.
Half a year living in this place—and he had spent most of it in silence, working and watching Ornn from a distance.
His gaze drifted to the magma below, where the latest batch of Master-grade weapons sank with soft hisses.
"At least give it to me if you don't want it," Edison muttered as the last traces of the blades vanished beneath the surface.
Guide's voice chimed in. "Oh, I agree. Why not ask him to stop throwing them away and give them to you instead?"
"Yeah, no thanks," Edison said flatly.
Then a sharp grunt cut through the air.
"Hmph."
Edison turned.
There, perched on an anvil close to his own, sat The Fabled Poro.
Its beady eyes scanned the newly forged Black Steel Sword.
Then, with a hop, it landed beside the blade, tapped it with its hammer a few times, and delivered its verdict:
"Hm." (Approval.)
Edison let out a dry laugh. "I guess this time it turned out alright."
The poro flicked an ear—thoroughly unimpressed—and turned around to present him with its fluffy backside before hopping off the anvil.
Then it grabbed the pile of freshly made Elite-grade swords… and shoved every last one straight into the lava.
Edison winced. "Was that really necessary, Fabby?"
The Fabled Poro—affectionately nicknamed Fabby after months of training under him—responded with a snort and a clap of its paws.
The memory of how this all began rose vividly in Edison's mind.
It was the first day after the delta challenge. Edison stood on one of the smaller platforms, watching Ornn work in the distance.
He glanced down at the pile of ores laid out at his feet, weighing one in his hand as he debated whether he should buy a beginner's manual on blacksmithing—anything to keep the next month from feeling like a waste.
Then the poro waddled up to him carrying a hammer nearly as large as its head and pointed toward an anvil practically fused into the platform.
Edison blinked.
Then stared.
Then frowned.
After a pause, he said, "Uh—this isn't what I think it is, right?"
The Fabled Poro's iron-ringed mustache twitched. Its dark eyes narrowed to slits.
Without a sound, it snatched the ores from Edison's hands with impossible dexterity and marched toward the glowing steel.
What followed was the most enlightening half hour of Edison's life.
Despite its tiny paws, every movement was precise.
It shaped metal the way a musician played an instrument—effortlessly.
When it stepped back, the battle axe gleamed on the anvil, its icy aura prickling against Edison's skin.
[Frostfang Cleaver]
Grade: Master
Properties: Drains heat from struck targets. 25% chance to inflict Frostbite.
Edison had been speechless.
And in that moment, he made the only decision that made sense:
He wasn't going to waste a month doing nothing.
He would learn.
Even if his teacher was a fluffy poro.
Now, watching the magma swallow another perfectly good sword, Edison simply sighed.
"Fabby… you're unbelievable."
The poro gave him another dismissive snort.
Which, in poro language, probably meant: Then work harder.
Edison rubbed his face and reached for the next piece of steel.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm getting back to it."
"What's the point of melting them anyway…" Edison muttered as he placed the cold ore onto the ever burning fire beside the anvil, heating the ore.
"Theoretical analysis," Guide chimed in. "They're probably returning the mountain's ore to its source."
Edison watched the metal deepen to a glowing red in the fire and muttered dryly, "How does that make any sense…?"
"It is only speculation," Guide replied, equally dry.
Edison cast a final glance at the churning lava below—currently digesting what could've bought him a small house in Demacia.
The forge roared around them— and the work continued.