Reborn in 1845

Reborn in 1845 at the bottom of a drought-stricken loess pit, my throat packed with dust and grass roots. The earth beneath me suddenly split open, and a silver-white sphere silently rolled out, its icy blue light stabbing into my bleary eyes. “Aji! Where the hell are you?” the hoarse-voiced village chief roared from above. The crimson fissures of the collapsing Star Ring in 2025 and the cracked gullies of yellow earth before my eyes overlapped wildly in my mind. As the blue light burned with agonizing pain, a crack opened in the sphere, and strange patterns branded themselves into my palm. Was it a key, or a curse? That night, the village's last scrawny ox was disemboweled. The same twisted, dark blue markings were carved into its organs. Carrying a chipped woodcutter's knife, the village chief approached the broken kiln where I was hiding, step by step. The sparks in his pipe reflected the hungry-wolf gleam in his eyes.