Cyrus was displeased. His face was scrunched up, eyes blazing with a fiery flame that could scorch the earth with a single glance. The reason for this dilemma was his dissatisfaction with his avatar. While regaining sight had been a wonderful surprise, his happiness had been crushed, stomped on and dragged through the mud as he inspected his gadgets.
Everything was inferior to his previous equipment, subpar compared to even the poorest troops. The place where the Gallea helmet usually sat had been replaced by a tin can with a faint resemblance to a helmet. It was cumbersome and pressed down on his skull like a mountain. His once glistening, impervious-to-damage lorica segmentata had been traded out for outdated chainmail that would break if someone breathed on it. The spot reserved for the standard gladius, the finest melee weapon ever designed had been taken over by an inferior imposter, the short sword. To make matters worse, the sword was made of iron, malleable and weak compared to steel. Much like everything else in his kit, the shield was lesser. Composed of wooden planks stuck together with a perimeter of thin iron bands, the defensive weapon was unwieldy and bulky, lacking the deftness and coverage of the Scutum. While far less physically life-threatening than the armour and weaponry, the mental wound left a gaping hole in his soul. Cyrus had plummeted through the military hierarchy, finding his new insignia to be that of a little Decanus, leader of 10 men. He felt exposed and betrayed by the Gods. The only familiar aspect was the clothing, consisting of the standard linen undershirt and wool tunic. Cyrus's hybrid sandal boots brought a sense of normalcy and calm over him.
The bright yellow standard of the Legio XII Fulminata drew his gaze. Planted firmly into the dirt, it stood tall and proud, ready to fight against the world. Rolling his shoulders up, planting his feet evenly on the ground, he gripped the steel pole firmly and pulled. It wouldn't budge. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness filled his mind like a tsunami. Chuckling, "so this was how the system ensured he stay in one place," he mused, "how ingenious." Despite his overall negative view of the gods, the clever ploy to keep him here is worth commending, a feat accomplished through wisdom and knowledge. The golden letters held an almost hypnotic, flowing motion. He chuckled softly, the gods seemed to enjoy playing him. Tracing his finger delicately along the edges of the emblem, Cyrus whispered, "Oh father, if you could see me now." A single drop of water pooled at the rim of his left eye before slowly leaving the safety of the trench and making the long journey towards the ground. He rubbed his eyes angrily, wiping the tear off with the hard edges of his mail armour, having mistaken it for a sleeve. Cyrus had never fully adopted full military regalia in his mind despite decades of war. The minuscule rings dragged and scrapped through flesh, leaving pitfalls and craters filled with red liquid. There was a faint echo of pain in his soul. The centurion lurched forward in shock, spitting curses at the air. Exhausted and drained of energy, the sudden pain dealt the final blow to his mind. His eyelids shut. Yet his mind couldn't rest, wasn't allowed to switch off and go on a vacation to the realm of dreams.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The centurion, now Decanus, found himself hovering above his avatar. Cyrus sighed, "this dungeon core business is a 24-hour job with no breaks in between." Once again lost and without direction, the roman sought the aid of his most trustworthy and truthful companions since his arrival in this world, books. He glanced downwards and grabbed a book with his now invisible limbs. While being incorporeal is unsettling, the retaining of vision is a breath of fresh air. Flicking through the pages of the tome, eyes briefly scanning the lines, he found his target after some minutes of searching. A small sense of accomplishment rose up in his chest but like every other emotion, it is swiftly crushed and replaced by the cold demeanour. Reading through the instructions, tips and warnings, Cyrus began the construction of his dungeon.
Spreading his awareness outwards hesitantly, his fingers collided with the dirt barriers all at once. He jerked his senses away from the walls. The texture of all the particles of rock, soil and other minerals in concert was an unpleasant and foreign sensation that shot spikes of agony and discomfort into his brain. Like training his sword skills, Cyrus slowly grew accustomed to the feeling like a young duckling meeting water for the first time. After a few seconds of contact, retract. A few more seconds, retract. The repetition of this dull procedure didn't phase the roman for practice meant survival. Good men have died in battle because of this. A few hours of sweat on the training grounds would have replaced the blood and pain on the battlefield. Gradually, Cyrus grew comfortable with the ability to sense all within his domain. It was time for the next step.
While all dungeons have a starting pool of mana, incorporeal dungeon masters use approximately two-thirds of this resource to form a core. However, this amount can be regained by the passive regeneration ability granted to all dungeons.
Having felt the emptiness of his soul, the roman patiently waited for the mana to regenerate. A few minutes pass by without an inkling of an indicator that the operation was in progress. Giddy about the construction of his new home like the crowds in the colosseum before a bout, he simply couldn't wait.
Assuming that his human avatar functions the same way as a normal human, he shoved himself into the human form once more.
Pulling up a manual titled "The Cultivation Guide for CHOSEN dungeons," he opened a random page. Present on the yellow-tinted sheet were a series of diagrams representing the different forms of mana in-take.
Cyrus's face glowed. His lips curved upwards into a precipitous parabola.
Taking a stance, the roman began to dance, flowing with the motion of the air like a talented dancer, after all, dancing is just another form of hand-to-hand combat. He felt the mana gathering within him, filling his reserves. It was time to build the dungeon.