The hangar bay roared to life for the first time in years.
Ancient steel groaned as hydraulic arms unfurled across the launch deck. Dust-covered consoles sparked awake. Turret rails rotated with stuttering motions, and half a dozen engineers—old veterans and salvaged service bots—scrambled to clear the launch path.
Ashoka stood at the base of Vajra-One, the last operational royal strike craft of House Suryaansh.
Unlike modern cruisers dripping with ornament and AI indulgence, Vajra-One was built for war: compact, deadly, layered in grav-plated armor with a rare VishnuDrive reactor humming at its core. She had served his ancestors in the solar campaigns, once flew through plasma storms, and even bore the scars of the AI Earth Rebellion.
Now, she would rise again—with Ashoka at the helm.
He climbed the side ramp, boots echoing as the interior lit up blue, golden glyphs scrolling across its obsidian panels.
"Pilot recognized. Lord Ashoka Dev Rana. Weapon systems arming. Shield array charging. Launch bay clearance requested."
Aranyaka's voice rang crisp in his neural HUD.
Ashoka settled into the command cradle, gripping the twin control arcs as the cockpit sealed shut. His breath slowed. His heartbeat synced with the pulse of the reactor. Everything felt sharper now. Focused.
"Open bay doors," he ordered. "Route secondary power to frontal plasma rails."
"Confirming... Opening launch gates. External pressure stable. Nyros vessel approaching low orbit."
The hangar roof peeled back, revealing the storm-ridden sky. Lightning danced across the clouds like warning sigils from the gods.
Ashoka stared up.
And launched.
With a deafening burst of energy, Vajra-One rocketed into the air, leaving the ground behind in a blur of speed and fire. Buildings became specks. The citadel, a fading dot. Aryavrat's atmosphere peeled away as he broke through the cloud layer, into the silent black.
And there—like a predator stalking the stars—floated the enemy dreadnought.
Nyros's Black Maw.
A jagged beast of a ship, shaped like a blade with wings, bristling with turrets, ion cannons, and armor stolen from half the fringe colonies. It looked like death made of metal.
"Incoming hail," Aranyaka said. "Nyros himself."
Ashoka smirked. "Let's hear the coward."
The comm cracked, and a gravelly, mocking voice filled the cockpit.
"So the little prince plays pilot now. Your father begged. Will you?"
Ashoka leaned forward, voice ice-cold. "I'm not my father. And I don't beg."
He cut the transmission.
The time for words was over.
"Target core turrets. Launch stingers. Engage stealth drift on my mark."
"Acknowledged."
Vajra-One darted forward, veering through the upper defense screen like a phantom. Explosive drones—named Stingers—uncloaked and split formation, targeting weak points along the dreadnought's lower belly.
Ashoka spun into a hard barrel roll, dodging twin ion blasts that scorched past him like bolts of hellfire. He gritted his teeth. No room for mistakes.
The enemy ship reacted slower than expected—too confident.
"Dreadnought hull is outdated. Primary vent arrays exposed. One clean shot could detonate the coolant core," Aranyaka noted.
Ashoka narrowed his eyes. "Then let's make history."
He broke formation, dipped beneath the cruiser's underbelly, and climbed vertically—pulling a maneuver his ancestors dubbed The Spear of Indra.
He locked onto the vent array.
Fired.
A burst of cerulean plasma sliced through the belly of the beast—and for a moment, nothing happened.
Then the Black Maw cracked with internal explosions. Fire burst from the undercarriage. A secondary reactor ruptured. Half the ship tilted off balance, spinning into lower orbit with chaos erupting on its decks.
Ashoka whooped, once. A sound of raw, defiant joy.
"Critical damage inflicted. Enemy weapons disabled. Retreat trajectory detected."
The pirates were fleeing. He could chase them. Finish it.
But Ashoka turned the Vajra-One back toward Aryavrat.
This wasn't about vengeance. Not now.
It was about message.
House Suryaansh still stands.
---
As he descended through the clouds, the storm finally broke.
Light pierced through—soft, golden, warm.
It touched the palace spires, the ruined domes, the ravaged city. And just for a second, Ashoka imagined what Aryavrat could become again: radiant, free, proud.
He landed to cheers from militia, engineers, and even the servant-bots who had been watching from the towers.
He didn't bask in it.
He walked straight to the command room, called up planetary schematics, and opened the industrial revival protocols.
"Aranyaka," he said, voice steady, powerful now.
"Start the blueprint scans. We rebuild the fleet. Expand the shipyards. And summon all remaining lords and vassals."
"Initiating Operation Solar Reign."
Ashoka smiled, eyes burning with renewed fire.
The prince was gone.
A ruler had risen.