The sky shattered right overhead.
The rain roared without pause, as if the heavens were trying to drown the world below. The deserted asphalt street had turned into a rippling black mirror, reflecting the night's darkness. The air felt heavy and wet, pressing down on every flooded surface.
Then, lightning struck.
The bluish-white light tore through the darkness, freezing the scene in a single, ghastly photograph. In that frozen instant, the world seemed lifeless—as if time itself had stumbled over the light. For that silent split second, they were visible.
Two sharp beams of light pierced the curtain of water. A luxury sedan—jet black, long, and gleaming wet—glided smoothly to the roadside. Its movement was so smooth, almost silent, as if its engine merely whispered amidst the storm's fury. Its body reflected the rain like living obsidian glass.
Right behind it, two dark SUVs also stopped, maintaining their distance with stiff precision. Their dim headlights illuminated the sedan in front, creating a small, surreal stage in the midst of the storm. The procession looked like a mechanical ritual memorized by the night.
The convoy was now stock-still.
There was no sound of car doors opening. No shouted commands or hurried footsteps of boots on gravel. Their arrival was cloaked in an odd silence, a man-made stillness that felt thicker than the roar of the rain itself.
The atmosphere was so controlled, as if the storm wasn't important enough to disturb their discipline.
They just waited. Three large metal shadows in the middle of the night.
Lightning flashed again, farther away this time. The light was just enough to reveal their menacing silhouettes. Seconds later, the thunder finally answered—a heavy, rolling boom from the distance, like a giant just awakening.
The thunder arrived late, rolling in slowly like a deliberately delivered threat.
But down below, at the roadside, nothing moved. Only silence and three pairs of headlights staring straight into the darkness.
The roar of the rain was instantly muffled as the luxury sedan's door opened—opened by a bodyguard already standing guard.
In a perfectly coordinated split second, two large black umbrellas unfurled in unison, overlapping above the door, creating an instant dome that repelled the storm. Their movements were so synchronized they seemed like a single organism.
A middle-aged man, wrapped in a long, dark overcoat, stepped out. Rain briefly spattered the round leather hat that shaded his face. He didn't pause for a second.
His stride was steady yet burdened, as if carrying something heavier than his wet coat.
Surrounded by the efficiently moving fortress of umbrellas, the man shot across the wet lawn toward the towering main door of the mansion. The black-suited bodyguards moved around him like synchronized shadows.
Every step was bound to the same rhythm: fast, silent, and leaving no room for doubt.
This was the Old Sanjaya Family Mansion. A monument to old wealth that now looked terrifying in the middle of the night.
Its old stone walls looked even grimmer as the rain battered them, like an old giant holding its breath.
The giant oak door opened without a sound just as the small entourage reached the terrace, revealing an entryway lit by only a single dim chandelier. The air inside felt stiff and cold, carrying the faint scent of lemon wood polish and ancient dust, unnaturally quiet.
The silence within was like a vacuum—sucking away the storm's echo before it could cross the threshold. As if the mansion's thick walls not only held back the storm, but also muffled life itself.
An elderly man in a stiff, flawless butler's suit already stood ramrod straight there. His face was calm, as if receiving an important guest at a late hour during a storm was a boring routine.
His posture was perfectly erect, almost resembling a living statue placed there to defy the storm.
"Welcome, Mr. Minister," the Head Butler greeted, his voice quiet but clear, not wavering with the thunder that still occasionally rumbled outside.
"Please follow me."
The bodyguards remained silent at the threshold, letting the Minister's overcoat drip rainwater onto the expensive rug. He could feel the cold of the marble through the soles of his shoes, a sharp contrast to the dampness of his clothes.
The sensation forced him to focus—the mix of outside cold and sterile indoor air was like a subtle rebuke from the mansion itself.
The Minister merely gave a short nod, removing his wet hat. His jaw tightened for a moment as he handed it to a servant who emerged from the shadows, his eyes fixed straight on the Butler, as if demanding an answer even before asking.
The look was sharp, full of urgency held back by civility.
The Butler turned.
They both began to walk. There were only two pairs of footsteps—the Minister's leather shoes and Butler's nearly soundless soles—echoing in the long marble corridor.
The echo of their steps sounded like the opening beats of a ritual that had gone on for centuries.
Tap... tap... tap...
The sound bounced between the high walls, passing portraits of the Sanjaya Ancestors who stared blankly into the silence.
The eyes in the paintings seemed to follow, creating the illusion that the ancestors were watching tonight's guest with ancient interest.
The echo of their isolated footsteps suddenly stopped. The long corridor felt even more suffocating.
The air in the hallway seemed to hold its breath, as if it too were watching the moment to come.
The Minister did not look at the butler, his gaze was lost on a silent metal statue, on its pedestal was written 77th Sanjaya Patriarch, known in history as the King's Spear.
The statue reflected the dim light with a cold steel gleam, giving the impression that the ancestral figure was still standing guard.
His fingers, hidden in his overcoat pocket, clenched unconsciously, but his voice was low and tense, almost muffled by the roar of the rain outside.
"Was the ritual successful?"
The Head Butler stood straight, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.
His posture didn't change in the slightest, as if trained not to show doubt in front of anyone.
"A slight disturbance, as usual, Mr. Minister," he replied flatly, as if reporting on the wine stock.
"Nothing that was beyond control. Young Master Noel Sanjaya completed the ritual to the end properly."
The air that seemed trapped in the Minister's chest finally escaped. His shoulders, stiff beneath his heavy, damp overcoat, seemed to drop slightly. He nodded slowly, more to himself than to the butler.
The relief that came was not shown overtly, but it was visible in his slowly lengthening breath.
They had arrived in front of a set of towering double doors, made of dark mahogany.
The door's surface gleamed softly, asserting its age and perfect care—a symbol that the room behind it held something not for the public.
The Head Butler stepped forward, grasped one of the cold brass handles, and pushed it open slowly. The door opened without the slightest creak.
His movement was precise, calculated, and full of respect.
"Please enter, Mr. Minister."
From the slightly open crack of the door, warm light radiated, contrasting with the cold, dim corridor. Inside was a large room—it seemed to be a library or a study.
The scent of old books, burnt wood from the fireplace, and a faint aroma of almost-stale tea hung thinly in the air.
Several people were visible inside. They weren't gathered, but sat randomly; a man on a velvet sofa stared at the burning fireplace, two women sat in chairs far apart, one holding a cold teacup with a slightly trembling hand, another man just stood silently near the large, rain-lashed window, the trace of his breath fogging the dark, drenched glass.
They all looked exhausted, as if they had just passed a heavy ordeal.
Their faces were pale and tense, each person lost in their own thoughts, overshadowed by an uncertainty that still clung like a long shadow.
The Minister took a deep breath, steeling himself, then stepped over the threshold.
His steps sounded heavier as he entered the warm room—as if the more comfortable temperature made his mental burden feel more real.
As soon as the heel of his shoe left the corridor's marble floor, the Head Butler immediately pulled the door tightly shut behind him. The soft click of the locking mechanism echoed for a moment, then silence.
The click sounded like a subtle seal separating two worlds—the one outside and the one within.
The Minister was now inside the room, cut off from the outside world.
The mahogany door closed with a soft, final click, sealing the Minister inside the room with the people waiting there.
The silence afterward was so dense that the crackling fireplace sounded like a coarse whisper.
The Head Butler was now alone in the long, dim corridor. Thunder boomed again outside, closer this time, its sound like a crack in the sky.
The flash of lightning from a distant window made his shadow stretch across the floor, giving his silhouette an almost inhuman aura.
He did not move immediately.
Just before the Minister stepped over the threshold, one of the black-suited bodyguards who had been silent at the doorway—the man closest to him—had taken a step forward.
Without a word, he offered a thin leather folder. The Butler accepted it with the same efficient and reverent gesture.
The movement was fast, smooth, and made no sound—a coordination that only comes from years of practice.
Now, in the silence of the corridor, the Butler looked down, staring at the folder in his hand.
His old arm remained steady, while his gaze lowered slowly with an almost haunting calm.
The folder was stiff and cold, made of high-quality black leather that still felt damp from the storm's air. On its front cover, an embossed logo gleamed faintly in the dim wall light:
An owl with wary eyes, its talons gripping a branch.
Its metallic embossing reflected the light for a moment, giving the impression that the owl was watching back.
Below the emblem, clearly engraved in silver capital letters:
MINISTRY OF SECURITY
DEPARTMENT OF NON-MATERIAL INVESTIGATION
KINGDOM OF CARTA
The Head Butler held the state-secret document as if it were just a common silver tray.
His face remained flat, but the meticulousness of his hands depicted a respect that had been ingrained long before he was born.
Expressionless, he turned around. His single, muffled footsteps now sounded, moving away from the double doors, back down the long corridor, toward the deeper shadows within the mansion.
Tap... tap... tap...
That sound was the only rhythm in the vast corridor. The Head Butler's footsteps sounded sharp on the cold marble floor, bouncing from wall to wall, creating an echo that seemed to follow him like a second shadow.
The rhythm was regular, like the ticking of an old clock still faithfully working in a house full of history.
Outside, the storm reached its peak.
A bolt of lightning struck, so close it turned the high windows in the hallway into blinding white frames.
In an instant, the light split the darkness and highlighted every detail of the marble, the fine dust, and the shadows—as if the mansion was revealing its true face.
For a split second, the dozens of ancestral Sanjaya portraits on the walls seemed to come alive, their painted eyes appearing to glare in shock, not at the storm, but at the black leather folder in the Butler's hand.
As if recognizing the modern seal that represented the ancient power they served.
The glint in the painted eyes, reflected by the lightning, seemed to blink—creating the illusion that the past generations had never truly left.
Silence.
Then the thunder roared, no longer from a distance, but right over the mansion's roof. The sound was a deep, vibrating roar, enough to make the marble floor beneath the Butler's feet tremble slightly, as if the ancient foundations of the building itself were shaking against the sky's wrath.
The rumbling sound rolled on, penetrating the hallway and reinforcing the impression that the storm was not just weather—but an omen of something larger.
The Head Butler was not startled. His pace did not falter by a single millimeter.
His steadfastness formed a sharp contrast to the raging nature; like two forces that had long understood each other's boundaries.
Tap... tap... tap...
"The Kingdom of Carta's Ministry of Security has just arrived...." He muttered.
The tone of the mumble was low and layered with meaning, like repeating a sentence whose answer he had already known since the beginning of the night.
He continued walking, the leather folder in his hand feeling increasingly stiff and cold.
He had served the Sanjaya Family all his life, just like his father, and his grandfather. And the Sanjaya Family, like other old families, had served the Kingdom of Carta forever.
That sense of loyalty was so ingrained it seemed less like a duty and more like an identity.
To most people in this modern era, the Kingdom of Carta was a name on a map, a constitutional monarchy with a grand parliament building and a busy stock exchange.
But for those who lived at the core of power, the kingdom was like layers of history that never truly faded.
But for those who knew—those who lived within walls this thick, or those who managed the "Department of Non-Material Investigation"—the Kingdom of Carta was something else entirely.
Something older, quieter, and deeper than just a government.
The Kingdom of Carta was history itself.
These mansion walls had watched powers come and go like seasons. Hundreds of years ago, dukes fought over the throne. Great dynasties rose from the ashes and then crumbled back into dust. Great wars had redrawn borders, alliances had been formed in blood and betrayed for gold. Plagues had emptied cities, and fires had consumed palaces.
All those memories seemed to still whisper from the cracks in the mansion's old stones, a reminder that history is never truly silent.
Power had fallen and risen time and time again.
And yet, the Kingdom of Carta remained. And his family's duty was to ensure that did not change.
As if an ancient promise bound every generation to keep the crown upright, even as the world outside changed form.
When other kingdoms in the world were shattered by revolution or faded into forgotten footnotes, the Kingdom of Carta endured. It adapted. It continued to stand tall, challenging time itself.
The kingdom's strength was not a brightly burning fire, but an ember that never died—silent, stable, and loyal.
In modern times, it hid its true power behind a façade of bureaucracy, technology, and free markets. Ministers came and went, economies rose and fell, but the ancient foundation of the kingdom—the foundation guarded by rituals in the middle of stormy nights, by families like the Sanjayas, and by a secret ministry with the emblem of an owl—never wavered.
There was an invisible weave that nurtured this stability, its threads tight and not easily unraveled.
That was Carta's true strength. Not in its armies, but in its secrets.
Tap... tap... tap...
The Head Butler finally reached the end of the corridor. He turned into a narrower, darker passage, toward the servants' wing, where the hidden archives were kept.
The passage narrowed like the throat of the old building, leading anyone who passed through it into the depths where the past was stored.
The leather folder in his hand was one more small thread being woven into the giant tapestry of the Kingdom of Carta's history.
He felt it—not as a burden, but as part of a grand pattern that had existed long before him.
And tonight, that thread had just been pulled taut.
A subtle tug that might change the shape of the tapestry forever, even if no one in this mansion dared to say it aloud.
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