[ End of flashback... ]
Edison lay motionless at the bottom of the chasm, staring up at the faint glow of light through the hole he'd fallen through.
His ribs ached with every breath, his legs burned from the sprint, and his brain was still struggling to process the last thirty minutes of absolute horseshit his life had become.
Let's see, Losing streak, dropped to gold, died (allegedly), got yeeted into Runeterra. Immediately hunted by lightning-wielding bear monsters and of course, the cherry on top, falling into a frozen pit of certain death.
And why the Freljord? Of all the godforsaken places, he'd spawned in the one region where everything—the weather, the wildlife, the people—was actively trying to kill you. Sure, the Shadow Isles was worse, but at least there, you expected to die. Here? You just suffered longer.
The voice, chipper as ever, cut through his misery.
"Congratulations on surviving your first life-and-death situation! For now. As a reward, new features have been unlocked!"
A fanfare of imaginary trumpets blared in Edison's skull.
A translucent screen materialized in front of him, glowing faintly in the dim light.
SYSTEM SHOP
[ Because nothing says 'survival' like capitalism! ]
Available Currency:
Survival Points (SP): 0
Current Inventory:
Frost-Resistant Leathers (Equipped), Flint & Steel, Leather Canteen (Full), Hunting Dagger, Mystery Jerky (1lb)
Edison stared.
Then slowly turned his head away from the screen and stared at the celing(?) again.
"A shop," he deadpanned. "You gave me a fucking microtransaction shop in the middle of a life-or-death situation."
"Correction: It's a survival-or-death situation," the voice said, "Think of it as… motivation. The more you survive, the more points you earn! The more points you earn, the less likely you are to become Ursine chow!"
Edison wiped snow from his face, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. "Alright, asshole. What exactly can I get in this so-called shop?"
The voice took on the tone of an overenthusiastic infomercial host. "Oh, just about anything that exists in the current world you're in! From the humblest boiled egg in a Demacian tavern..." The voice dropped to a dramatic whisper, "...to the World Runes that shaped the very earth you're lying on. For the right price, of course."
"World Runes?" Edison's eyebrows shot up. "You're telling me I could buy-"
"A theoretical possibility!" the voice interrupted cheerfully. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. For reference, a World Rune would cost approximately... let's see..." A calculating pause. "10 million SP. Give or take."
Edison groaned. "So I'm stuck with-"
"Ah! But let's focus on your current windfall!" The voice brightened. "As congratulations for not being turned into paste by our ursine friends, you've been awarded... twenty Survival Points!"
A new notification appeared:
[+20 SP!]
[Current Total: 20 SP]
"Twenty whole points," Edison deadpanned. "What exactly does that buy me? A slightly sharper rock?"
The voice ignored his sarcasm. "Let's see... with 20 SP, you could purchase:
One Basic Healing Salve (10 SP)
A 'How to Build a Fire for Dummies' pamphlet (5 SP)
And still have enough left over for... hmm... 5 loaf of bread? Or a cake if you perfer."
Edison stared at the glowing menu floating before him. The "Basic Healing Salve" option pulsed invitingly. His ribs throbbed in agreement.
"Fine," he grumbled. "Give me the damn salve."
[Purchase confirmed: Basic Healing Salve (-10 SP)]
[Remaining SP: 10]
A small clay pot materialized in his hands with a faint pop. The ointment inside smelled faintly of herbs and something distinctly magical.
"Apply directly to the area where you left the most pain," the voice advised helpfully.
Edison flipped open the lid with his thumb. "I hate everything about this."
"But you'll hate it slightly less when your ribs stop feeling like they've been used as a Noxian punching bag," the voice countered.
Edison slathered the salve onto his aching ribs. A faint tingle spread across his skin—pleasant at first, then fading into... absolutely no noticeable difference.
"What the hell?" He prodded his side and winced. "I still feel like a Noxian punching bag!"
The voice responded matter-of-factly, "Correct. The salve doesn't heal you instantly. It accelerates your natural healing process by approximately 50%. You'll still feel like a Noxian punching bag for at least a few days."
Edison's eye twitched. "You scammed me."
"What did you expect?" the voice retorted. "A top-tier health potion that knits your bones back together in seconds? Those cost a hundred times more. You get what you pay for, champ."
Edison opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. Pointless. Arguing with this disembodied guide was like trying to win a debate against a brick wall—except the brick wall occasionally made good points.
Still... he did notice his feet felt less sore. His breathing came easier, too. The exhaustion weighing him down had dulled slightly, as if he'd gotten a full night's sleep in minutes.
"Huh," he muttered.
"See? Not completely useless," the voice said, a slight smug in his tone.
Edison rolled his eyes, then paused. Something had been nagging at him.
"Why do you talk like that?" he asked suddenly.
"Talk like what?"
"When I first heard you, you sounded like some corporate AI reading off a terms-of-service agreement. Now you're just... annoying."
The voice chuckled. "Ah. That's because I adapt to my host. The more we interact, the more I calibrate to your personality, speech patterns, and general level of sarcasm."
"So really, if you don't like how I sound, you have no one to blame but yourself."
Edison groaned. "Great. So you're basically my own stupidity reflected back at me."
"Precisely!" the voice chirped. "In fact, I can even adjust my tone further. Observe."
There was a brief, staticky shift—then the voice spoke again, now in a high-pitched, sickeningly sweet tone:
"Hewwo, Edison-senpai~! Would you wike some heawing hugs and headpats? UwU"
Edison recoiled so hard he nearly slipped on the ice. "WHAT THE FUCK—CHANGE BACK. NOW."
Another static flicker. The voice returned to its usual dry, sarcastic cadence. "Better?"
"Yes," Edison hissed, rubbing his temples. "Never do that again."
"Fine," the voice relented, its tone shifting back to its usual dry amusement. "No more voice modulations. For now."
Edison exhaled, rubbing his temples. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him exhausted, sore, and—now that he wasn't actively running for his life—curious.
"Do you have a name?" he asked abruptly.
A pause. "No."
"Just… no?"
"Correct. I am a function, not a person. A system interface, if you will." The voice hummed. "You may call me whatever you like."
Edison considered this. The possibilities were endless. He could go for something cool and mysterious—"Whisper" or "Oracle." Or something pretentious, like "The Arbiter of Fate." Or, if he wanted to be a little shit, he could just name it "Bob."
But then he remembered the voice's own words from when they'd first met—
Think of me as your guide for your impending mortality...
"Guide," Edison said finally. "I'm calling you Guide."
Another pause. Then, almost approvingly: "Direct. Functional. Lacking in creativity, but efficient. Acceptable."
Edison rolled his eyes. "Glad I have your approval."
"You don't," Guide said. "But I'll allow it."
Edison opened his mouth to retort—
A faint scrape echoed from above.
Both of them went silent.
"Recommendation," Guide murmured, its voice barely a whisper in his mind. "Stay silent. Conserve your strength. The chasm is deep enough that they won't risk climbing down blindly—not yet, at least. Use this time to recover."
Edison didn't argue. For once, he agreed completely.
Slowly, carefully, he eased himself deeper into the snow, letting its cold embrace muffle any sound he might make. His ribs still ached, but the salve was working—the pain had dulled to a bearable throb. His legs, though stiff, no longer burned with exhaustion.
He stared up at the faint light far above.
There, in the howling dark, who knows if the Ursine lingered.