Location: Akhand Bharat Defense Command Bunker | 24 Hours Before Zero Hour
Thick doors sealed the war room like a vault. No signal escaped. No eyes beyond the authorized ever saw what happened here. A rectangular table glowed with blue holo-projections, spinning models of warplanes, troop deployments, and nuclear launch paths. But the room wasn't silent. It was boiling with tension.
Ministers, generals, shadow officers, and men in suits—some fake, some real—all surrounded one man.
Shoorya Sen.
They called him Shoonya.
He didn't wear medals. He didn't stand for greetings. And when he entered, even the fake ministers fell silent.
"Begin," Shoonya said. No sir. No orders. Just a command as calm as breathing.
A nervous Home Minister coughed. "We, uh, received intel. The American Dominion plans a backdoor attack—hypersonic missiles through the Arctic shield."
"Too loud," Shoonya replied. "China would notice. Americans love spectacle, not suicide."
A minister leaned forward, smug. "Then maybe it's just a bluff. We should sit down and—"
Shoonya slammed a remote. A wall-sized screen lit up with 22,000 flowcharts.
Every screen section was a different path. A different war. A different ending.
"Each path calculated," Shoonya said. "Weighted on political volatility, current satellite leaks, troop movement analysis, and drone whisper intercepts."
"Drone... what?" asked one older general.
"Things your generation doesn't need to know."
The old man shut up.
Shoonya paced slowly, his fingers behind his back. "Out of 22,000 war patterns… only 47 end with our survival. And only 1 with dominance."
Someone whispered, "What's the cost?"
Shoonya stopped.
"Everything."
India's Arsenal: The Full Reveal
Shoonya waved a hand and a new map flickered on the screen. It wasn't a map. It was a death list.
2,00,000 AI-powered ground soldiers. Fast. Tireless. Programmed with 800 battlefield algorithms.
10,000 Mega Mechs. Towering machines loaded with rocket pods, anti-gravity lifts, and plasma blades.
2,000 Ultra Mechs. Codenamed "Rakshaks." These weren't soldiers. They were walking death gods. 150 feet tall. Capable of crushing aircrafts with their fists.
75,000 AI Vehicles. Hover tanks, pulse cannons, railgun carriers, land-based stealth bots.
1,00,000 AI Fighter Jets. Supersonic, stealth-enabled, programmed to choose new targets mid-air.
Weapons weren't enough.
Shoonya clicked again. "AI Hive Brain 'NETRA' will coordinate all units. No human lag. No chain of command error. It reacts in 0.4 seconds globally."
"But... what about civilian casualties?" one minister dared to ask.
Shoonya stared at him. "What civilians?"
The room froze.
"The moment this war starts," Shoonya continued, "they won't care who's innocent. They'll target water supplies, communication towers, hospitals. They'll burn us from inside."
A military commander added quietly, "Then we do the same?"
"No," Shoonya said. "We do worse."
Flashpoint: Political Fire Inside
In another room, not far from the bunker, a separate meeting unfolded. Fake ministers debated fake solutions. Some called for surrender. Some were bought by foreign bribes. Cameras were planted, conversations recorded.
Later that night, Shoonya personally reviewed them.
He didn't order arrests. He marked them.
Blacklisted.
Come war hour, their bunkers wouldn't open.
A Conversation in Shadows
That night, Shoonya sat outside the war room. A retired old military man approached, one who'd once served with his father.
"You really think this will be the last war?" he asked.
Shoonya lit a dry smoke. "There are no wars after total destruction."
The man sat beside him. "You know… Pakistan used to be us."
Shoonya didn't respond.
"It was carved out in fear. Fed with fire. And one day, just like that… gone."
Shoonya looked up. "History is a good grave. But I don't bury ghosts."
The man smiled. "Then burn them all."
Shoonya stood. "That's the plan."