Dorian awakened in a space of absolute, blinding white. There was no floor, no ceiling, and no horizon; the expanse stretched limitlessly in every direction, a vast, sterile void that defied physics. He couldn't tell whether he was floating, standing, or merely existing, but the sudden, violent jolt of consciousness was akin to being dragged from freezing water. For several disoriented seconds, he simply existed, his eyes desperately searching for a shadow, a color, or any familiar reference point. His heart hammered a confused rhythm against his ribs, each beat echoing the final, desperate moment before he touched the emerald.
'Was it all a dream?' The question, heavy with lingering disbelief, slipped from his lips in a hoarse whisper.
His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, foggy and heavy as if a surgical knife had scooped pieces from his memory and crudely stitched the rest back together. He tried walking in a random direction, the effort feeling strangely muted, as if he were treading through thick fog. The last thing he vividly remembered was the overwhelming surge of power from the emerald—the feeling of his body collapsing. The logical part of his mind, the part that functioned even when his body was failing, concluded: The emerald was responsible for this displacement. But how? And to what end? He had been walking for what felt like several minutes, yet the landscape never changed; there was no exit, no wall, no shadow to guide him.
"Greetings," a voice suddenly cut through the sterile silence, startling him so violently he nearly lost his balance in the non-space.
He spun around. Standing maybe ten paces behind him was an old man, perhaps in his early sixties, yet possessing an upright posture and a fit physique that spoke of a seasoned, lifelong warrior. He was draped in black robes that covered everything from his neck to his feet, a stark contrast to the white void around them. His face was etched with experience but wore a gentle smile, like that of a patient grandfather ready to spoil his favorite grandchild.
Dorian instantly slipped into a tense battle stance, every muscle coiled. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice strained. The reason for his extreme caution was obvious: the man had materialized from thin air. Dorian had sworn he wasn't there only a second ago, and nothing—not even the movement of Cosmic Energy—had announced his arrival.
"Ahh, straight to the point, I see," the man said with a small, rumbling chuckle. Despite the friendly demeanor, Dorian remained utterly rigid, prepared to face the unknown. "You can relax, child. I mean you no harm," the mysterious man continued, the benign smile never faltering. He waved his hand, and out of the absolute nothingness, a small, elegant wooden table and two simple, comfortable chairs materialized, their material and color a stunning aberration in the void.
The man graciously took a seat and waved his hand again. On the table, a pristine white teapot and two delicate porcelain cups appeared. "Well, are you going to stare at me all day long, or are you going to join me?" he asked, gesturing for Dorian to take the empty chair.
Dorian, analyzing the situation and seeing that no immediate attack was forthcoming—and recognizing that in this strange realm, physical force might be useless anyway—reluctantly took a seat. But his cautious habits died hard; he dared not touch the tea. The man, seemingly unconcerned by Dorian's wariness, poured the dark amber liquid and took a slow, satisfied sip, then exhaled. The sweet, sharp aroma of mint and something subtly floral filled the air, a final touch of unexpected reality in the unreal space.
Dorian stared, waiting for the inevitable trick, for the revelation that would betray the gentle façade.
"Well, to answer your question," the man began, leaning back comfortably, "I don't really have a name. You see, I am not even truly a living being."
The revelation dropped like a stone, shattering Dorian's carefully constructed mental defenses. "Then what are you?" Dorian asked, his confusion overpowering his caution.
"I am what you would call an Artifact Spirit," the man revealed, his eyes drifting lazily out into the blinding, endless expanse.
"An Artifact Spirit?" Dorian's questions kept piling up, a frantic intellectual effort to categorize and understand this impossible being.
Sensing his student's intellectual distress, the spirit continued, cutting to the core of Dorian's recent struggles. "As you have recently and frustratingly realized, you do not possess a third-grade affinity, do you?"
Dorian was utterly flabbergasted. How could this man—this spirit—know of his most pressing, private predicament? But before he could form a single thought, the spirit pressed on, his tone shifting to one of serious, professional guidance.
"You see, the Guardian—the great entity that healed you—knew you would be lost if he were to send you out into the world without proper guidance. Especially for the mission you now face. And that is precisely where I step in. I am bound to the jewel you touched. I am here to guide you on how to train, how to control your new identity, and how to proceed on the path of strength," the man concluded, his gentle expression replaced by one of absolute focus.
Dorian's mind snapped into place. The pieces of the puzzle—the healing, the runes, the loss of affinity, the journey—clicked together. His initial fear dissolved, replaced by a wave of pure, potent ecstasy. He might actually get answers!
"Okay, what affinity do I possess?" Dorian asked, his voice shaking with desperate hope. If the Guardian deemed him worthy of a special mission, a second-grade affinity was surely the bare minimum.
The man paused, looking directly at Dorian, his dark eyes unnervingly keen. He said only one word: "Energy."
"Energy?" Dorian asked in a confused tone. The word was too broad, too abstract. He was familiar with elemental manifestations, not concepts.
"Yes, Energy. You have the Energy Affinity," the spirit confirmed. Dorian was momentarily at a loss. He scoured his vast knowledge of arcane fields. The hierarchy of magic was always expanding; new elements and new paths of power were constantly emerging and being categorized by the central empires. Where did "Energy" fit? Was it powerful, or an unfortunate cosmic joke?
"What grade is it exactly?" Dorian asked, genuine interest masking his terror that it might be some uncataloged, useless new tier.
The man's lips curled into a broad, satisfied smile. "Hahaha, your worries are entirely unfounded, child. How could the Guardian give you a useless affinity? It is a Special Class affinity."
"Special Class," Dorian whispered, his heart beginning to race, daring to entertain the wildest possibility.
The man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near conspiratorial whisper, confirming Dorian's soaring suspicion: "Yes. It is precisely as you think. The grade above Grade One."
Dorian's pupils enlarged as his breathing stopped entirely