He found himself awake in the middle of a vast snowy field, no clear skies or horizon in sight. Diavolo, the former king of the Italian mafia was once again stranded in the middle of nowhere. He had remembered the event like it was yesterday, being punched into oblivion by Giorno Giovanna's Gold Experience Requiem was the last shred of his previous life this now husk of a man had. It was his biggest failure, it had sent him into a loop of endless death and rebirth, and the concept of time had no more relevance.

He wasn't surprised by the freezing temperature and waking up in a place far off the grid, he knew if he just laid there quietly that he'd just die of hypothermia and wake up somewhere else; probably another autopsy, probably another accidental slipping into a volcano, it did not matter to him. Diavolo closed his eyes in the frigid environment and let his body drop in temperature as the snow fell on and around him.

What only seemed like moments later, a shuffling sound surrounded him and his eyes darted open. Adjusting to the light again, he knew by the temperature that he had not completed the cycle yet. He saw a figure standing above his supine body; it was dressed in a warm coat, gloves, and boots, all which looked to be handmade; it had with it a rolled-up animal skin, and bore flowing black hair that shrouded its face. Seeming to notice that Diavolo was awake, the mysterious figure extended a hand out. With hesitance and discomfort due to hypothermia setting in, Diavolo grabbed the figure's hand and was helped to his feet. He did not care whether or not he could trust the figure, his experiences had given him the most miserable form of immortality.

After he was standing, he noticed that the figure was way shorter than him, being dwarfed by nearly a foot. Despite the figure's size, it was strong enough to pull Diavolo up from the ground. The figure motioned for him to follow and they soon both disappeared into the haze of the desolate arctic.

After a few miles of walking, a fire was visible, it illuminated a small village of igloos, tipis, and other structures. The villagers that were sitting around the smouldering bonfire looked in Diavolo's direction as him and his escort emerged from the fog. Pleasant, welcoming smiles appeared on all of their cold, red faces as they got up to greet this tall, strange man. The young children ran towards him and played with the coat tails on his pants and the rings on his shirt. This was all very confusing for him, but he figured he wouldn't get on the bad side of the people who were extending his life for now. He'd have much rather peacefully died buried under the snow from the time he awoke than to be stabbed and maimed to death by Eskimos. Well, he was there now, so he figured he'd make the most of it.

When given an animal skin and welcomed to sit around the fire, Diavolo noticed that there was no waver in the joy of the citizens looking at him. He did stand out above the crowd, being five feet, ten inches; having long, fluffy and almost tentacle like locks of pink, leopard print hair, striking green eyes, and clothing that would normally be seen in the most back-alley of strip clubs; he stood out above any crowd, really, even in his home town. The children certainly seemed to be the most fascinated by Diavolo's hair, as they grabbed at it, put their hands in it, and braided it; he could have sworn that none of them had even seen half of the colours he had on his person.

A voice nearby gave a loud holler, which sounded almost like a yodel. The villagers stood up and made cheering noises. A circle formed around the fire, with everyone linking hands and starting to shuffle, Diavolo clumsily trying to keep up. One villager started singing in a language Diavolo couldn't understand, and then the others repeated his lyric. Two villagers brought a seal carcass out on a large stone platter, and the villagers jeered on with their song and dance routine. Once the dancing settled, the chief of the village emerged and everyone knelt before him. Diavolo followed suit, although he felt a bit ashamed; the chief walked over to the seal roast and raised both of his arms up and outward, embracing the mighty meal before him. He motioned for the villagers to rise and say their traditional grace before the meal.

In their native language, they chanted being thankful for their offerings and the meal they get to eat. They are thankful for Diavolo's presence, and the warmth of the fire. Once mealtime started, there was a lot of joyful banter, but the language barrier was obvious, Diavolo only spoke Italian and had a bit of shaky English under his belt, but that was it. He figured he'd communicate with objects, as the people seemed interested in him. He held up a handful of barley and said "Questo e orzo."; the people looked at him with fascination in their eyes, and one by one repeated the quote with various success.

A woman pointed to her little boy and looked to Diavolo in anticipation. "Lui e un ragazzo.", he said with emphasis on the last part. The little boy repeated "ragazzo" over and over while playing with his food.

After the meal was over, the sky was clear and the fire seemed to calm down. Nothing but a pleasantly illuminated night sky filled with stars loomed above the village. He eventually was shown a warm little building of his own, which had a cot made of various animal products as well as a blanket made from polar bear skin. He knew that he was going to have an interesting time here, and if he were being honest, this would be the first time in his nearly 95,000 deaths that a group of people had been so genuine and hospitable with him. They also really liked seeing him eat their food.

Days had gone by and the villagers still treated him like it was his first day there. They had learned limited Italian from him, which he was impressed by, and the more time he spent there, the more relaxed he felt, but curiously, the villagers wanted to keep him as far from harm as possible; they wouldn't even allow him to leave the village, not that anyone would take endless snow over a warm town with nice people anyway. Diavolo had essentially become an object of worship among the village people, they would wake him, feed him, and watch him go to sleep every night with smiles on their faces.

Morning after morning, he seemed to feel more tired and sluggish, feeling less inclined to leave his cot. Moreover, he was starting to get a bit husky in the midsection. The villagers would come to his abode every morning and serve him an elaborate breakfast. After politely eating this, he'd doze off once more and wake up to another elaborate meal. He began to notice that he was being isolated from the others when it came to mealtimes, and that he seemed to be getting more than the others.

Weeks went by and Diavolo was now completely bedridden. The food he was given was so high in caloric value that every meal put him into a coma and he almost felt like he couldn't move. The day was starting to fade when a visitor came in to his room; a woman, short and sweet like the rest of her kind. She grabbed his hand with her strangely warm hands, and escorted him out of bed for what to him, felt like the first time in days. The little lady escorted him to another building where a small fire was smouldering under a tub. Diavolo rejoiced, as he hadn't had more than the equivalent of cold sponge baths in weeks, and it was just so good to sink into a bath of hot water.