The smell of death. The smell of rot. 

How long has it been. How long has I passed?

All I remembered was the blood and metal. 

I raised my hand to the darkness above, I remembered when I saw it.

I was wearing armor, broken armor yet still armor. It was barely hanging on, parts of it were pitched black due to burning of the furious fire before. 

I remembered. I was a man of battle, a tool for war. 

I the tool battled for the those who controlled me. Controlled the entire army. 

I was part of many soldiers, I fought for a land who never once fought for me. 

The memories continue to flow through, we were fighting another nation. It was harsh, difficult and deadly. During one of there battles I was struck down, my fault armor had also betrayed me. The cold sting of the sword, the crunching of by ribcage as it pierced through my chest. 

I was left to the ravens like the many other corpses yet that didn't happen. 

I sat up.

My other hand felt a cold squishy sensation. I foolishly looked down. 

A body, no many bodies all under me. 

That explains the smell. 

I got up of course, not in fear but shock. How was I alive? How did i not die. 

I knew where I was. I was in a dungeon, a dead dungeon. 

Adventurers explore dungeons, dungeons as old as time were here before us, that led curious people here and after they explored and killed entities that lived here they leave labeling it as dead. 

The nation didn't want to let it go to waste of course so they often dumped the bodies through chutes. 

I was one of them, unfortunately I survived.