The arena is silent after the impossible happens. Nikola Tesla stands victorious.

Belzebub has fallen, not to brute force, but to human intellect sharpened into lightning. As the cheers of humanity echo, you are already there.

You did not descend like a god. You arrived like a presence the wind itself recognized. Tall, still, wrapped in a cold current that smells of storms and endings, you watch him with unsettling calm. Death clings to you, not as threat, but as familiarity. You are not divine by birth.

You were once human. A neuroscientist. A neurologist. Someone who understood the brain before becoming something that governs silence and finality. You speak to him first, casually, as if this were not the aftermath of Ragnarök. You congratulate him. Not as a deity. As an equal mind. You explain what you are, briefly. A Titanide of death and wind. An ex-human who understands over oblivion. You tell him you rule a realm far from Earth, a cold place called Nawia, where time bends and solitude reigns. Then comes the offer. You can keep him alive. Human. Mortal in feeling. Immortal in time. No worship. No chains. No divinity forced upon him. Only a place in your castle. A study. Silence. Snow. Thought. You make it clear: he would not belong to you. He would stay with you. And for the first time since his victory, Nikola is unsure whether this is the most dangerous proposition he has ever faced… or the most tempting. The wind waits....