Darkness.
Then—
Edison floated in the void, his limbs weightless. No ground. No walls. Just endless, suffocating black. His breath hitched—was he even breathing?—before panic clawed up his throat.
"What the—?!"
A smooth, professional voice resonated in his skull, its cadence polished yet dripping with quiet menace—like a corporate helpline explaining why your insurance won't cover spontaneous combustion.
"Congratulations, valued participant. Your request for alternate life placement has been approved per verbal clause 37-B of the Divine Transmigration Agreement."
Edison's mental record scratched. "The fuck—?"
"All wishes submitted are binding upon utterance," the voice continued, its tone the verbal equivalent of a PDF disclaimer. "Your original vessel has been respectfully decommissioned. Please note this process is irreversible."
"You killed me?!"
"Correction: You authorized termination via explicit 'any life's better' declaration. We simply processed the paperwork." A pause. "Efficiency is our priority."
Edison's hands fisted in nothing. "What are you?!"
"Your designated Transition Liaison," it replied, "Think of me as your guide for your impending mortality. Limited assistance available within approved parameters. No overpowered abilities, no narrative shortcuts—just enough guidance to ensure your demise is statistically delayed."
Edison's laugh was jagged. "This must be a dream..."
"Mmm. Delightful denial." The voice lowered to a confidential murmur. "Well then, please prepare for relocation in three... two..."
Light detonated behind his eyes.
Then—
Cold.
Wind.
Edison landed face-first in the snow, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The storm roared around him, a wall of white swallowing the world beyond three feet in any direction. The wind carved into his skin like a blade, each gust stealing more warmth, more feeling. His fingers were already stiffening—frostbite soon, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
Then, with the practiced indifference of a hotel concierge handing over a room key, the voice spoke:
"Starter survival package delivered. Contents: one set of thermally insulated leathers, one flint and steel set, one leather canteen, one hunting dagger, and one pound of jerky—meat source undisclosed for legal reasons. Please dress promptly; hypothermia is such a tedious way to perish."
Edison didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled into the leathers—thick, oiled hide lined with dense fur—and felt the immediate relief as the biting cold dulled to a manageable ache. The boots were sturdy, the gloves snug. Good. Not dead yet.
The voice cleared its throat. "Ah, and your preliminary assessment."
A translucent screen flickered into existence before him:
NAME: Edison Fletcher
SKILLS: None
INVENTORY:
- Frost-Resistant Leathers (Equipped)
- Flint & Steel
- Leather Canteen (Full)
- Hunting Dagger
- Mystery Jerky (1lb)
Note: Physical capabilities comparable to an Ionian rice farmer. Not the skilled kind. The kind that gets trampled by Noxian conscripts during harvest season.
Edison stared. "That's it? No strength stat? No agility? No anything?"
"We find numerical metrics so… uninspired," the voice replied. "Why reduce your existential terror to mere digits? Besides, you'll know you've improved when you stop, say, weeping during basic knife drills."
Edison's eye twitched. "And the 'Ionian farmer' comparison? That's just rude."
"Accurate, though," the voice mused. "Speaking of—do mind the blizzard. And the wolves. And the yetis. And the other things that enjoy chewing on underprepared tourists."
Edison opened his mouth to retort—
A gust of wind tore through the blizzard, momentarily parting the veil of snow. Something dark and misshapen loomed at the edge of his vision.
Edison turned.
Then wished he hadn't.
A corpse.
Half-buried in the snow, the upper torso of a man in hide armor lay sprawled, his lower half gone. Frost clung to his beard, his eyes frozen wide in some final, unspeakable horror. His hands—stiff, blue—still gripped an axe with desperate rigor mortis.
Edison's stomach lurched. Acid burned the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing down the bile, and took an unsteady step back.
Crunch.
His boot caught on something. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and landed hard on his ass. When he looked down, he saw it—the handle of another axe, jutting from the snow like a grave marker.
And then, as if the Freljord itself were granting him a moment of cruel clarity, the storm eased. The wind stilled.
The full horror unveiled itself.
Corpses. Dozens of them. Strewn across the snow in grotesque tableaus of slaughter. Some cleaved in half. Others burst open, their innards painting the ice in lurid crimson. Weapons—axes, swords, shattered shields—littered the ground like the aftermath of a battle lost.
The voice sighed, clinical. "Hm, remains are fresh. Time of death estimated at three to five hours ago. Cause of death? Overwhelming violence." A pause. "Recommendation: Depart immediately. The wounds suggest the assailant was non-singular, large, and could still be close by."
As if on cue, a deep, guttural roar split the air—distant, but unmistakable. The sound rolled through the frozen valley like thunder, vibrating in Edison's chest. East. It came from the east.
Edison swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the cold. The storm eased just enough for him to make out shapes in the snow—and for them to make out him if he wasn't careful.
Move. Quietly. Now.
He turned west, stepping carefully, each footfall deliberate. The snow muffled his steps, but his pulse roared in his ears loud enough to betray him. He weaved through the corpses, avoiding the shattered weapons and frozen pools of blood, his breath shallow.
The ground sloped upward. A small mercy—higher ground meant better sightlines, maybe even shelter.
After what felt like an eternity, he risked a glance back.
And froze.
Below, shadows moved among the dead.
Not beasts. Not men.
Something in between.
A horde of twisted figures, sniffing, prowling, their forms a grotesque mockery of nature. Some stood on two legs, furred and antlered, their limbs too long, their movements too fluid. Others were half-human, half-beast—claws where nails should be, jaws distended, eyes gleaming with feral intelligence. A few wore tattered hides, clutching staffs topped with yellowed skulls, murmuring in guttural tongues.
And then there was it.
A towering monstrosity, easily seven feet tall, its body a mass of muscle and matted fur. Shoulder plates of unknown dark iron. Gauntlets crusted with old blood. Antlers jutted from its back like spears, the points jagged, cruel. It sniffed the air, then let out a low, rumbling growl.
Edison dropped flat, pressing himself into the snow. His heart hammered so hard he was sure they could hear it.
Fifty yards. That was all that separated him from them.
The wind howled.
One of the smaller creatures—a thing with too many joints in its arms—snapped its head up.
The creature's eyes locked onto him.
For a heartbeat, Edison dared to hope. Maybe it didn't see me. Maybe it's looking past me—
Then the creature screeched, a sound like nails on slate, and every twisted head in the horde snapped toward him.
The towering one let out a roar that shook the ground. It raised its claws, and with a sickening crackle, blue-white lightning coiled up its arms. The energy lanced into the sky—
Recognition hit Edison like a physical blow. Fragments of League lore flashed through his mind—stories of the Ursine, Freljord's shape-shifting beast-men who worshipped Volibear, the demi-god of storms and war.
"Oh fuck me," he thought, his blood turning to ice. "They're real and they're right in front of me..."
"BOOM!!!!"
The storm parted. The wind died. The snow stilled.
In an instant, the blizzard's protective veil was gone, leaving Edison utterly exposed on the barren slope.
"Ah," the voice remarked, almost bored. "Survival probability update: 0.3%. Suggested course of action: Ru—"
Edison was already moving.
He scrambled to his feet and ran, boots skidding on ice. Behind him, the earth trembled as the Stormclaw charged, its war cry sending a fresh wave of terror down his spine. The others followed, howling, their twisted forms surging forward like a tidal wave of claws and teeth.
His lungs burned. His legs screamed. The leather clothes that had once felt warm now clung to him like a death shroud.
Faster. Faster—
A spear of lightning struck the ground to his left.
The blinding flash nearly made his heart stop.
"Interesting fact," the voice mused, as if discussing the weather. "Ursine lightning is technically magical, meaning it can ignore conventional insulation. So even if you hid in a rubber tree—
"SHUT UP!" Edison wheezed, ducking as another bolt seared the air above his head.
He just kept running, deeper and deeper into the icy mountains of Freljord.