With the Portuguese neutralized and bound by their own greed, the diplomatic shield protecting the Bengal Sultanate dissolved. Vikramaditya wasted not a single hour. Turning his modernized army corps eastward, General Aadhavan ordered a hyper-aggressive, lightning-fast march toward the grand capital of the Sultanate.
Sultan Shiraj-ud-Daulah sat within his opulent, fortified palace, frantically awaiting the mercenary armies and strategic military supplies from his northern regional allies—a relief force that would never arrive, intercepted and cut off by Khurda scouting regiments days prior. Outside his high marble walls, the horizon turned to ash. The air vibrated with a terrifying, rhythmic thumping as thousands of Khurda line infantry advanced in flawless, synchronized columns, their pristine steel cuirasses catching the mid-day sun.
"They have no allies left," Vikramaditya whispered from the rear command pavilion, his eyes locked on the palace towers. "Unleash the wrath of the foundries."
The siege was short but catastrophic. To breach the massive defenses, Captain Devendra's artillery company rolled forward the heavy, massive bronze siege cannons. The ground trembled as these titanic weapons let loose a coordinated roar, hammering the stone walls of the fortress with heavy solid shot until the ancient ramparts fractured and collapsed into jagged splinters.
Simultaneously, the sky split open with a continuous, deafening shriek as the devastating Vajrastra launchpads and Varshastra iron rockets were unleashed. Hundreds of these anti-personnel, sword-tipped rockets rained down behind the breached lines, raining absolute ruin upon the massed infantry defenders and shattering their formations before they could reinforce the gaps.
Through the smoking breaches surged the Khurda musketeers. Dressed in uniform helms, they advanced with mechanical coldness, delivering continuous, devastating alternate volley fire that tore through the Sultan's elite palace guards. The defenders' traditional armor was punctured effortlessly by high-velocity lead balls.
The final stand occurred within the grand, blood-splattered throne room of the Bengal Sultanate. The massive oak doors were blown inward by a concentrated gunpowder charge, and General Aadhavan strode into the hall, flanked by the elite Royal Cavalry Guards.
Sultan Shiraj-ud-Daulah stood before his elevated ivory throne, his heavy silk robes stained with soot, a jewel-encrusted saber trembling in his grip. His fanatical clerics and remaining loyalist nobles formed a desperate perimeter around him, shouting vows of defiance.
"Insolent kafir worms!" the Sultan roared, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and aristocratic fury. "You dare step into the sanctuary of the rightful ruler of Bengal? My armies will hunt your lineage to the ends of the earth!"
General Aadhavan did not answer with words. He raised his hand, signaling the frontline squad of musketeers. The soldiers stepped forward smoothly, leveling their advanced firearms in a cold, horizontal line.
"Present," Aadhavan commanded.
With a collective, deafening roar of fanatical defiance, the Sultan and his entire perimeter of defenders lunged forward as one. Clerics, nobles, and the tyrant ruler threw themselves into a final, suicidal charge, swords raised high in a desperate bid to overwhelm the line.
"Fire!"
A blinding flash and a roaring volley of white smoke filled the grand hall. A wall of high-velocity lead balls tore through the charging ranks with mechanical precision. Multiple rounds punched cleanly through the Sultan's chest and torso, shattering his ivory throne behind him, while his loyalists and clerics were cut down instantly beside him in a brutal, overlapping crossfire. Sabers slipped from lifeless fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor as Sultan Shiraj-ud-Daulah and his last defenders collapsed into a pool of deep crimson, dead before their bodies hit the steps.
The few remaining nobles who had held back dropped to their knees, throwing down their weapons in absolute, paralyzed capitulation. As twilight settled over the burning capital, Prince Vikramaditya Deva walked into the throne room, his dark eyes surveying the fallen tyrants with absolute, clinical detachment. The northern tyrant was dead, the Bengal Sultanate was erased from the annals of time, and the industrial Kingdom of Khurda had just claimed its wealthiest gate.