The chamber of the United Nations had never felt so small.

Nine thrones hovered above the assembly, shadows bleeding across marble walls, their presence bending the air until every breath felt like drowning. The Seats of Firmatha Sangaur had arrived—not as rumor, not as myth, but as living beings of terror and beauty.

No one moved. Delegates clutched their papers so tightly the pages tore in their hands. Translators whispered half-finished words before choking silent. A French diplomat muttered a prayer in Latin. A delegate from India fumbled for his glasses, his hands trembling so hard the frames clattered against the table.

The silence carried weight—like the pause before an executioner's axe.

Journalists pressed against the gallery railing, cameras flashing in frantic bursts, but even their boldness faltered. For the first time, they were not recording politicians. They were recording the end of human supremacy.

Only the Trinity and Mythara seemed unmoved. Watabe's fists clenched so tight they shook. Amaterasu's spine was straight as steel, though her knuckles whitened at her sides. Shango's calm mask never cracked, but his stance widened, prepared for anything. Mythara's rose-gold dragonic eyes caught the chamber light, cold and unblinking.

The General Assembly President tried to speak, but no sound came. His gavel rattled uselessly against the wood.

The silence broke—with a panic.

"This is a trick! " shouted the German delegate, half-rising from his seat. His voice cracked in fear. "No beings could possibly exist like this!"

"Then what do you call that?" a South American delegate roared back, pointing upward, his voice echoing.

Others shouted over one another:

"They're monsters!"

"Are you here to enslave us?"

"Protect us!"

"Exterminate them now, before it's too late!"

The gallery erupted as well—journalists screaming questions, their flashes sparking like lightning storms. "Are you gods or devils?" "Is humanity at war?" "What are your demands?"

A few delegates sat in stunned silence, their lips moving in prayers they had not spoken in decades. Others leaned toward translators who had already thrown down their headsets, refusing to speak.

Through it all, the Nine Seats said nothing. They watched. They listened. And in their silence, the world unraveled.

Then, with deliberate grace, a pale hand rose into the air. Zyvaroth, First Seat, smiled at the panicking little blood bags and let out a gentle chuckle.

"How about we begin with something simple? An introduction, hmm? You wish to know what we are? Then we'll oblige. We'll speak in English, since that seems to be your closest thing to a common tongue."

His voice smoothed over the chaos, and for a moment, the delegates dared to breathe.

"I am Zyvaroth Morvain, the First Seat of Firmatha Sangaur. I lead the Weproti—what you call Vampires. I hope to bring order to you scattered mice." He bowed with perfect elegance, then revealed a smile lined with fangs. The calm was shattered. Gasps and screams followed, rippling like fire through dry brush.

Before panic could settle, laughter like an earthquake shook the chamber.

A mountain of muscle rose from his throne, tusks gleaming in the light.

"I am 2nd Seat Vaerros, son of Tharnok, Warchief of the Gorvath. You soft bodies call us Titan Orcs. My desire is simple—to crush the skulls of worthy prey beneath my heel. Tell me, humans… are you worthy?" His roar of laughter shook the walls.

The air turned cold as the next voice rolled like the tide.

"I am Nethyros Ozythar, Third Seat, matriarch of the Vaelthora. You call us Leviathans." Her eyes glimmered with sapphire scales as she leaned forward. "I want nothing from your kind. Leave the seas untouched, and you may keep your fragile lives." Her words were not a suggestion—they were a command. Even the translators dared not speak them aloud.

The remaining Seats gave shorter statements, sharp as blades:

The 4th Seat Ferradorn of the Dwarves scoffed about resources and labor. The 5th Seat Sylvaira whispered of honoring nature. The 6th Seat Veydris, matriarch of the Kitsune, promised pleasure and happiness. While the 8th Seat Varythiel warned of humankind being broken under the weight of their hubris.

A different voice cut through next—low, rough, yet weary with restraint. The 7th Seat rose with unhurried movements, fur bristling beneath the glow.

"I am Lunara, alpha of the Werekin. My path is not conquest, nor slaughter, but survival. I seek a way forward where blood does not drown the world again. Peace, if you are capable of it. But peace requires strength, and without it, there is nothing." His golden eyes swept the chamber, softer than the others, yet no less dangerous. For a heartbeat, some dared to believe.

And then—Cefketa rose.

"I am the 9th Seat Cefketa Sorvynth Zymuji Somnion, a descendant of Tiamat, Keeper of Dreams. I am a Dragon, and the leader of the Veridahn. The policing force of Firmatha Sanguar. I'm also responsible for the humans that live within Firmatha Sangaur. Which is why I will be taking point during these talks." The room stirred once again. Not only because Lord Cefketa was a dragon, but also because there were already humans who lived within Firmatha Sangaur.

"Humans, already live within your borders?" One of the reporters asked.

"Yes, and they live very productive lives," Cefketa responded.

Stolen novel; please report.

"T-They aren't enslaved?" Someone asked.

"We are a staggeringly advanced civilization. Slaves are inefficient. Willing workers with purpose are far more desirable." Cefketa smiled.

This was an uncomfortable statement for most of them to swallow. The chamber erupted. Voices tumbled over each other in a dozen languages, translators scrambling to keep pace.

"Abductions!" someone shouted.

"Evidence!" barked another.

"Proof of these humans you claim to govern!"

From the gallery, a journalist yelled above the chaos: "Are they prisoners? Experiments?"

The storm swelled until Cefketa raised a single hand. The noise withered into silence as if the air itself bent to his will. His voice was deep but smooth as silk, and demanded attention.

"You ask of slavery. The way humans live now is hardly better. Living lives of desperation under leaders who squander your efforts as pawns in endless wars? The rich get richer, the poor get poorer. The top 1% own more wealth than 95% of humanity." Cefketa smiled as the world leaders before him frowned at his statement. It wasn't a secret, but hearing it coming from him at this time is what stung.

"Within Firmatha, humans live with purpose. They don't work to live. They work on their passions. Everyone experiences the same level of education. Those who wish to learn more do. Those who strive for positions of power are given the opportunity, regardless of age. Effort is rewarded, passion is encouraged, not smothered under desperate tedium."

Uneasy murmurs rippled across the chamber. Some delegates frowned, others leaned forward, hungry for more. The idea was seductive—order, stability, a life free from uncertainty.

Mythara said nothing. It was true he had seen the workings of Firmatha Sangaur. He never doubted the effectiveness of their society, only that mankind was ready to integrate into it, and that Firmatha Sangaur would not try to make them subservient to their wills.

"How can we be sure what you say is true?" One of the delegates spoke.

"Heh, what good will lying to you do? I could have destroyed your world two years ago. Ask him. He knows the truth." Cefketa motioned his head towards Mythara.

"It's true. Firmatha Sanguar is as he says it is. However…" His rose-gold eyes burned as they swept the chamber. "Cefketa neglects to tell you that to experience that, you must bend the knee. They will not see you as equals. That's why you need us."

Cefketa's smile widened, showing just a hint of fang. "Ah, little dragon. Still clinging to your human mask? They aren't equals. Why play these games with them?"

Watabe stepped forward, his jaw tight. "Lord Cefketa, what you offer isn't the freedom of passion. It's veiled domestication."

Gasps broke from the gallery. Translators stumbled, struggling to render the venom in his words.

Around the world, screens lit with the exchange. In Cairo, protests raged in front of embassies, one side chanting Cefketa's name as savior, the other branding him a tyrant. In São Paulo, a cathedral's congregation dropped to their knees, priests whispering prayers to the dragon-god they had just seen. In Seoul, traders screamed across stock floors as energy and defense shares surged again, markets convulsing in rhythm with every word spoken in New York.

Back in the chamber, the Assembly President's gavel cracked against wood, but it sounded feeble against the titanic wills colliding before him.

"This summit was convened for recognition, not philosophy," he tried to bark, his voice trembling. "If Firmatha Sangaur seeks legitimacy, then you will submit terms as Heka has done. The Assembly will deliberate conditions."

Cefketa's gaze slid lazily toward him. "Conditions? You will offer them to children, perhaps. Not us. And recognition? The wolf does not seek recognition from the sheep. The whale does not discuss terms with plankton." Cefketa's words cut deep. It was very clear these Seats weren't nearly as amenable as the Persequions. They had very little connection to Humanity.

Amaterasu's fists clenched, but she raised her voice, clear and commanding.

"State your intentions for coming then. Because if you refuse terms, you show the world exactly what you are, tyrants."

The hall went deathly quiet again. For the first time, it was no longer fear alone that filled the air—it was a choice. Cefketa's laughter filled the room,

"Tyrant, is it? We did not come here for recognition; we did not come to listen to whatever ridiculous terms you have constructed. We came to a statement, to give decrees." The room went silent at Cefketa's words. Watabe wanted to say something, but was held back by Shango. This was what they wanted, the UN needed to see exactly what they were dealing with, and why the Persequions were their only hope.

"First: Know this. We are older than your nations. Older than your wars. Older than the myths you whisper by firelight. Your survival until now has been tolerated, not earned. That tolerance ends today."

Gasps rippled across the chamber. A delegate from France shot to his feet, pale-faced.

"Blasphemy! Myth!" he shouted, but his voice cracked, thin against Cefketa's weight.

Others muttered hurried prayers into microphones, translators stumbling over words as centuries of hidden history pressed down on them. Some tried to laugh, but it came out hollow, brittle.

"Second: This world is mine by right. Not yours. Not Firmatha's. Mine. By my grace alone you walk upon it. By our indifference, you have thrived. Do not mistake patience for weakness. Show gratitude—or learn how easily your empires can crumble." Cefketa's voice was laced with venom and derision.

The hall erupted into chaos. The U.S. delegate slammed his fist against the table.

"Outrageous! The Earth belongs to humanity!"

But his words were drowned beneath whispers spreading like wildfire: What if he's telling the truth? Who came before us?

"What do you mean by this world is yours by right?!"

"Is Earth itself seen as a commodity?!"

"If it's yours, who gave it to you?"

Reporters shouted questions, but Lord Cefketa's gaze silenced them. When he spoke again, the chamber felt smaller, suffocated beneath his will.

"Third: You want terms? Then listen well. In three months, your kings, your presidents, your so-called leaders will walk the halls of Firmatha Sangaur. They will see our nation with their own eyes. Only then will we consider your requests. Until that day, know your place. You are tenants upon land not your own." Cefketa smiled mockingly at them.

"Fail to come, and you will have chosen extinction."

The Assembly fractured. Some delegates shouted over one another:

"We cannot go—this is coercion!"

"We must! We have no choice!"

Others bent their heads together, already calculating which leaders to send, which alliances to shift.

The journalists in the gallery were on their feet, shouting questions over the din:

"Is this an ultimatum?"

"Are you threatening genocide?"

The President's gavel hammered uselessly against the wood, each strike thinner than the last, as if the chamber itself no longer obeyed him. They all looked towards the Seats for answers and received only silence. Cefketa chuckled,

"Until then."

Then they vanished, as if they had never been there to begin with. Their thrones, their bodies, the crushing weight of their presence—all dissolved like smoke. Everyone in the chamber sagged into their seats and exchanged hollow stares. From beginning to end, they had no control. They had been caught in the current of the Seats of Firmatha Sangaur.

And then every eye turned to the Persequion Trinity.

Shango scoffed at their pleading gazes. "You still want to leash us?" The words detonated like a bomb in the chamber.

A complex unease stirred in Mythara's chest. On the surface, everything was proceeding as expected: the UN's hesitation, the Seats seeding fear, autonomy inching closer to reality. Even Cefketa's invitation for world leaders to set foot in Firmatha Sangaur played into his designs.

So why, then, did the invitation feel less like diplomacy—and more like a snare tightening around them all?

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.