Chaos in the world
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The world moved in its usual rhythm, each life absorbed in its tiny, ordinary orbit. Footsteps overlapped on crowded streets, voices tangled in conversation, families sat around tables pretending to enjoy their meals, and sonic trains shot through their underground tunnels like veins of light.
And then—
BOOOOOOOOOM.
THUNDER. THUNDER.
A deafening blast ripped through the sky, followed by lightning so violent it felt like the heavens were tearing apart. In the next heartbeat, everything froze.
Not slowed.
Not stunned.
Frozen.
A jogger's foot hovered mid-step.
A cat paused with her tongue still pressed to her fur.
A couple in the middle of an argument stood petrified, faces twisted in unfinished anger.
Even the drivers of sonic trains—hands on controls—went still, unblinking, unmoving.
It was as if some unseen hand had pressed the world's pause button.
For a few long, impossible moments, humanity forgot how to breathe.
When they finally blinked, when their muscles loosened just enough to tremble, chaos burst open in every direction.
Old people collapsed where they stood, their hearts unable to withstand the shock.
Trains, running without their frozen pilots, derailed mid-route, smashing through tunnels in metallic screams.
Accidents erupted across cities. Panic clawed its way into the streets.
As if this was not enough.
People began to realise their loved ones were missing.
Vanished.
Names were shouted. Phones rang unanswered.
Mothers searched bedrooms.
Children cried for parents who had vanished between one heartbeat and the next.
A strange, suffocating kind of chaos spread—
not the chaos of destruction, but the chaos of absence.
Through it all, one thing stood out in a terrible, eerie way: not a single world leader made a statement. No broadcast, no emergency message, no order for calm.
As if the people ruling the world had far more important matters to handle.
. . . . . . .
Somewhere in Antarctica
Far from the fear gripping the world, hidden beneath the ice, a secret base hummed with cold precision.
Deep under one of the main buildings, a chamber pulsed softly with electric blue light. At its center stood a round metallic table surrounded by six empty chairs. Above three of them, shimmering blue holograms formed vague human shapes—faces blurred, identities concealed.
Each seat bore a symbol representing a continent's ruling power:
a lion for Hindvarthya,
an eastern dragon for the Huaxia Empire,
a falcon for Ameriork,
and others carved with the same silent authority.
"It has begun," said the figure seated above the lion.
The falcon answered, voice low. "Let's hope the plan stays intact."
"We can only put our trust in them," said the dragon.
Their tones carried the weight of something vast, something far more complicated than the world's chaos suggested.
. . . . . . .
Near Gangotri Dham, Uttarakhand
The giant man had left Hira near the inn—just a few steps away—before continuing down the path. As the giant walked, a faint wisp of energy drifted from his body, spiraling gently before wrapping itself around Hira's unconscious form like a quiet promise.
He lay motionless on the cold ground, right outside the old inn.
The wooden signboard hanging at the entrance read Prakriti Niwas. The same place Yash and Hira had stayed the night before they climbed into the mountains.
Inside, the inn was frozen in time.
A single lantern flickered, casting weak light over a dining table where two plates of fresh food still waited. Across from them, the old couple who ran the inn lay sprawled on the floor—lifeless or unconscious, hard to tell.
Outside, the sky shifted. And without warning, it began to snow.
Flake by flake, the wind carried the cold white toward Hira, settling gently on his clothes, mixing with the dust and dirt clinging to his body. Slowly, a thin shroud of white formed over him—a blanket of snow and silence.
…
A month later, a group of men in army uniforms arrived at the inn. They moved with military precision, boots crunching on the frozen ground.
Inside, they found the couple's corpses, half-rotten after a month. Food still sat untouched on the plates, completely rotten.
One of the men knelt beside the bodies.
"Sir, they didn't survive the first day of energy assimilation," he reported through the omnione bracelet.
"Record it and move on," came the reply.
"Should we check the surroundings? We might find him."
"If he wasn't teleported, he belongs to the trash category. Leave him. Search the next site."
"Yes, sir."
They left without hesitation.
Outside, unnoticed under a thin crust of snow and dust, lay Hira unmoving—still alive, though barely. The energy wrapped around him pulsed faintly… keeping him breathing.
. . . . . . .
Six months later
In half a year, the land transformed around the inn.
Vegetation sprouted unnaturally fast. Trees grew taller than they should, their leaves thick and glossy. Vines pushed through the inn's windows.
The snow seemed to melt faster under shafts of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
A little distance from the inn, a human hand protruded from the snow—still, pale, lifeless.
Then the fingers twitched.
A faint movement… almost too small to notice.
. . . . . . .
Why am I breathing so hard?
No… why am I even breathing?
Didn't I die in that landslide?
What is this heaviness around me?
This cold… This feels like… snow?
I tried opening my eyes, but they were sealed shut, heavy as iron. My body wouldn't move. Panic surged, but I forced myself to stay still and think.
I gathered every drop of strength I had.
CRACK.
The frozen layer around me split as I pushed upward.
With one last desperate heave, I broke through, gasping at the sudden rush of freezing air.
My head jerked to the side, and I saw it—snow everywhere, stretching into the distance. My lower body was still trapped, half-buried in ice. The world glowed faintly under the weak sunlight.
The trees stood unnaturally tall. Their leaves rustled without wind. I felt something else too—a strange presence, watching me from somewhere unseen.
My mind lagged behind my senses. Nothing seemed real.
As I tried to piece together how I ended up here, my eyes landed on a building in the distance. Old vines hung from its walls. The signboard dangled crookedly from rusted chains.
Prakriti Niwas.
The moment I read the name, everything clicked in my mind.
So it wasn't a dream.
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A.N.- 'TAMAS' MEANS COSMIC DISORDER OR CHAOS.