I woke to the smell of mud. To the creak of a thatched roof. To a body thin from hunger, feverish, fragile. And memories that were not mine. A life that had just ended, an orphan couvade (Bahati) boy who starved after his parents died overseas. His name was Li Changhu. But fate had knitted his body to my spirit. Ninety-two percent similar in face and blood, the remaining differences moulded by my soul. I sat up slowly, touching my hair. Still white. Still soft. Still mine. The ancient world outside was harsh, stone and bronze tools, minimal steam engines, and a society where strength defined everything. Status determined everything. Couvades were lowly and scorned. But my eyes narrowed with determination. I was not a helpless orphan. I was a Banati. I was trained. I was born of two worlds. I would survive. I would rebuild. I would rise. And this time I am Banati reborn. I still have my spiritual farming space, my memory palace, my cultivation foundations, my abilities and a lifetime of knowledge. I looked around the dusty hut, the small courtyard and the cracked walls. A new world. A new chance. A new battlefield. "My story," I whispered into the quiet dawn, "starts here and I will live for myself.
