The chaos lasted for several tense minutes. The voices of Generals shouting at each other and the frantic cries of analysts filled the grand hall.
Their echoes bounced off the high ceiling, mixing with the hurried clicks of satellite phones and the scrape of heavy wooden chairs being shoved unintentionally.
But on the stage, Professor Rajendra waited.
His thin body stood straight as an ancient pillar, unshaken by the human storm churning beneath him.
He did not shout "QUIET!"
He did not rap on the podium.
He simply stood still, his ancient eyes watching the panic with a cold patience.
That unmoving gaze was like an invisible hand holding the entire room back from collapsing.
And his silence was louder than any scream.
Slowly, one by one, the officials realized the singular authority in the room. The Minister of Security was the first to signal the Generals to silence. The Minister of Spirituality sat up straight. The analysts in the left wing closed their phones.
The panic receded like a wave realizing it stood before a mountain.
The hall fell silent again, now heavy with the shame of losing control, and a fear far deeper than before.
Professor Rajendra stared at them. Finally, he spoke again. At length.
"You panic," he said softly,
"Because you imagine the gates of hell opening and armies of demons pouring out. No. That is not what happens. At least, not at the beginning."
The audience did not blink. They did not allow a single word to escape them.
Their shoulders rigid, hands that were previously busy now hardened on the tables.
"What is recorded in the Dark Star Calendar from 500 years ago," Rajendra continued,
"Is not an invasion. It is a fog."
He moved his thin hand through the air, as if sweeping away something invisible.
The small gesture seemed to draw something only believers could see.
"A spiritual pollution. A creeping mist that seeps from the cracks in Mirror Canyon on November 1st. A fog invisible to the eye, but felt by the soul."
He pointed to a General in the front row.
"It will not kill your soldiers with swords. It will creep into your barracks and turn loyalty into paranoia. It will make your soldiers see friends as enemies."
He looked at the Minister of Economy.
"It will touch your markets, not with fire, but with fear. It will trigger mass panic, hoarding, and civil riots over a piece of bread."
The Royal Scribes recorded every word with their brushes, their faces pale.
Drops of ink fell faster than usual, as if their hands rushed to keep pace with the written threat.
"This fog," Rajendra continued,
"Will poison the land. Harvests will fail. Animals will go mad and aggressive. And worst of all... it will affect those with weak souls. Triggering plagues of madness, nightmares made manifest, and inexplicable violence."
He spoke for hours.
His tone was steady, like someone who had rehearsed this dark lesson for a lifetime.
He no longer used the compass. He opened ancient files. He detailed the "Dry Death Plague" of the year 2500. He read direct accounts from the "Thirty Night War," where three great noble families slaughtered each other to extinction—not over power, but due to an epidemic of paranoia triggered by that "Fog."
The rustle of ancient pages turning felt more terrifying than the shouting of generals moments before.
The officials dared not blink. They dared not look away. This was the most terrifying and important lecture of their lives. They no longer saw an old professor; they saw the only man holding the map for survival.
In their eyes, Rajendra was not just a scientist—he was the keeper of the last torch before the darkness.
Professor Rajendra explained the ancient protocols. Total quarantine of Mirror Canyon. Activation of the Border Temples to perform water and soil purification rituals. The formation of the "Burning Corps" to handle victims of the madness plague.
Finally, the light in the hall's high windows began to dim. The golden afternoon sun turned orange, then faded to purple.
Long shadows crept across the marble floor, marking time running out.
The afternoon was finally over.
Professor Rajendra closed his last book. The soft thud of the old leather cover closing sounded like a verdict.
Its vibration echoed subtly, colder than any warning.
"Your task is clear," he said, his voice weary but firm.
There was a subtle bitterness at the edge of his words—an honesty audible only to the sensitive.
"The Ministry of Security will close Mirror Canyon—seal it tight. Other ministries will manage civil panic and logistics. As of today, the Kingdom of Carta is officially in a state of highest emergency."
He looked at them one last time.
His gaze swept the room like the final stamp on a historical decision.
"Meeting adjourned."
Professor Rajendra closed his notes. The hall remained silent.
The MC's voice broke the gripping silence, sounding hoarse and slightly trembling. He was clearly shaken.
His formal tone cracked, unable to withstand his internal shock.
"Th... Thank you," he cleared his throat, trying to regain his professional composure.
"Our deepest gratitude to The Honorable Professor Rajendra, Professor of Ancient History and Spirituality, for the enlightenment... and direction."
"The next agenda item is dinner," the MC announced, his voice sounding hollow.
The double doors at the back of the hall were opened by palace servants, revealing a luxurious banquet hall. A grand banquet and buffet had been prepared. Long tables were laden with silver platters of the finest roast meats, steamed fish, dozens of intricate appetizers, and artistic desserts.
Hot steam still rose from the dishes, yet the delicious aroma now felt out of place, like party music played in the middle of a funeral.
The rich smell of food should have been appetizing.
But not tonight.
The luxurious feast remained untouched.
The high officials of the Kingdom of Carta—generals, ministers, and intelligence analysts—had lost their appetites.
Their faces were tense, some pale, some blank, as if their bodies were present but their minds were left far behind in the threat they had just learned of.
They didn't move toward the buffet. They just sat at the round tables scattered across the hall. Many of them didn't even sit. They stood in small, tense groups, speaking into their satellite phones in hushed, urgent voices.
Rapid, coded tones, breathless—as if they were holding the breath of the world.
On the tables, there were only glasses of pitch-black coffee or water. They were buried in files and laptop screens, already initiating emergency measures.
Meanwhile, at one of the round tables in the corner of the room, the scene was a stark contrast.
Professor Rajendra sat there. Alone.
His figure appeared calm, surrounded by the silent commotion—like a rock undisturbed by crashing waves.
In front of him was a plate piled high. He was eating. Calmly, he cut a piece of roast chicken thigh and brought it to his mouth. He ate voraciously, slurping his warm asparagus soup as if it were an ordinary dinner.
Every movement was orderly and relaxed, as if his body knew: calm is part of preparation.
Moments later, his old friend, the Minister of Spirituality, walked across the room, past the panicked officials.
His steps were steady, carrying the burden of knowledge without panic.
He also carried a large portion. A mountain of rice, meat, and vegetables.
He sat in the empty chair opposite Professor Rajendra.
He said nothing about the meeting. He didn't complain about the crisis. He just gave a brief nod to his best friend.
A nod that was more than a greeting—an acknowledgment that they both understood what was coming.
Then, he picked up his spoon and began to eat voraciously as well. They both knew: to face the long nights ahead, they needed strength.
In the midst of global panic, these two old men did the sanest thing possible: refueling before a long war.