The morning air in Gorkha carried the scent of damp earth and the distant, biting chill of the Ganesh Himal. Inside the stone-walled meeting hall of the palace, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension. Flickering diyos (oil lamps) cast long, dancing shadows across the faces of two people who looked as though they had been summoned to witness a miracle—or a trial.
Hari Lal, the newly minted Minister of Agriculture, nervously rubbed his calloused palms against his linen daura. Beside him, Gita Nanda, the Minister of Health, kept her eyes fixed on the mahogany table, her fingers tracing the hem of her shawl.
In the center of the room stood Crown Prince Dorna. To the ministers, he was their royal sovereign, a visionary leader. But in Dorna's vision, the world was overlaid with a shimmering, translucent grid of data.
"Nexus, display the caloric requirements for the standing army of 10,000," Dorna commanded mentally.
A flickering blue graph, invisible to the others, hovered in his retinas.
[Alert: Current grain reserves will deplete in 4.2 months if mobilization continues at current rates. Probability of famine: 68%.]
Dorna suppressed a grimace. He turned to his ministers, his voice calm but resonant. "Hari Lal, Gita Nanda. You are the architects of our survival. The sword protects the kingdom, but the plow and the potion keep the sword from breaking."
Hari Lal cleared his throat, his voice trembling slightly. "Your Majesty, I have spoken to the village Mukhias. They say the soil is tired. We plant the same millet and rice every season, as our fathers did. The earth gives what it gives. We cannot force the gods to be more generous."
Dorna stepped forward, the Nexus instantly pulling up a 21st-century schematic of the 'Norfolk Four-Course System.'
"We do not need to force the gods, Hari Lal. We need to respect the chemistry of the earth," Dorna said. He took a piece of charcoal and began drawing on a parchment laid across the table. "From this season, we abandon the practice of leaving half the land fallow. Instead, we rotate. In the first field, wheat. In the second, turnips. In the third, barley. In the fourth... clover and beans."
Hari Lal leaned in, squinting. "Clover, My Prince? That is fodder for goats. Why waste royal land on weeds?"
"Because the 'weeds' breathe life back into the dirt," Dorna explained, translating the Nexus's complex data on nitrogen fixation into the language of the 1700s. "These plants have 'invisible roots' that capture the essence of the air and trap it in the soil. By the time you plant wheat there again, the earth will be as rich as a virgin forest. We will not just feed the army; we will have enough to trade with the Tibetans for silver."
The Nexus pulsed a soft green light in Dorna's mind—a sign of the Minister's growing belief.
"And silver is useless if the hands that hold it are rotting," Dorna said, turning his gaze to Gita Nanda.
The woman looked up, her expression a mix of curiosity and fear. "Your Majesty, the fever in the lowlands... the healers say it is a curse from the river spirits. We have offered goats, but the children still waste away."
Dorna's expression softened. This was the hardest part of his "awakening"—knowing that people were dying of things a simple bar of soap or a pot of boiling water could fix.
"Gita, there are no spirits in the water. There are... tiny predators. Creatures so small that a thousand could dance on the head of a needle. They are the 'invisible demons' that cause the gut to fail and the skin to burn."
"Smaller than a needle?" she whispered, horrified.
"Yes. And they hate two things: heat and lye," Dorna stated. "Nexus, highlight the recipe for basic antiseptic."
A list of ingredients—animal fats, wood ash, and lime—scrolled across his vision.
"I am issuing a royal decree," Dorna continued. "Every household in Gorkha must boil their water until it dances in the pot before drinking. Every soldier must wash their hands with ash-soap before touching bread. And you, Gita, will oversee the construction of 'Arogya Shalas'—healing houses—where we will isolate the sick instead of letting them sleep among the healthy."
Gita Nanda looked overwhelmed. "The people will resist, My Prince. They will say you are changing the old ways."
"The old ways are buried in the graveyards," Dorna said, his voice turning to steel. "The new ways will keep them in the fields. Ramnath!"
The butler appeared from the shadows of the doorway as if he had been waiting for the cue. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Arrange for a 'Model Farm' to be established in the royal lands of Suryapur. I want Hari Lal to oversee the first rotation personally. And for the health decree, use the new Police Department. They are not just there to catch thieves; they are there to enforce the hygiene of the state. If a tavern serves unboiled water, it is to be closed. No exceptions."
Ramnath bowed deeply. "It shall be done. The people are already calling the new rank system a 'Heavenly Order.' They will follow, even if they do not understand."
As the ministers filed out, looking energized yet dazed, Dorna walked to the window. He watched a platoon of his newly restructured infantry marching in the courtyard below. They moved with a synchronized rhythm that Gorkha had never seen—a 21st-century discipline grafted onto 18th-century hearts.
"Nexus," Dorna whispered into the silence of the room. "Show me the map of the surrounding territories."
A holographic map projected into the air, glowing blue. To the south lay the fractured principalities of India, where the 'Shadow'—the British East India Company—was beginning to tighten its grip. To the east, the wealthy but decadent Malla Kings of Kathmandu.
[Probability of diplomatic friction with neighboring states: 89%. Recommended Action: Accelerate the production of saltpeter for the Artillery Division.]
Dorna leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the window frame. He was a man out of time, a prince building a future on the bones of a feudal past.
"Let them come," he murmured. "By the time they realize Gorkha has changed, we will be a fortress they cannot climb, and a people they cannot break."
In the corner of his eye, the Nexus flickered. A new objective appeared on his HUD:
[New Quest: The Iron Works. Objective: Locate iron ore deposits in the western hills to begin the Industrial Transition.]
Dorna smiled, a sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes. History was a river, but he was no longer a leaf being carried by the current. He was the dam.