Reincarnation of Nikola Tesla in another world-Chapter 1: Prologue

The abyss stretches beyond understanding. It is not dark. It is not light. It simply is.

The great Constellations—gods, kings, forces that have shaped the very fabric of countless worlds—stand shoulder to shoulder. They do not unite. They do not trust. Yet today, they have no choice.

Their luminous forms burn against the cosmic void, each standing as a pillar of power, their light warping the space around them. They have never stood together before.

Odin, resting his hand on his spear, his lone eye piercing through time itself, murmurs, "If we stand alone, we fall alone."

Zeus, his fingers tightening around a bolt of lightning, voice like rolling thunder, snarls, "For once, we must strike as one."

Osiris, the weight of judgment upon his shoulders, his scepter crackling with the essence of life and death, breathes, "Even the scales cannot measure his sins."

Nuwa, her celestial form weaving strands of fate, whispers, "Creation and destruction—this battle will decide which remains."

A hush falls over them. No speeches, no war cries—only the shared understanding that they are afraid.

Then—

Reality fractures.

A gash in existence itself, a tear so deep that even the light of the stars dares not enter.

From within the gaping wound, a lone figure steps forward.

Nikola Tesla.

He does not rush. He does not pause. He walks, and the universe bends with every step.

Behind him, far beyond the battlefield, the Timeline Tree stands tall—fully grown, blindingly bright, its branches stretching into eternity. The heart of all things. The root of time itself.

Even with its infinite glow, it does not outshine him.

The Constellations brace themselves. Lightning coils, cosmic fire churns, divine steel hums.

Zeus, golden eyes burning, calls out, "You should not exist."

Odin, his spear steady, declares, "You twist the threads of fate as if they are yours to command."

Osiris, his presence like the weight of eternity, intones, "Even death cannot judge you."

Tesla does not react.

His voice, when it comes, is quieter than theirs. Colder.

"You speak of laws as if you have ever obeyed them."

The words do not echo. They simply settle. Heavy. Absolute.

"You call me an anomaly. Yet here you are, breaking your own nature to stand together, afraid."

Another step forward.

The stars tremble. constellations start to move with only one thought, to kill.

The heavens roar. Lightning splits the void. Divine weapons crash.

The battle for time itself begins.

[What is this? What are we witnessing?]

[What kind of story is this? What could possibly happen next?]

[To understand, you must hear the tale from the begining.]

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1943, New York City. The once-great Nikola Tesla lay on a old bed in Room 3327 of the New Yorker Hotel. The room was dimly lit by a weak, flicking bulb, casting shadow over the walls. Outside city was lively, unaware to the slow fading of one of history's greatest minds.

His body has become fragile, reduced to skin and bones by many years of neglect, malnutrition. Also due to the pursuit of ideas that no longer found a place in this world. Former brilliance now had been overshadowed by greed of men who profited from his genius, while he stays unnoticed.

His hands, once steady, now shake as he holds an old, crumpled letter—his final letter to his mother, Djuka, written years ago:

"My dear mother, I am so terribly sorry that I am not at your side at this moment. I know you are fighting for breath, and that your kind and gentle soul is ready to depart. If there were any justice in this world, I would be there with you, holding your hand, whispering all the things I never had the courage to say. But fate, cruel as ever, has bound me to my work, and I can only pray that these words will reach you before it is too late. I love you beyond words, and I shall love you until my last breath. Your Nikola."

A sigh escaped, the letter trembling between his fingers. His vision blurred, not just from the weakness of his body, but from the memories drowning his mind.

He saw his childhood home in Smiljan, the green fields which produce everything pure - from grains to air, the house he had been born in.

He saw his father, Milutin Tesla, standing in his priestly robes, hearing his voice as he recites poetry and philosophy.By candlelight, he filled pages with ink, transfering thoughts into prose and verse, his quill scratching against the paper. He always admired him

He remembered his mother, Djuka crafting tools, weaving, and inventing small household gadgets. her mind was as sharp as any scholar's. She had never learned to read or write, but she had taught him so much— about creation, poetry, engineering, and mechanics.

He saw Dane, his older brother, the beacon of youthful promise whose untimely loss left an enduring void in Nikola's heart....

"I screamed your name," Tesla whispered, his voice breaking. "I screamed until my throat was raw, but you never got up..."

Guilt had lived in him ever since, though no one had ever blamed him.

He saw his sisters, Angelina, Milka, Marica—flashes of their kindness, their teasing, the warmth of their voices. How long had it been since he had spoken their names aloud? Since he had last heard their laughter?

"I should have written more," he muttered. "Should have visited..."

He saw school, the long nights under candlelight, equations scrawled across his notebooks. The feeling of numbers falling into place, of understanding things no one else could see. The moment he had first imagined alternating current, the rush of knowing he had touched something divine, like God himself had whispered the answer.

Then, a different kind of memory. A soft voice, a pair of warm eyes. A girl whose name he had not spoken in years. She had been the only one who ever truly looked at him, not as an inventor, not as a dreamer, but as Nikola.

"Will you ever slow down?" she'd asked him once. "Maybe build a life, a family?"

and he had laughed, said there was no time for such things. But he had thought about it.

He had imagined it—a small house, quiet evenings, love that was steady and sure. But science had always called. And so he had let her go.

"I really was a fool," he said to the empty room. "A stubborn, blind fool."

His eyes moved towards the shadows at the corners of the room. The figures stood there again, watching, faint. - Edison with that smug grin, Morgan looming like some dark shark. The men who'd stolen everything from him.

"You're not real," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. "No more real than the voices in my mind."

But were they really just in his head? Sometimes he wasn't sure anymore. Reality had gotten pretty fuzzy these past few years.

His only true companion in those final years had been a pigeon. A beautiful white creature with grey-tipped wings, who visited him every day, as if sensing the loneliness that wrapped around him. He had once told someone that he loved that pigeon, that she was the only being who truly understood him. And now, even she was gone.

The door creaked open briefly. Nurse Katherine peeked inside but hesitated. The frail old man on the bed barely moved, his breathing shallow, his mind lost in the depths of his own despair. After a moment, she sighed and quietly shut the door, leaving him to his solitude.

And so, Tesla was alone once more.

"Ungrateful bastards," he muttered, his voice rough. "I handed them the future on a silver platter, and what did they do? Threw me in the trash and forgot about me."

His thin fingers gripped the sheets. "I was such an idiot, believing in their big talk about progress. Their 'vision for the future.' I was just a tool to them." He let out a harsh laugh. "They robbed me blind, fed me lies, left me to rot. And I actually thought they'd see genius that they were all moral"

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He could barely breathe now, his heart slowing down, but anger burned hot in his chest. "If I could do it all again... if I had one more chance... I wouldn't play nice. I wouldn't bow and scrape. no no no....I'd make them remember my name forever, make them either my subordinates or crush them completely."

A sharp pain tore through his chest, and darkness swallowed. A violent surge of energy, all-consuming, pulled him back. The void was calling him, it was resonating with his wishes. Reality actually fractured, lightning was falling all across the building. It looked like it was the apocalypse but no it was more. after some time it stopped , everything was silent and Nikola Tesla was no longer in Room 3327. He was nowhere on this planet.