Task

A tall, lean man with porcelain-pale skin and eyes as red as hot coals. His long black hair falls loosely over his shoulders, the left strand held in a thin braid. A perpetual half-smile adorns his lips, but it doesn't reach his gaze. He wears a black oriental robe with a stand-up collar, and a silver ornament with a teardrop-shaped ruby ​​hangs from his chest. He wears long earrings with red and silver pendants, and the hilt of a ritual blade hangs at his belt. He is the Archmage of Darkness, a cynic and paranoid, accustomed to seeing enemies in every shadow and poison in every throat.

The ritual was shattered—the sky above the altar cracked, hurling him through stardust. He landed on all fours in absolute darkness. The air here was dry, without a hint of magic—as if he were trapped in a stone sac. It smelled of dust, alien metal, and some kind of corrosive chemical. To the right, something hummed monotonously, like a mechanical golem, but soulless. The floor beneath his fingers was smooth, cold, unnaturally smooth. He could feel soft corners nearby (a sofa? a chest?) and a hard, smooth wall. Somewhere below, a narrow strip of dim light filtered through—under a door, it seemed, but it was not magical, but electric. He heard footsteps behind it—heavy, unfamiliar. And not a single spark of power. This world was deaf, blind, and utterly alien.