Damon's Ascension-Chapter 133: The Great Reshuffle Of Humanity 3

In a deep chamber beneath the Kremlin, long after the mental broadcast had ended and world leaders scrambled to react, Russia’s own leadership gathered in the oldest way they knew how... behind closed, reinforced doors, surrounded by silence and concrete.

At the head of the conference table sat President Viktor Anatolyevich Lebedev, a tall man with hard cheekbones, military poise, and sharp silver eyes that missed nothing. His suit was jet black, simple and plain in design as his power was not derived from expensive tailoring, but the air of command he carried.

The room was filled not only with ministers, but generals, industrial oligarchs, tech magnates, and two silent elders who hadn’t spoken publicly in decades.

The lights dimmed, and Damon’s speech was replayed in full on a reinforced holoscreen, this version stripped of its emotional cadence and reduced to raw transcript that was parsed through Russia’s AI-driven linguistic deconstruction suite.

No one spoke as Damon’s words echoed in the chamber.

Freedom.

Biological limitations.

Chaos Realm.

Galactic diplomacy.

Planetary sovereignty.

By the time Damon’s message concluded with its final, almost mocking invitation, the room remained quiet for several long seconds.

Then, President Lebedev leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers, and exhaled a long, cold breath through his nose.

"...Africa, of all places." He murmured.

Minister Petrov, head of foreign intelligence, chuckled dryly. "Not the continent anyone expected to lead the world, certainly."

"No, the West thought them backward. Asia thought them late. And we..." Lebedev said, his voice thoughtful.

He paused, letting the silence speak for itself. "...we thought they were irrelevant."

He rose slowly, walking to the edge of the massive war room where a globe hovered in real-time, spinning with lines of inter-galactic trade, Essence Coins density flows, and shifting economic pulse zones.

"African nations have long been underestimated. They are fragmented, yes, but fractured things often yield the sharpest edges. And now, one boy from Ghana sits atop the world and not by lineage nor wealth, nor even ideology, but by force of ability and timing."

He traced a finger across the curved projection, stopping at the small, glowing marker over Ghana.

"It is almost poetic, isn’t it? In the stories we tell... the one who changes the world is usually American, or Asian, or maybe even European if one wants flair. But not African, never African. And yet..." he mused, half-smiling.

"The galactic union chose differently." General Rodina murmured, head of Russia’s awakened corps.

"No, the Universe’s Will chose differently. This isn’t a galactic election, this is a cosmic redistribution of fate, and we of the motherland must be wise enough to see it." Lebedev corrected.

A younger official scoffed. "With all respect, comrade president... are we to kneel to a child with a crown of fire?"

Lebedev turned slowly, gaze like ice. "Do you think the bear kneels?"

The room froze.

"No, the bear does not kneel. But neither does it roar without purpose." Lebedev continued, voice low and dangerous.

He stepped back toward the table.

"We do not reject the new order, as that is for fools. The Americans will smile and wait for weakness while the Europeans will argue themselves into paralysis. But we? We will adapt."

He pointed toward the holo-screen displaying Damon’s statistics, his affiliations, his known allies.

"This boy, Damon Arnan, may hold the scepter, but even kings bleed. He is young, intelligent, and may be surrounded by loyalty... but all men want something."

Lebedev’s eyes narrowed. "We must know what he fears, what he values, who he listens to at night and who he protects."

Rodina nodded. "You want psychological profiling?"

"Comprehensive, one that covers past and present. Begin AI deep-trace analysis, scrubbed from public networks. Make sure not to leave any trails to us. Also..."

He turned to another man, FSB Minister Ovechkin. "...open backchannel probes to the African Union. I want to know what deals are being made in their name."

"And the summit?" Petrov asked.

"We will attend, we will make overtures of solidarity and we will offer cooperation. But we will not submit." Lebedev said immediately.

His voice hardened. "Russia has never bowed, not to empires, not to invasions, and not to charm."

He returned to his seat.

"We will arrive at this boy’s summit, but not alone. Our awakened corps will be present and our industrial giants will be watching. And if he dares to speak to us as if we are vassals to a throne built last week..."

A long pause.

"We will gently remind him that while the world may admire the eagle... they never forget the bear’s shadow."

The chamber dimmed once more, as plans were made in the shadows.

..........

In the polished marble hall of the African Union headquarters in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, the air was tense with projection screens still flickering from Damon’s broadcast.

His voice, though long faded, seemed to linger in the very walls, being young, commanding, and definitely undeniable.

But rather than excitement or unity, the chamber was filled with the cold murmur of cautious whispers and sideways glances.

Dozens of leaders were present—presidents, chairpersons, secretaries-general—all seated at an oval conference table lined with gold trim and hi-tech microphones.

One could almost mistake the setting for an imperial council, if not for the quiet rot that clung to the room like humidity before a storm.

The Chairman of the African Union, President Salem Adoum of Chad, cleared his throat, offering a toothless smile. "Well, it seems... Africa has produced a king."

That earned a few chuckles, though none of them genuine.

President Yemane Nyerere of Tanzania leaned back with a smirk. "Yes, and not one who consulted with the Union before claiming the crown."

His eyes twitched toward the Western Envoy he believed to be untraceably watching from a backchannel stream. "A little... impolite, don’t you think?"

President Musa Dlamini of Malawi nodded thoughtfully. "The Americans are undoubtedly behind him, or the Chinese.... or both. It’s always both, isn’t it?"

There were a few slow nods, but most of the murmured agreement was hollow.

Because in this chamber—behind the facade of continental unity—were men and women who no longer belonged to Africa.

Some had been bought by Washington while others fed from the dragon’s coin. Their policies were written in foreign languages long before any vote was cast locally. Their security guaranteed not by patriotism, but by retainer contracts and overseas wire transfers.

This was no council, this was a bidding war in national colors and everyone knew it.

Only five delegations sat apart from the farce, watchful, silent, and unamused.

At the west flank sat the Ghanaian representative, a young official named Kwabena Owusu, who had been rushed to fill the chair in place of their absent president. Kwabena said nothing, but he sat like a blade unsheathed, calm, straight-backed, and unfazed.

Opposite him, Nigeria’s President Folarin Ajayi leaned on one hand with the tired patience of a man who knew he was surrounded by clowns, but still needed their votes.

South Africa’s Minister of Intergalactic Affairs, Zelda Coetzee, tapped one finger against the desk, eyes like razors behind her tinted glasses. She didn’t need to speak to be felt.

Egypt’s Prime Minister, Mahmoud Al-Qadir, dressed in a pristine suit of desert tan, regarded the room with imperial boredom, as though he were hosting guests he did not respect but could not yet remove.

And then there was Burkina Faso. President Ismail Toure, old, sharp-eyed and draped in traditional cloth, smiled faintly as he watched the others bicker. His people had suffered too much to be amused by soft power games, and he knew a predator when he saw one.

"So, do we welcome this Prime Representative, or do we issue a formal statement of concern?" Dlamini murmured again, trying to steer the conversation.

"Concern? You mean fear. Say what you mean like a man." Zelda Coetzee finally spoke, her voice like cold steel.

A hush fell over the table.

Kwabena Owusu’s smile was polite. "Prime Representative Damon Arnan has already won. Your only concern now is how to position yourself under his sun without casting too long a shadow."

Ajayi snorted. "Positioning is all anyone here seems good at. Pity it never translates into progress."

Al-Qadir raised an eyebrow. "Prime Representative Damon will not wait for Africa to find consensus. He extended an invitation, not a negotiation."

President Toure chuckled quietly, the sound like dry leaves. "Africa always loves to debate invitations until the door closes."

A nervous chuckle from the Kenyan delegate. "Perhaps we should form a subcommittee—"

"No," said Toure, firmly.

He stood slowly, his voice gaining weight with every syllable.

"There is no subcommittee for survival. This is not about allegiance, this is not about youth or pride or who trained where. This is about whether Africa still has a voice, or whether we will once again let others speak for us because we sold the tongue, and leased the throat."

The silence afterward was deep.

Then Zelda Coetzee spoke again.

"South Africa will attend the summit, and alone if need be."

Al-Qadir followed. "Egypt as well."

Ajayi nodded. "Nigeria will not be sidelined."

Kwabena Owusu’s voice was quiet. "Ghana will be there. You need not ask."

And Toure smiled, ancient and knowing. "Burkina Faso never needed a foreign invitation to act."

The rest said nothing.

Some because they could not without consulting their minsters and others because they were waiting for instructions from people who weren’t even African.

The illusion of unity remained on the room, but it had already cracked.