Big, wide, lazy—like an overfed god just stretched under the water.
I squint. My brain mutters, nah, leave it, but my gut twitches. And when my gut twitches, it usually means something’s about to try and eat me.
Then the lake explodes.
Something massive bursts from the depths—scales, muscle, and teeth like shattered glass. Water slaps cold against my face as this nightmare-sized fish lunges straight at me. Its mouth yawns open—big enough to swallow my whole damn upper body—and for one long, stupid second, the only thought in my head is:
Well. That’s new.
Instinct takes over. I stagger back, feet skidding on slick stones, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the system’s shrill pings. The bastard’s fast—too fast. Its teeth snap shut just shy of my leg, and I swear I feel the rush of air from its jaws.
“Son of a—”
I don’t finish.
It comes again, thrashing. The impact sends shockwaves through the shallows. I lose my footing, slip—face-first into the lake.
Cold. Muck. Shame.
Then—light.
Blazing, golden light erupts beneath the surface. Furious. Searing. The water boils where it touches.
Ember.
She dives like a missile, body igniting even underwater. A living firebomb. Heat pulses outward. Bubbles churn and burst in frothing clouds. The monster screeches—wet and ragged—as its scales flash-boil black.
Light explodes brighter. For one wild second, it's all teeth and flame and chaos.
And I’m somewhere else. Knee-deep in a muddy Texas river. One crate of illegal dynamite. One idiot friend. Fish floating belly-up for miles. Sheriff wasn’t thrilled.
I blink back to now, coughing, dragging myself upright as steam curls off the lake.
The fish? Gone. Sunk like a rock. Trails of smoke, a whiff of shame.
Ember surfaces a heartbeat later, giggling like a lunatic, her tail carving lazy ripples through the sizzling water. She flings her arms skyward like she just nailed a ten-point dive.
“Ten points!” She yells, voice raw.
“Real graceful. Nearly got your old man eaten, but sure—stick the landing.”
That’s when it hits.
[ QUEST ACCEPTED!
A BOND FORGED: EMBER
Yeah. Thanks, system. Real helpful. Super relevant.
The notifications pelt me like invisible bricks.
Each one sharper than the last—like the system’s personally offended I’m still breathing.
I hiss, pressing a palm to my temple. “Feels like getting clocked by a PowerPoint presentation from hell,” I mutter, voice scraping dry.
Pop-ups keep flaring. Bright, obnoxious little demons. A migraine in strobe-light form, smearing across my vision.
Ember? Oblivious. She’s too busy laughing herself breathless while her personal zoo turns the lake into the loudest splash competition this side of the world. Water arcs high, sunlight breaking through in shards, scattering light like a disco ball with anger issues.
The raccoons? Total Olympians now. One floats belly-up like some lazy river deity, chewing—hopefully—on a reed. Another paddles farther out, nose raised like he's born for grace... then face-plants with a splash loud enough to send birds screaming from the treetops.
Up on the bank, the chipmunks and squirrels have claimed their spots like proper judges. Little paws folded, eyes narrowed, heads tilting with each cannonball and belly-flop. One squirrel even holds up a leaf like a scorecard. Eight out of ten. Harsh.
Then there's him.
The squat, potato-shaped thing. He kicks his stubby legs like he's trying to look majestic. He doesn’t. Sinks with a sad little blub. Ember scoops him up, still laughing so hard it sounds like windchimes caught in a hurricane.
And somehow—despite all the chaos—I catch myself smiling.
Yeah. Against my better judgment. But it’s there.
Even with the cursed windows flashing like neon migraines... there's this weightlessness.
Like maybe—just maybe—this world isn’t complete garbage.
Even if it’s loud enough to murder brain cells.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
I shift. The vambrace strapped to my arm digs in, biting cold, like it’s got a personal vendetta against my bones. I rub at the edge, glaring down like that’s going to solve anything. “This thing’s gonna drive me insane,” I mutter, side-eyeing Ember and her traveling circus of furry lunatics.
From the corner of my eye, Potato Head makes another grand re-entry—floating on Ember’s tail like royalty at the world’s dumbest pool party.
Yeah. That’s him now. It just fits too damn well.
He raises a tiny, mud-streaked card above his head like he’s judging the fate of empires. Ten points. Perfect score. His little roots wiggle like he just nailed a triple-axel.
Meanwhile, Ember’s still howling with laughter, both hands wrapped around a raccoon as she yeets it skyward like a furry shot put. The poor thing pinwheels midair, limbs flailing, shrieking like a tiny, fuzzy banshee—then crashes back down in a splash so big it soaks half the bank.
The squirrels squeal in delight. One chipmunk faints.
That splash? Another perfect ten.
Apparently, the little ones know quality when they see it.
I let out a long, tired sigh. The vambrace gnaws at my forearm like a metal leech. My fingers fumble across its surface until they find a tiny cog-shaped icon, half-hidden like it’s hoping to be ignored. I press it.
Bam. A translucent menu flickers open.
A blinking screwdriver icon stares back.
Huh. So it does come with instructions.
The usual junk appears—Audio Settings, Interface Customization, all the stuff nobody actually uses. But then I see it:
Mute System Alerts.
Sweet. Merciful. Relief.
My finger hovers. I take one glorious second to savor it—then I hit the button.
Bam.
Silence.
No dings. No alerts. No Ember’s chaotic cackling or raccoons playing splashball.
Just… peace.
It washes over me, cool and clean, like drinking cold water after baking in the sun all day. I exhale. Tension spills off my shoulders.
“Oh, thank the gods. Finally…”
But then—
A label near the bottom catches my eye: Custom API Integration.
I blink.
My heart stutters—just a hitch. But the old gears in my head start turning.
“What the hell’s that about?”
And just like that, it’s back—that itch. That familiar, whispering voice from another life. The one that used to keep me company during midnight shifts under flickering fluorescent lights.
Click it, it says. Just see what happens.
And of course, I click it. Because apparently, I never learn.
The screen flickers.
Then—code.
Lines of it. Cascading down like digital rain. Alive in the way only code can be.
My fingers twitch—reflex. Muscle memory wakes up before I can stop it. I scroll. Adjust. Dig. The old instincts snap back like they never left.
And gods, it feels good.
Like slipping into a beat-up jacket that still fits like it was made for you.
Except this code?
This code hums with magic.
I dive deeper, peeling back layers like I’m breaking open a vault. An audio module flashes across my vision.
“Well, well,” I murmur, already digging in.
I rip out the dings and pings like I’m purging gremlins from a cursed engine and swap in something better—an AI voice. Smooth. Calm. Doesn’t make me want to frisbee this damn vambrace into the lake.
But I don’t stop there.
I add a text-to-speech system so it can read alerts out loud.
My lips twitch.
A flicker of pride sparks in my chest—quiet, stubborn, warm.
“Let’s give this thing some personality…”
I tweak the voice—add a little sass. Make it friendly, but with teeth.
Feels good. Feels right.
So good, I don’t even notice the tiny countdown ticking away on the mute setting.
But I’m already in too deep—caught in the rush of bending this weird, magical world to my will.
Like I’m back on the job…
Only this time, the code hums.
Two glorious minutes of peace pass—crisp and still, like spring air after rain—
Then a new prompt slaps me across the face:
And before I can even roll my eyes—
I hear it.
That wet shuffle. The sloppy, squelch-waddle of something with more confidence than coordination.
I glance down.
Mr. Potato Head—sorry, Sir Potato Head—is waddling toward me, roots slapping mud like he's late for court. Chest puffed out, eyes sparkling like he just declared himself emperor.
“Sir Grant?” he booms, voice dripping with fake nobility.
I grin. Can’t help it.
“Hey, what’s up, Mr. Potato Head?”
He gasps, clutching invisible pearls. “WHAt— how rude!” His leafy sprout wobbles like it’s ready to fall off. “Sir Spudsworth! My name is Sir Spudsworth, you uncultured swine!”
I bark a laugh and scrub a hand down my face.
“Right. Sorry. Spuds.”
He puffs up even more, snorting like I just insulted his entire bloodline.
“Ahem. Sir Spudsworth.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sir Spudsworth.” I barely choke down another laugh.
He straightens, what’s left of his dignity wrapped around him like a cape.
“Your daughter, Ember, these noble beasts, and I are currently drafting an accord. However, we require your parental acknowledgment to finalize negotiations.”
I glance over.
Ember’s still gleefully yeeting raccoons into the stratosphere.
I wave him off. “Yeah, sure. Do your thing. Whatever.”
The vambrace hums, dutifully recording Sir Spudsworth’s pomp like it’s chronicling the founding of a kingdom.
Then the AI kicks in—voice smooth, silky, and just snooty enough to make my eye twitch.
“Good morrow, Master Calloway. I am SHAQ’RAI—your Systems-Hub-And-Quest-Read-Aloud-Integration. Might I interest you in today’s list of urgent notifications?”
I groan, dragging my hand down my face.
“Perfect. I just turned my game system into a noble-sounding Mrs. Potato Head.”
Ember snorts—then completely loses it, cackling so hard she nearly faceplants into the lake.
Sir Spudsworth swells with pride like he just got knighted again.
I shake my head, all the weight of this new world pressing down at once.
The critters are still bartering gods-know-what in their little furry council.
And now?
Whether I like it or not. I’ve got an aristocrat living in my wrist.