The grand chamber of House Zaildar was filled with cold light and colder stares.
Lord Samar Zaildar, a towering figure with silver-streaked hair and venomous eyes, sat atop his throne-like seat. Around him, nobles whispered and schemed, eyes fixed on the hologram floating at the center of the room. It displayed images leaked by Ashoka's own agents—blurred glimpses of towering weapons, sleek new battleships, and cryptic fragments of hybrid technology.
"This... boy dares arm himself beyond the Treaty of Nations?" Samar growled.
"He rebuilds his house while we rot under ancient rules?"
An advisor leaned forward.
"My lord, the other houses grow uneasy. Some whisper of alliance; others speak of a blockade."
Samar's eyes gleamed.
"Good. Let them fear. Let them tighten the noose. And when Aryavrat chokes, we will swoop in and end the Suryaansh line forever."
He snapped his fingers.
"Prepare the fleet. And send a message—summon Ashoka to explain himself before the High Table."
Back in Aryavrat, Ashoka received the summons with icy calm.
Priya slammed the datapad onto his desk.
"This is a trap! They want you isolated, unprotected. The moment you step into their court—"
Ashoka silenced her with a glance.
"That's exactly what I want."
Priya blinked.
"…What?"
Ashoka stood, fastening his dark cloak over his blue armor.
"They expect fear. Submission. Weakness. We'll give them none."
He turned to Mira.
"Activate the holo-broadcast. This won't just be a private hearing—it'll be watched across every noble house."
Mira's eyes widened.
"You're making it public?"
Ashoka's gaze hardened.
"They want to break me in the shadows. We will fight in the light."
The High Table was an ancient space station—vast, regal, but cracked by centuries of betrayal.
Ashoka stepped into the hall alone, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow of war. Lords and ladies of every great house sat around the massive circle, eyes sharp, whispers buzzing.
Samar Zaildar rose first, voice dripping with mock courtesy.
"Ah, the heir of Aryavrat graces us. Tell us, young lord, why do you build weapons of mass destruction? Why do you provoke an arms race that could doom us all?"
The room murmured.
Ashoka stood tall, his voice crisp and deadly calm.
"Because we are already doomed."
Silence.
Ashoka gestured, and a hidden panel projected the hybrid footage—the vault, the cyborgs, the dying words of the enemy.
"This is what I uncovered," Ashoka declared.
"The Machine War never ended. The hybrids survived, and they are preparing to strike again."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Samar sneered.
"Lies. Fear-mongering to cover your greed."
Ashoka stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"Then let us test it. My engineers will share preliminary data. My scientists will collaborate. But mark this—if you do nothing, when the hybrids come, no house will survive."
The room erupted in shouts—some of outrage, others of fear.
Ashoka turned to leave, but paused at the threshold.
"One more thing," he said coldly.
"House Aryavrat will not bow. We rise alone if we must. And when victory comes, remember who warned you."
He swept out, leaving the nobles rattled, divided, and suddenly uncertain.
Back aboard the Shakti, Ashoka stood on the command deck, watching as new scout ships launched into deep space.
Priya approached, voice tight with amazement.
"You turned their own fear against them. Half the houses are scrambling to ally; the other half are too shaken to move."
Ashoka's eyes stayed on the stars.
"This is only the beginning. The real game starts now."
And somewhere, in the cold dark, machines watched… and recalculated.