The chamber of the United Nations was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Only the hum of cameras, the shuffle of papers, and the steady ticking of a clock seemed louder than the collective breath of the assembly.

Delegates filled the hall, their flags lined in careful rows. Translators leaned into their headsets. Journalists pressed against the gallery railings, cameras flashing—they knew this day would carve itself into history. But history was not ready for what was about to be spoken.

To the world outside these walls, monsters did not exist. The Fury of Dreams had been reduced to classified reports and whispers in backrooms. Death tolls and ruined cities had been smothered beneath bureaucracy. Citizens believed in terrorism, natural disasters, and tragic accidents. They had never been told that the things which stalked their nightmares were real.

The Trinity stood at the center of the chamber with Mythara, flanked by Seren, Selistar, Leonie, and Stefan. But Mythara had demanded two conditions before agreeing to appear: only the Trinity and himself would speak, and the meeting must be broadcast worldwide.

Under normal circumstances, the UN would have refused. But with news of Mythara's presence, they had no choice. They knew what he was capable of, even if some wanted to deny it.

Watabe's shoulders were stiff, though his face was unreadable. Amaterasu stood straight-backed, calm and commanding, each motion deliberate. Shango appeared relaxed, though his easy posture masked readiness. Beyond politics and recognition, they all knew what this meant—their parents would see them, the world would see them. For Amaterasu, that was more nerve-wracking than anything. Mythara's eyes swept the chamber with cold patience.

The General Assembly President cleared his throat. "You requested this summit under extraordinary conditions. The floor is yours. But understand—what you propose today will be heard not only by these representatives, but by the world."

Amaterasu stepped forward first. Her voice carried with clarity that reached every corner of the chamber.

"We come before you not as petitioners, but as representatives of a people. Our home, our land, our nation—it already exists. We are the nation of Heka. Recognition is not our request. It is our demand."

Murmurs rippled across the chamber, sharp as sparks catching dry kindling. Some delegates scoffed; others whispered fiercely into translator mics.

"And," Amaterasu continued, "we come to reveal the truth you've hidden for over a century."

The hall froze. Cameras fluttered.

"You tell your citizens of storms, of fires, of disasters," she said. "But you hide the truth. We have fought the monsters that stalk your shadows, and we are here to tell you… they are tired of hiding."

Gasps rippled through the chamber. A German delegate half-rose from his seat, voice sharp with derision: "This is absurd—"

Mythara's voice cut him off, low but thunderous. "Is it?" His eyes gleamed under the lights. "You've buried the evidence for years. The scars remain. The records remain. We have the reports and the recordings."

Cameras snapped faster now. Reporters whispered like vultures circling a corpse.

Watabe stepped forward, voice steady despite the storm beneath it. "You wanted weapons—we became your weapons. You wanted silence—we stayed silent for more than a century. But this is bigger than your games of control. We are no longer your janitors. We will not remain hidden. Rescind the SSOAP initiative. Recognize us—or be swallowed by what is coming."

The chamber erupted. Shouts in every language, translators scrambling, cameras flaring as history cracked open.

The General Assembly President slammed his gavel. "Silence! Silence in the chamber!" His voice barely held against the chaos until the uproar collapsed into a brittle quiet.

A delegate from the United States leaned forward, his tie askew. "You come here demanding recognition and spewing myths. Monsters? Secret global initiatives? You insult this assembly with theatrics." He jabbed a finger toward them. "If you want to be treated as a nation, you had best provide proof that doesn't reek of science fiction."

Uneasy laughter rippled through the chamber.

Amaterasu did not flinch. "Proof?" She tilted her head. "It's already carved into our world. The craters you cannot explain. The mass graves with no cause. The disasters you label accidents but know better."

"We know nothing of the kind!" the delegate snapped. "And unless you provide concrete evidence now, I will move to—"

The air shifted.

A low hum vibrated through the chamber, subtle at first, then rising like a storm sealed in glass. Mythara stepped forward, rose-gold fire faintly glowing in his eyes. He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to.

Furniture and equipment lifted into the air with a flick of his hand. This was only a taste—a demonstration for the billions watching. The equipment and furniture fell back into place and he continued.

"You want proof?" He extended his hand. "Then look."

From his palm, a projection bloomed—grainy at first, then sharp. Footage of SSOAP signing ceremonies, clear footage monsters roaming, Chasers engaging in desperate combat against those monsters. Classified documents, photographs, casualty lists—evidence no one outside the highest offices should have ever seen.

The assembly erupted again, but this time not with laughter. With fear.

A Japanese delegate stood, his face pale. "This… this cannot be fabricated…"

From the gallery, a journalist shouted, "Why hasn't the world been told? How long have governments hidden this?"

Cameras flared like lightning.

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"You demanded proof," Mythara said softly, dismissing the projection. "Now choke on it."

Silence fell. Not in disbelief, but the silence of trust eroding.

Watabe stepped forward, his voice steady, carrying over the stunned chamber.

"We are not here to ask for your charity. We are here to offer survival. What you've seen is not even a fraction of Firmatha Sangaur. Recognize us as a nation. Formally recognize our outposts as embassies—or continue to treat us as shadows. But when Firmatha Sangaur comes—and they will—you'll have no shadows left to protect you."

The weight of his words pressed down on the chamber. Some leaned back, shaken. Others scribbled furiously into notepads. To those who knew, the name Firmatha Sangaur struck harder than any blow.

The silence shattered.

"This is madness!" the French delegate barked, slamming his hand on the table. "If Firmatha Sangaur is such a threat, why was it not shared before? Why hide it unless—"

"Unless you planned to weaponize it!" the Indian delegate cut in, voice hot with accusation. "This is not proof of benevolence. It is proof of conspiracy."

Half the chamber roared in outrage, the other half in fear. Some demanded containment, others sanctions. Aides scrambled to and from the floor, clutching phones and tablets, whispering updates into earpieces as governments outside the chamber scrambled to react in real time.

The President of the Assembly struck his gavel again and again, the echo cracking like gunfire.

"Order! There will be order in this chamber!"

From the gallery, journalists shouted over the chaos:

"Was the Tokyo Blackout three years ago part of this?"

"What about the phenomenon in Seattle two years back?"

"Who knew? How long have you hidden this?"

Amaterasu stepped forward, her posture regal despite the storm. "Do not mistake our silence for conspiracy. It was your leaders who buried the truth. They called monsters disasters. They burned reports. They buried the dead without explanation. A year ago, Mythara himself came to you, urging cooperation. Did you listen? No. You dragged your feet. You turned away our efforts time and time again, if the Dragonborne wasn't present. You only answer to strength. Well strength is here, and it's finished waiting."

Her words cut deep, striking at the very legitimacy of the assembly.

From the UK bench, a delegate's voice rang clear: "If Firmatha Sangaur is even a fraction of what you claim, then these… Persequions may be the only thing standing between us and extinction." His eyes flicked to Mythara. "But the question is—do you intend to be our allies, or our masters?"

The word masters spread through the chamber. Whispers surged. Masters. Gods. Tyrants.

Watabe's jaw clenched, but Shango was the one to answer. He stepped forward, voice cool and precise. "We seek recognition, not dominion. We are not your weapons. We do not want to be your enemies. But we will not hide. The choice is yours: treat us as equals, treat us as kings—or treat us as shadows. But if you choose shadows, do not be surprised when shadows are all that remain."

The chamber froze again, teetering between panic and persuasion.

The Assembly President leaned forward, weary lines carved deep into his face. "Very well. We have heard your words. Now we will hear proposals."

Screens lit across the chamber as aides uploaded hasty drafts. Words scrolled in neat legal fonts: Oversight committee. International monitoring task force. Recognition contingent on disarmament guarantees. They looked clinical—until one realized they were written to leash gods with paper chains.

The U.S. delegate read from his draft: "Proposal A: The nation known as Heka shall be recognized as a provisional body, subject to United Nations oversight in all matters of military action and scientific development. Violation of these terms shall revoke recognition and invoke sanctions."

The Chinese representative cut in, voice smooth and cold: "Proposal B: Recognition contingent upon relinquishing independent military command. Heka's forces shall be integrated under joint UN leadership. Their weapons"—his gaze lingered on Mythara—"must be catalogued and restricted."

The hall erupted again. Some nodded eagerly, others recoiled in disbelief.

Amaterasu's voice rose, not with fury but conviction.

"You want to leash us? When the monsters coming have no leash? When Firmatha Sangaur descends, will your oversight committees bind them? Will your sanctions shatter their scales?"

Her words rippled through the hall. Some delegates looked ashamed. Others, furious.

From the Russian bench came a low growl: "Recognition with your terms is not recognition. It is servitude. You ask us to bow before you unconditionally."

Watabe's voice cut through, quiet but forceful. "No. We are not asking. We are offering. And if you cannot see the difference—then you are already lost."

His words hung like a hammer's weight, silencing even his critics.

Shango took that pause and stepped forward, calm and steady. "You fear us? Fair. But understand this—these creatures can level cities in a fit of rage. They can be called tsunamis as easily as you draw a bath. If negotiations with them fail, what will you cling to? Paper? Come on mate."

The silence that followed was thick and raw. Delegates shifted uncomfortably, their eyes betraying the battle between denial and truth. They wanted to dismiss the Trinity as children. But they had seen Mythara's demonstration, the footage, and the scale of destruction. They could not ignore it.

Mythara exhaled slowly, his rose-gold eyes narrowing. "Enough words. You will not understand unless you see." He turned toward the cameras, his voice deliberate: "Viewer discretion advised."

The chamber's central screen flickered to life. Footage rolled: Dr. Varma's death. The attack on the Persequion base. The Fury of Dreams. The clash between Cefketa and Mythara.Monsters ripping through cities. Persequions unleashing powers that scarred landscapes. And still—barely surviving against beings beyond comprehension.

These scenes were several times more graphic and horrifying than the images they showed earlier. Myhtara needed to make them see just how powerful they really were. Gasps. Cries. Shouts of denial. The collapse of disbelief was audible.

Mythara's lips curved faintly, not in joy but in grim inevitability. He watched their view of him shift into that of a monster in real time. For the first time, he did not fear it. He welcomed it.

"Lord Cefketa is one of nine Seats of Firmatha Sangaur," Mythara said, his tone sharp. "And at the time of that battle, he was not even the strongest."

The words struck harder than the images. Delegates shifted pale and sweating in their seats.

"And know this. Firmatha Sangaur has already agreed to talk with the UN. They will ask for the same thing we do: recognition as a nation. So ask yourselves—will you cripple your strongest ally?"

The chamber reeled. And then, as the feed spilled beyond the hall, the world itself changed.

Trains froze in Tokyo as passengers watched monsters tearing through city streets. Some wept. Some vomited. Others screamed that it was fake, an AI fabrication.

In New York, crowds surged outside the UN. Protesters screamed of hoaxes and conspiracies. Counter-protesters demanded armies of Persequions, many offering themselves to sign up. Most just looking to gain god-like powers. Police stood between them, pale-faced, their eyes haunted by the footage they had seen themselves.

Stock markets collapsed and surged in chaos. Defense stocks soared. Airlines and insurers plummeted. Energy firms whispered of wars over resources.

And in small villages across the world, children stared wide-eyed at flickering screens. Myths told by firelight suddenly had proof. Some trembled in terror. Others whispered in awe, and barely contained curiosity.

Back in the chamber, silence returned at last—not the silence of diplomacy, but of a world realizing its gods had been walking beside them all along.

Shango broke it with a question, his voice steady: "What now?"

Mythara's rose-gold eyes glimmered as he lifted a small device between two fingers. "Now… we call Cefketa."

And with those words, the curtain rose on a new age. Whether it heralded war or peace, no one could yet say.

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