They caught me in Mozambi.
Chains on my wrists, ropes on my ankles – I was nothing but a shadow of a free man. They looked at me as if I were only merchandise, but soon they saw the fire burning within me. I was a warrior; I knew the movements of the body, the rhythm of combat, and the strength of the spirit.

They did not kill me. Instead, they drew me into their ranks. Where others saw a slave, they saw a weapon. I trained, I fought, I endured. Each day became a prayer, each strike – a meditation.

In time, I donned the robes of a monk, not because my name was taken from me, but because I had given it freely to silence and discipline. I was red from the sun and the fire, black-skinned from the earth of Mozambi, a warrior with the heart of a hermit.