The words hung heavy across the comms: Prepare the Suryastra Protocol.
For many within Ashoka's fleet, the command was legend, whispered about in training halls and strategy chambers. It was said to be a maneuver so daring that it bordered on madness—an ancient design of war, modernized for the void. Few had believed it was real. Now, with the Leviathan looming before them, they understood it was no myth.
On the bridge of the Indraprastha, technicians scrambled, hands racing across glowing consoles as red sigils of readiness blinked to life. Meera, eyes sharp as ever, activated the command locks. "The energy load required will overstrain our cores. If the sequence falters, it could collapse half the fleet."
Ashoka's reply was calm, but his voice carried iron. "Better we burn together than be picked apart one by one."
Arhaan grinned like a wolf on the other channel. "Finally. I was beginning to worry you'd never unleash it."
The formation shifted. From above, it would have looked like the fleet was fracturing, scattering under the weight of the Shadows' numbers. The enemy jeered across comm-lines, broadcasting taunts about Ashoka's cowardice. But within the chaos, a hidden pattern emerged.
Three wings of cruisers aligned into a triangular formation, their energy cores linked by subspace conduits. At the center of this trinity hovered the Indraprastha, glowing brighter with each passing second. The fleet itself became a weapon, their combined energy coalescing into a single devastating strike.
The Shadows noticed too late.
The Leviathan advanced, its crimson weapon pulsing again. This time, it was locked squarely on Ashoka's flagship.
Meera's voice rang out: "Core synchronization at 92%—we're running out of time!"
"Steady," Ashoka commanded. His hands gripped the railing as though holding the universe still. His soldiers felt it through him—the weight of centuries of kings who had defended their people, the fire of ancestors who refused to kneel.
The Leviathan fired.
A beam of scarlet energy streaked through the void, so bright it scarred the blackness of space itself. But in the instant before it struck, Ashoka raised his hand and shouted:
"Now—release the Suryastra!"
From the heart of the formation, the combined might of the fleet roared outward. It was not a missile, nor a beam in the ordinary sense, but a torrent of pure, condensed stellar energy—white-gold and radiant, like the breath of a newborn sun. The two forces collided in the void, red against gold, shadow against fire.
The clash was apocalyptic. Energy storms tore across the battlefield, ripping smaller ships apart whether friend or foe. For a heartbeat, the entire cosmos seemed to shake. Then, with a soundless detonation that lit half the nebula, the Suryastra tore through the Leviathan's weapon and slammed into its hull.
The monstrous ship screamed—if metal could scream—as chunks of its armor sheared off, exploding into fragments that burned like meteors. Entire decks collapsed, and its crimson veins flickered into black. But the beast did not die.
"Direct hit," Meera breathed. "But it's still… moving."
Indeed, though crippled, the Leviathan lumbered forward, its rage palpable. Even wounded, it was a titan among ships, determined to drag Ashoka's fleet into the abyss with it.
Ashoka did not hesitate. "All ships—press the assault. We end this now!"
Like lions scenting blood, the fleet surged. Arhaan's spearhead rammed through the Leviathan's flank, unloading every missile at point-blank range. Darvos and his soldiers led boarding torpedoes directly into the shattered hull, storming the beast from within. The skies became a chaos of fire, steel, and courage.
And in the heart of it all, Ashoka stood like an unshakable mountain, his eyes locked on the dying giant, willing his empire into existence through sheer defiance.
The battle was not yet over. But for the first time, the Shadows knew fear.