I was not born in the year 1500.
I was reborn—memory intact, body new, soul restless. The moment my new lungs filled with Florentine air, I knew three things:
First: I will never die, not unless someone ends me by force.
Second: I can change my age, reshaping skin and bones as I will—though never too drastically, or too quickly.
Third: When my body weakens, I can take over the one I prepare—the body of a son born from me, moulded by me, waiting for me.
A gift. A curse. Perhaps both. I have no name for the force that gave it to me—only the task that came with it: remember.
And I do.
I remember empires rising and falling, currencies minted and broken, and wars sparked over women, religion, and trade. I remember how the world shaped itself into the one I left behind—the 21st century. And I remember where it all begins: with ships and maps and gold.
The year is 1500. Europe dreams of expansion. The New World waits.
And I am ready.