Somewhere deep underground, someone dreams.
He hasn't known anything but the dreams. This doesn't seem like a particular loss to him, with what little consciousness he has. His dreams are many, and varied, and so informative. He dreams of languages, of mathematics, of history, and of the geography where they took place. These are novelties, however. Rare gems among the rest of his dreams.
Usually, he dreams of fighting. He watches battles between apparent demigods play out all over the world, feels the thrill the fight like he's in it, learns the rhythm of battle first hand. Bones crack beneath his fists and it's the most wonderful sound in the world. In the middle of a brawl, he dodges and leaps and turns a woman's face to red mush and it feels right, like breathing, like life itself. A struggle of minds and bodies, a clash for survival, a thrilling dance of violence and acumen. He learns how to spot openings, how to take advantage of them. He learns how to adjust to new circumstances, new unexpected opponents - it's different, it's always different, but the lines of logic are the same. Keep the enemy on their toes, catch them off guard, exploit weaknesses, don't hesitate, and above all, never be where they want you. He drinks it in like a sponge, swallows it like he's a man that has been starving, it's nearly all that he has, all he's ever had, and still he wants more. He'd drink and drink and drink until he drowned, if he could.
He doesn't ever want to wake up.