[ 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 Ornn's towering figure stood, his massive form haloed in firelight.
Six months. Half a year sharing this forge, and their interactions could be counted on one hand.
And that was it.
No words. No guidence.
Just the endless rhythm of the hammer, the occasional disdainful sniff at Edison's work, and the infuriating habit of tossing perfectly good weapons into the inferno.
"At least give it to me if you don't want it," Edison muttered, eyeing the latest sword sinking into the magma.
Guide's voice dripped with faux innocence. "Then why don't you go ask him?"
"Ornn tolerates my existence for now and I'm not stupid enough to push it."
Edison let off a deep sigh.
"Hmph."
The sound came from behind him. Not Ornn's earth-shaking grunt, but something smaller, drier, and infinitely more judgmental.
Edison turned.
There, perched on his anvil like a tiny, fluffy sovereign, sat The Fabled Poro.
Its beady eyes scrutinized the newly forged Black Steel Sword, beard twitching.
Then, with a hop, it landed on the blade, sniffed the molten veins, and delivered its verdict:
"Hmph..."(Approve)
Edison's lips twisted into a dry laugh. "Who would've thought you'd end up as my blacksmithing master?"
The poro's ear flicked, utterly unimpressed by the sentiment.
It turned its squat body with deliberate slowness, presenting Edison with a perfect view of its fluffy backside as it hopped down from the anvil.
He then grabbed the pile of Elite grade sword and toss them all down towards the lava.
The memory still burned fresh in Edison's mind - his first day after the delta challenge, he was contemplating wheather if he should buy a manual for the basics of blacksmithing.
Then the fluffy poro had waddled up to him holding a hammer and pointing towards one of the smaller platform.
Edison stared at the fluffy creature holding a hammer nearly as big as it's head.
His brow furrowed as he carefully chose his words.
"What?"
He asked skeptically, then quickly added, "No disrespect, but... you want to teach me? Are you sure about that?"
The Fabled Poro's iron-ringed mustache twitched, its dark beady eyes narrowing to slits.
The temperature in the forge seemed to drop several degrees despite the roaring flames.
Without warning he snatched the tongs from Edison's hands with surprising dexterity, and marched toward the glowing steel with purpose in its waddle.
What followed was the most humiliating - and enlightening - thirty minutes of Edison's life.
The poro's stubby paws moved with impossible precision, each hammer strike singing against the steel in perfect rhythm.
Sparks danced around its round form as it shaped the metal not by force, but through some innate understanding.
When the poro finally stepped back, the battle axe gleamed on the anvil, its edge humming with restrained power. The system notification burned in Edison's vision:
[Frostfang Cleaver]
Grade: Master
Properties: Drains heat from struck targets, 25% chance to inflict Frostbite.
Edison's jaw hung open.
And thus he's now an apprentice of a poro.
Edison watched the molten lava swallow all those perfectly good sword, the Elite-grade steel dissolving like sugar in tea.
A few months ago, the sight would have made him rage.
Now, he just sighed. "Is this really necessary, Fabby?"
The Fabled Poro - his unlikely master, now affectionately nicknamed - responded with its usual eloquent commentary: a derisive snort as it clapped its paws together, sending soot puffing into the air.
"Theoretical analysis," Guide chimed in, "They're probably returning the mountain's ore to its source."
Edison stretched his aching back, tendons popping. "How does that make any sense....?"
"It is just my speculation," Guide replied, its tone dry.
With a final glance at the churning lava below - currently digesting what could have bought him a small Demacian estate.
With a sigh, Edison followed Fabby across the narrow stone bridges, towards the stone chambers.