The mahogany door clicked shut behind him.
The sound was final, like closing a chapter that was not meant to be opened lightly.
Instantly, the roar of the storm outside was muffled, replaced by an oppressive silence, as if the very air held its breath, waiting. The scent of old books and dust mingled with the faint, sharp tang of ozone—a remnant of the ritual. The room was lit by the warm glow of a large fireplace, where flames crackled against the night's damp chill.
Amber shadows danced on the old wooden walls, creating moving silhouettes that gave the impression the room had a pulse of its own.
The people sitting and standing randomly in the room—a few tired-faced men on a sofa, a young woman staring blankly at the rain-lashed window—all turned their heads briefly toward the door. Their gazes were vacant and heavy, like an audience that had just witnessed something soul-consuming.
Their eyelids were heavy, shoulders slumped, and their hands trembled faintly, as if the ritual's energy still clung to their skin.
But the Minister paid them no mind. He did not even glance their way.
There was a stiff tension in his jawline, showing that his mind was locked on a single purpose.
His heavy greatcoat dripped water onto the thick Persian rug as he walked straight ahead. Each falling drop felt cold on his skin, a stark contrast to the dry heat radiating from the fireplace before him. His gaze was locked on the sole figure seated in the center of the room.
His steps were measured and firm, yet they carried a mental weight that had been accumulating since he first entered the mansion.
There, facing the fireplace, sat an ancient man.
He was in an antique wheelchair, made of intricately carved dark wood. The man himself seemed older than the mansion; his skin was like thin parchment wrapped around bone, and a thick wool blanket covered him from the waist down.
Only his eyes seemed alive beneath thin white brows, watching the Minister approach. They were cloudy yet sharp—a combination only possessed by those who have lived long enough to see history repeat itself.
The Minister stopped a few paces from the wheelchair. He did not remove his greatcoat. He simply inclined his head slightly—a clear gesture of respect, from a high state official to... something else.
That small bow seemed more meaningful than a full prostration; an acknowledgment of an authority older than his government.
"I offer my congratulations," the Minister's voice was heavy, breaking the silence.
"On Young Master Noel Sanjaya's success in tonight's ritual."
The silence settled back into the room, broken only by the hiss of the fire.
The small sound was like a delicate whisper accompanying the sacred moment.
The ancient man took a fragile breath, like dry paper scraping. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and incredibly hoarse, barely a sandy whisper.
"Nineteen years old," he said, as if speaking to the fire.
"Ripe... and successful."
He coughed once, a dry, painful-sounding hack.
His frail body shuddered for a moment, but his eyes remained lit like old embers.
"The Sanjaya family," he continued, his eyes now shifting to fix the Minister with a sharp gaze, the orange firelight dancing in his clouded, vigilant pupils.
"Will endure. Until the end of time."
The fire in the hearth crackled, as if listening to the conversation.
A small spark leaped into the air, burning bright for a second before dying—like a sign of agreement from a more primal element.
The Minister still stood stiffly.
His shadow stretched long across the floor, trembling with the movement of the flames.
"I also bring a personal message," he continued, his voice dropping slightly, showing sincere deference.
"His Majesty the King sends his personal congratulations to you, and of course, to Young Master Noel."
The ancient man in the wheelchair merely gave a slow nod. A barely perceptible acknowledgment. He accepted the King's congratulations as if it were a simple matter of course.
His presence was so ancient that the title of 'King' felt like a new generation arriving late.
The old man's gaze shifted from the Minister back to the dancing flames.
"This is the 'Year of Calamity'," he whispered, his hoarse voice carrying clearly in the quiet room.
"According to the Dark Star Calendar. One full cycle. Once every five hundred years."
The Minister seemed to hold his breath, the shoulders of his damp coat growing more rigid, as if bracing against the unseen weight of those words.
A subtle trace of fear passed over his face before he firmed his posture.
"The sky outside tonight," the old man continued,
"Is only the beginning. The weather will worsen for several years. Harvests will fail. The seas will rage. Darkness will seek a foothold."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
The room seemed to shrink, pulling everyone into that central point of tension.
"With Noel... a new Aksesa born from the Sanjaya womb..." His ancient eyes moved, pinning the Minister once more.
"...The Kingdom of Carta, in this difficult period, will have new support. New strength."
Just as the sentence ended—
KRA-KAAABOOOM!
A bolt of thunder exploded directly over the mansion.
The sound was like a giant's hammer striking the sky.
Not a rumble, but a deafening blast that shook the very foundations. The ancient windowpanes rattled violently in their frames, and the fire in the hearth flared wildly for a moment, blowing a puff of ash onto the rug.
The scent of burnt ash mixed with the damp, stormy air, creating a sharp smell that stung the nose.
The other people in the room flinched, like puppets whose strings were suddenly yanked, but the Minister and the ancient man did not move. They merely stared at each other in the tense silence, as the last echoes of the sky's fury slowly faded.
Their stillness felt like its own form of power—the calm of two figures long familiar with great threats.
The vibrations from the massive thunderclap slowly subsided, leaving a charged silence in the room. The fire settled.
The shadows, which had been thrown into chaos, returned to their gentle rhythm.
The Minister straightened his back, his voice now taking on a cold formality, as if reporting in a war council.
"The official documents have been delivered to your head butler," he said to the ancient man.
"They contain an official decree from His Majesty the King. As ordered, the Ministry of Security will provide full, unconditional support to the Sanjaya Family to face this 'Dark Period'."
He paused, his gaze shifting to the fire, as if gathering his thoughts.
The flames reflected in his eyes, giving the impression he was staring into the face of a turbulent future.
"Personally," he continued, his voice slightly lower,
"I have reopened the old archives stored in the royal library related to the previous Dark Star Calendar cycles."
His face seemed to harden in the firelight.
"I will not pretend. The records... are grim. I dare not be overly optimistic."
He looked back at the old man, his eyes showing a cold resolve.
"But I assure you, Sir. Myself and the entire Department of Non-Material Investigations will fight with all our strength. Realistically. Whatever is needed, we will provide."
The ancient man in the wheelchair listened without interruption. He just stared into the fire, his ancient eyes seemingly seeing those same archival records within the flames.
The firelight carved the old lines on his face, highlighting an age no longer measured in human time.
"Optimism is a luxury for those who have never seen a true winter," the old man hissed, not looking away from the flames.
"We do not need your optimism, Minister. We simply require the full support of the Kingdom of Carta. There... your 'realistic' strength will soon be tested."
The old man's words hung in the heavy air, heavier than the storm outside.
It was as if the room itself understood that an ancient declaration had just been made.
It was not a threat. It was a brutal fact. A fact that placed the weight of the entire kingdom squarely on his damp shoulders.
The words felt like a physical weight, pressing on his bones and muscles.
The Minister felt that pressure physically. His cold, damp greatcoat suddenly felt like lead armor pressing his shoulders down. The air in the room seemed tothicken, making it difficult to draw a deep breath.
Each breath felt like swallowing stones.
He thought of the dusty archives he'd read in his safe office, under the bright glow of an electric lamp. Back then, the 'Dark Period' was just a historical concept, a cycle of disaster recorded neatly on dry parchment.
But now, in this sacred place, that history felt alive—manifested in the breath and words of a man who seemed older than the kingdom.
Now, here, in this ancient mansion, before a man older than history itself, the 'Dark Period' was a living, breathing reality.
A threat no longer to be debated, only to be faced.
He knew, as he stood there, that sleep would never again be a place of rest. Starting tonight. Every report that landed on his desk, every late-night call, every weather anomaly, would be the potential start of a catastrophe. He would never sleep soundly again.
The tension took root in him like an old tree's roots breaking a foundation.
And not just him.
He imagined His Majesty the King in his magnificent palace, staring out his gilded bedroom window, listening to the same storm. Even a king would be restless every night. Because the king knew what was at stake.
A vision of the grand palace, lit by lightning, flashed in his head—an image of power that seemed small before a primordial cycle.
For thousands of years, while the world outside burned with war or collapsed from plague, the Kingdom of Carta had endured.
Not because of its armies or its gold. But because of them—because of the Sanjaya Family.
Because of the power hidden in old rooms just like this one.
They were the kingdom's secret key. They were the unseen fortress, the ancient antidote that always reappeared every five hundred years. And in this Dark Period, the fate of millions once again depended on what happened within the walls of this grim mansion.
And that night, the silence in the room seemed to bear silent witness to the beginning of a cycle no one was ready to face.
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