The Tuffles were broken. Astra's relentless digital counter-war had shattered their last, desperate gambit. Their plagues were neutralized, their data-scourges purged. The final strongholds on Planet Plant fell in a series of brutal, one-sided assaults, their defenses neatly unraveled by the strategies Astra provided. The Saiyan victory was absolute. The planet, drenched in the blood of its native inhabitants, was officially renamed Planet Vegeta, a monument to the King's triumph.
The celebration that rocked the planet was a primal, savage thing. The low-class barracks erupted into a frenzy of feasting, drinking, and brawling. The air, thick with the smell of roasted meat and ozone from careless energy discharges, was a far cry from the sterile tension of war. For the first time, Astra saw something resembling genuine, uncomplicated joy on the faces of the warriors around him. They had won. They were the masters of their world.
Borg, drunk on victory and cheap ale, clapped a heavy hand on Astra's shoulder, a gesture that was almost friendly. "We did it, Ghost! The planet is ours! You... you played your part." There was a grudging respect in his bloodshot eyes.
Astra accepted a offered mug of the frothing, bitter ale, but did not drink. He watched the celebration with the detached analysis of an outsider. This was the culture he was tied to. This was the race he was destined to save. They were magnificent in their brutality, and doomed by their simplicity.
The King's summons came as the celebrations reached their peak. It was not a data transmission. It was a royal escort—two elite guards in polished armor, their Power Levels both over 5,000. "The King demands your presence in the throne room, Analyst," one of them stated, his voice devoid of emotion.
The mood in the barracks sobered instantly. All eyes followed Astra as he was led away, the silent Ghost once again at the center of events he had orchestrated.
The throne room was different. The scars of Lord Zaron's rebellion had been scrubbed away, but the memory of the violence hung in the air like a ghost. King Vegeta sat upon his throne, not with the triumphant posture of a victor, but with the weary, settled weight of a ruler who has paid a price for his crown. The head of the last Tuffle leader, a brilliant scientist-queen, was mounted on a pike beside the throne, her sightless eyes a stark contrast to the revelry outside.
King Vegeta dismissed the guards with a wave. The massive doors boomed shut, leaving the two of them alone in the cavernous hall.
For a long moment, the King said nothing. He simply stared at Astra, his gaze a physical pressure.
"You have served me well, Analyst," the King finally said, his voice a low rumble. "The Tuffles are extinct. Their technology is ours. My throne is secure." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "But a king cannot be in debt to a low-born infant. It is... unnatural."
Astra remained silent, his mind racing. This was the moment of reckoning. The tool was no longer needed. What was the fate of a tool that had become too sharp?
"The purge of Zaron's faction," the King continued, his voice dropping. "The data leak was... conveniently timed. You are clever. Far more clever than any Saiyan has a right to be." He stood up, descending the dais until he loomed over Astra. "I have a proposition for you. A new purpose."
He gestured to the Tuffle queen's head. "They are gone. But their legacy remains. Their science. Their understanding of the universe. It is a power we Saiyans have never possessed. A power that could make us more than just Frieza's attack hounds."
He stopped directly in front of Astra. "You will be my Royal Technologist. You will have your own laboratory, resources, a staff of the captured Tuffle engineers. Your duty will be to unlock their secrets for the glory of the Saiyan race. You will make us stronger. You will make us unstoppable."
It was everything Astra could have wanted. A legitimate laboratory. Unrestricted access to Tuffle technology. The freedom to research and create without hiding in a barracks corner. It was a massive leap forward for his own goals.
But the price was absolute. He would be bound to the King more tightly than ever. He would be groomed, elevated, and watched. His every move would be scrutinized. The shadow war he waged would have to be fought from a gilded cage, under the gaze of the most paranoid being on the planet.
He had no choice. To refuse was death.
He bowed his head, the picture of subservience. "I live to serve the Saiyan race, and its King," he projected, his mental voice carefully neutral.
"Good," the King said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Your first task is to analyze the Tuffle core database. Find me the secret to their energy shield technology. I want my elite guards equipped with it."
He turned and walked back to his throne. "You are dismissed, Royal Technologist. Your new quarters await you. Do not disappoint me."
As Astra was led out by the guards, towards a wing of the palace he had only ever seen on schematics, he processed the new reality. He had a crown of his own now, a title and a position of immense privilege. But crowns were heavy, and this one was forged from the skulls of an extinct race and the ambition of a tyrant.
He had gained the keys to the kingdom's greatest treasures, but the walls of his cage had just become solid gold. The path to power was now a well-lit corridor in the heart of the beast's lair, and every step would be watched. The cost of this new crown was his freedom, and he would have to learn to manipulate his jailer from inside the royal vault.