The heat hit him first. The air shimmered with the breath of burning metal, and the sky above was a sickly red — as if the very atmosphere had been wounded.
Ashoka stood in the middle of a shattered boulevard. Towers that once pierced the clouds now lay broken, their steel skeletons jutting out like the bones of giants. Smoke rolled in thick waves, blotting out the stars. The ground beneath his boots was scorched, littered with the shattered insignia of his own empire.
And then, from the smoke, he emerged.
It was Ashoka — but older, his armor darker, his expression carved from stone. His eyes held no warmth, only the cold precision of a ruler who had won every battle but lost his soul. Around him marched soldiers in blackened armor, faceless behind opaque visors. They moved with mechanical precision, like extensions of his will.
"You've come far," the older Ashoka said, his voice carrying like a blade sliding from its sheath. "But your empire will be forged in blood. There is no other way."
Ashoka's fists clenched. "If that is my future, I'll change it."
"You cannot," the older one replied. "The stars only bend to strength. Mercy is weakness, and weakness invites the end. I am you — without illusions."
The figure raised his hand, and the soldiers formed a semicircle, rifles glowing with charged plasma. "Show me, boy. Show me the strength you think will save them."
Ashoka drew his pulse-saber. The weapon flared to life, humming with contained fury. The first wave of soldiers surged forward, their synchronized steps pounding like war drums. Ashoka's blade cut arcs of light through the smoke, deflecting plasma bolts and striking with precision. But for every one he felled, two more seemed to emerge from the haze.
Then the older Ashoka stepped into the fight. His movements were eerily familiar — perfect counters to every strike, every feint. It was like fighting a mirror that had studied him for a lifetime. Sparks flew as their blades clashed, each strike sending ripples through the warped reality.
"You hesitate," the older Ashoka snarled, forcing him back. "You think you can build without breaking. That will destroy everything you love."
Ashoka's muscles screamed as he blocked another overhead strike. "No… it's the breaking that destroys them."
With a sudden twist, he disengaged, driving his blade into the ground. The fractured street cracked open, and a surge of energy from the relic fragment on his belt pulsed outward, scattering the enemy soldiers like leaves in a storm. The shockwave struck the older Ashoka — but instead of falling, he smiled.
"You are not ready… but you may yet be worthy."
The burning city dissolved into shards of light. Ashoka found himself kneeling in the void again, breath ragged, sweat dripping inside his suit. The cloaked figure stood where the older Ashoka had been.
"The second fragment awaits on the world of Serekh," it said. "But beware — each piece you claim will bring the shadow closer."
The vision collapsed, and he was back in his shuttle, the black Gate of Silence slowly receding into the mists. But the memory of that other self clung to him like smoke.
He knew now — the fight for the relics wasn't just against enemies in the present. It was against the empire he might one day become.