The nebula was alive with static. Blue plasma currents crackled across the viewports, painting ghostly light across the bridge of Indraprastha. The crew clung to their stations, half blind without proper sensors.
But Ashoka's focus was on the shadow drifting beside them—an enormous warship, older than empires, its hull scorched by centuries yet still intact. Jagged runes lined its surface, glowing faintly as if the nebula itself was breathing life into it.
"By the stars…" whispered Aira. "That's not a ship. That's a fortress."
Before Ashoka could respond, the comms erupted in a deep, resonant voice. Not mechanical. Not entirely human either.
"Who trespasses in the graveyard of Orion?"
The crew froze. Static filled the air like a storm cloud. Ashoka stepped forward, calm but commanding.
"This is Captain Ashoka of the Indraprastha. We seek not to defile your domain, but to restore what has been forgotten."
Silence followed. Then, the voice boomed again, layered with echoes of a thousand long-dead commanders.
"Many have come. All sought power. All fell to ruin. Why should you be different?"
Ashoka's fists clenched behind his back. This was the moment. If he faltered, the ancient AI would crush them like dust.
"I don't seek to rule with forgotten relics," he said steadily. "I seek to build a future where my people can stand against the tyrants and the scavengers who plague the stars. If your fleet lies in silence forever, its sacrifice means nothing. Let me wield it—and your legacy will live."
The bridge went dark. Systems flickered, screens scrambled, as if the ancient ship was testing Indraprastha's heart.
"Captain," Aira whispered nervously. "Our power grid—something's interfacing with us."
Suddenly, a hologram filled the center of the bridge—a figure clad in armor of light, face hidden beneath a helmet carved with the Orion crest.
"You speak of legacy… but can you bear its weight?"
The hologram raised a hand, and the crew felt a crushing pressure sweep over them—memories, visions of endless wars, fleets burning, entire worlds falling to ash. Ashoka alone stood firm, gritting his teeth as the images seared his mind.
"I will not break," he said through clenched jaw. "If suffering is the cost of power, then I will carry it—for them."
The pressure eased. The hologram regarded him in silence. Then, slowly, it lowered its hand.
"Then the Ghost Fleet shall awaken."
Outside, the derelicts around them shuddered. Lights flickered to life on the ancient hulls. Engines coughed sparks after centuries of silence. One by one, the dead warships stirred like titans rising from a slumber.
The Gravekeepers pursuing Indraprastha came into view—and froze as their prey was suddenly backed by an entire forgotten armada.
Ashoka's eyes burned with purpose. "Signal the fleet. We march for war."
The nebula lit up as the Ghost Fleet roared awake, its cannons charging with ancient fire, ready to carve a new destiny into the stars.