The Centurion divided the pile of random objects in two. The books and scrolls vs the other things. A single glowing piece of literature flew upwards, shooting towards...an empty spot in the air.

  Reading has always been a tedious crawl towards some semblance of victory. Although it is more Pyrrhic than victorious, so much pain and suffering just to glean a few titbits of wisdom. Yet the various guides, history books and encyclopedias of an unknown world kept the Centurion captivated. His eyes were glued to the pages, daring not to look away in fear of the texts vanishing. The events upon his arrival had shaken him, leaving roman numb and desperate for time to think but he persevered, knowing full well that survival depended on the absorption of this knowledge. The animistic urge to stay in motion, to survive, drove him forward in the brutal slogging match against the squiggles on the page. Hours passed. His mind drifted off, once again sinking itself into the black bog known as his past. Oblivious to the fact that he was doing two things simultaneously, the roman kept reading, thinking, reading, thinking. Time was meaningless. Life dissolved into two once-considered pastimes, now full-time jobs, thinking and reading. An hour passed or perhaps a day, he didn't know. The once great pillar of glowing tree skins eroded, reborn on a separate land a few paces away. A black sea of nothingness surrounded the two islands, warded off by the golden aura. After what seemed like millenniums, all the books were read, the contents plundered from the pages and stored in the brain.

  The Centurion meditated upon a handful of critical information; how there are two types of dungeons, the randomly generated and the transmigration/reincarnation dungeons; how the actual "core" and laws around it are based on perception and how the "person" defines a dungeon and its core. Interestingly enough, there is a protocol for fairies to enforce a certain system of progress. He snorted, how anybody gets tricked by the scripted dialogue of the so-called assistants was beyond him.

However, a few things are set in stone, decrees from the Gods themselves. Progress is always marked through a system of at least 5 major steps. "Mana," the supposed source of energy for any and all activity is produced through the killing of adventures. However, it can also be generated from certain tasks and actions based on a dungeon's "truths." This topic is fickle, the line between accepted truth and just petty wishes is as thin and delicate as the thread of life spun by fate itself. Another "law" is that dungeons can only use the things brought in from the outside or are gifted by the system. Why the gods decided on such a thing, the Centurion did not know but it is law and thus must be obeyed.

  There is also something called an "Adventurer's Guild" that keeps tabs on existing and new dungeons. They are the footmen of the all-mysterious "God Dungeon Corporation," handed magical devices that locate newly formed cores. The guild possesses jurisdiction over the fate of all existing dungeon cores. In short, they were the judges and executioners. Worry gnawed at him like rabid dogs. What if he was too "peculiar" and deemed rogue? What if they come and destroy him? He calmed himself, reminding himself there are other much more important matters to attend to.

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To mask his "consciousness," he will have to blend in and construct a "normal" dungeon. To do that, he'll need to make a "core" to house his soul. Tracing his invisible finger along the book, he tapped on a line. Here it is. If the Centurion existed physically, he would've narrowed his eyes but he'll have to make do with nothingness for now. Yet he may no longer need to contend with such senses for much longer if all goes as planned. Recalling the splinters of his consciousness from their various tasks into one whole mind, he visualised the body of a prime roman gladiator, the peak of physicality. He pushed. A small white blob formed, stretching and moulding itself into a shape resembling a human figure. The slime-like matter formed the foot, the hands and then...it stopped. The Centurion sighed in disappointment, a predicted result. The book had warned of such a scenario. It stated "The chance of an incomplete core is 25%. In this scenario, reabsorb the substance and restart the process." Releasing a mental groan, he repeated the procedure. Think, push and watch the shape form an abnormal snowman again and again. Hours pass with no results. Glaring at the wax-looking stature with an alcohol-flame stare, the Centurion reevaluated his plan of attack. He decided to implement the progression system first to have a platform to set his avatar on. The roman recalled the ranks of the military, Decanus, Decurio, Tesserarius, Optio, Centurion, Legion Legate and General. Over and over, his voice droned on, and the words slowly faded into indistinguishable sounds. The tiny dirt box echoed and pulsated with a faint unearthly glow. Again and again, the designations were repeated. The walls pulsated and shook with the tempo. The glow encompassed the dirt enclosure, giving them a faint yellow sheen like a freshly painted wall. The centurion's vision grew whiter and whiter, the few surviving specks of shadow cowered in the corners, besieged on all sides by the strange light. Suddenly, on the 400th verse of the 8-word monologue, the roman's vision was blotted out by a flash-bang of tyrannical proportions.

  There was a tug at his soul. He panicked. Another tug, stronger this time. Another pull, another and another, each growing in strength and assertiveness. Resistance was futile. His vision began to spin, quicker and quicker. His surroundings spun faster and faster before fading altogether into single lines of colour. A sudden urge to vomit struck him like a thunderbolt. He closed his eyes. A few moments passed. The motion stopped.

  Opening his eyes, the roman felt the comfortable weight of armour settle upon his shoulders, the familiar texture of a leather scabbard against his thigh. His lips tugged upwards, curving into a fierce grin. It was time to face the world once more, to reach for the heavens.

  Then he remembered the dead fairy's words, "What are you?" What am I? The roman pondered, what will I be called? What is my name in this new life? A few moments passed by.

  I will be known as Cyrus.