SSS-Class Profession: The Path to Mastery-Chapter 328: The True Agenda

The sound of that single person clapping echoed through the vast conference room was like that of a gunshot. It was slow, deliberate, and completely unexpected. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting and scanned the seated figures, I spotted the source. It was a tall, dignified man with dark skin and an easy smile, wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit. He was seated about halfway around the circular table, and unlike everyone else who was staring at me with various degrees of calculation or wariness, he looked genuinely pleased to see me.

The clapping continued for perhaps ten seconds, each measured beat seeming to stretch time itself. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped, and the man’s smile widened.

"Welcome, Mr. Reynard," he said, his voice carrying a slight accent that I couldn’t immediately place. "I’m Samuel Osei, President of Ghana. It’s an honor to finally meet you in person."

The tension in the room didn’t exactly break, but rather transformed. Where there had been silence heavy with anticipation, now there was an undercurrent of something else. Amusement? Relief? I couldn’t tell if Samuel’s gesture had been genuine warmth or calculated theater, but it had certainly changed the atmosphere.

A few chuckles rippled around the table. I noticed a woman with silver hair—I thought she might be from one of the Scandinavian countries—shaking her head with what looked like fond exasperation. An elderly man in an expensive suit was trying to hide a smile behind his hand.

"Thank you," I said, though I wasn’t sure if I was grateful or concerned. Something about Samuel’s easy confidence set off alarm bells in my mind. This was a man who had reportedly worked with top mercenaries, someone whose job was Urban Developer but whose real influence extended far beyond city planning. The fact that he was the only one to break the ice made me wonder what his angle was. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

"Mr. Reynard," said a voice from directly across the table. I turned to see a middle-aged man with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses gesturing toward an empty chair. "I’m Dr. Heinrich Zimmermann, serving as chairman for today’s proceedings. Please, take your seat so we can begin."

I walked around the table, acutely aware of every pair of eyes tracking my movement. The chair they’d designated for me was positioned so that I could see everyone clearly, but it also meant everyone could see me. It was an example of classic psychological positioning. They wanted to read my reactions to everything that was about to be discussed.

Evelyn took a seat directly behind me, her briefcase at her feet, while Anthony positioned himself near the wall where he could observe the entire room. MacLeod sat to my left, and I found his presence reassuring in a way that surprised me.

"Now then," Dr. Zimmermann said, adjusting his glasses and opening a leather folder, "let’s begin with the agenda for today’s meeting. We’re here to discuss the ramifications of your recent global broadcast, Mr. Reynard, and the significant consequences it has had on international stability."

He paused, looking around the table. "The unauthorized revelation of classified governmental operations has created unprecedented challenges for maintaining global order. The exposure of sensitive information has led to civil unrest in multiple countries, economic instability, and a breakdown in public trust in democratic institutions."

I felt my jaw tighten. Here we go, I thought. The careful political language, the attempt to make me responsible for problems that existed long before I’d ever made a public statement.

"Furthermore," Dr. Zimmermann continued, "the broadcast has raised questions about the regulation of individuals with exceptional systems and the potential security threats they represent. We need to establish protocols for—"

"Stop," I said, my voice cutting through his prepared remarks. The word came out more sharply than I’d intended, and conversation around the table ceased immediately. "Just... stop."

Dr. Zimmermann blinked at me over his glasses. "Excuse me?"

I looked around the table at the assembled world leaders. A bunch of presidents, prime ministers, chancellors, and other officials whose names I recognized from international news. These were people who had spent their entire careers in the careful dance of diplomacy, the art of saying much while revealing little.

"No one here needs to sugar coat it," I said, my voice steady despite the racing of my heart. "Everyone in this room knows about the existence of the World President. Every single person here knows that what you’re calling ’classified governmental operations’ is really a shadow government that’s been operating above and beyond national sovereignty for years."

The silence that followed was different from the one that had greeted my entrance. This was the silence of people who had just heard someone say something that wasn’t supposed to be said out loud, even in a room full of people who already knew it.

"My broadcast isn’t the reason for civil unrest," I continued, feeling my Strategist skill feeding me insights about the room’s dynamics. The way some people were avoiding eye contact, the way others were leaning forward with interest, the micro-expressions that revealed who was surprised and who was simply surprised that I’d said it openly. "The chaos and division in global governance existed long before I ever appeared on anyone’s radar. I just made it impossible to ignore."

Samuel Osei was watching me with what looked like genuine fascination, his head tilted slightly as if he was seeing something in me that he found unexpectedly interesting. The woman with silver hair—I caught a glimpse of her nameplate and saw it read "Prime Minister Andersson"—was nodding almost imperceptibly.

"The World President system’s has been discriminatory for years," I continued, my confidence growing as I spoke. "National governments have been struggling against decisions made by someone they can’t even acknowledge exists publicly. Citizens have been watching their leaders implement policies that make no sense from a national perspective because they’re serving a different master entirely."

Dr. Zimmermann’s face had gone pale. "Mr. Reynard, I think you may have misunderstood the nature of—"

"I haven’t misunderstood anything," I said, standing up. The movement felt natural, necessary—I needed to be on my feet for this. "I’ve simply refused to participate in the fiction that this is about regulating people with multiple jobs or managing the fallout from unauthorized broadcasts. This is about the fact that your experiments have been exposed and your hierarchy is starting to fail you as people see the discrimination behind it, and instead of addressing that failure, you’re trying to make me the scapegoat for it."

My Psychological Insight skill was practically humming now, feeding me information about the room that I couldn’t have consciously processed. The way the Russian representative was gripping his pen a little too tightly. The way the Japanese delegate was carefully controlling her breathing. The way several African leaders were exchanging glances that suggested they’d discussed this possibility before arriving.

"You want to talk about security threats?" I continued. "The biggest security threat is a governance system that operates in complete secrecy, making decisions that affect billions of people without any accountability whatsoever. The biggest threat to democracy is pretending that democracy still exists when real power is concentrated in the hands of someone who wasn’t elected by anyone."

Prime Minister MacLeod was watching me with something that looked like pride, though he was trying to keep his expression neutral. Anthony had shifted his position slightly, and I could see he was ready to move if things went badly.

"My broadcast didn’t create division," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the room. "It revealed a global division that already existed. It forced people to confront the reality that their governments have been lying to them for years about how the world actually works."

The silence stretched out again, but this time it felt different. This time it felt like the silence of people who were finally hearing someone say what they’d all been thinking but none of them had been willing to voice.

Then another man started clapping, he wasn’t clapping as slow as Samuel, but slow enough that it had impact. "Excellent," he said, his voice carrying genuine appreciation. "Absolutely excellent. I was wondering if you’d have the backbone to cut through all the diplomatic nonsense."

Dr. Zimmermann looked like he was going to have a heart attack. "Mr. Mateo Alvarez, the agenda specifically—"

"The agenda is bullshit, Heinrich," Mateo said cheerfully. "We all know it, he knows it, and pretending otherwise is just wasting everyone’s time." He turned to look at me with something that might have been respect. "You’re right, Mr. Reynard. The system is fracturing. Has been for years. The question is what we do about it."

"Mateo," said a voice from across the table—a woman with short blond hair and sharp eyes who I thought might be from one of the Baltic states. "We agreed to follow protocol."

"Protocol assumes that everyone involved is willing to engage in polite fictions," Kara Valeska, a woman with dirty blond hair and a height that was well over 6 feet, replied. "Mr. Reynard has just demonstrated that he’s not. So we can either continue with the charade, or we can have an honest conversation about why we’re really here."

I felt my pulse quicken. This was the moment my Strategist skill had been preparing me for—the moment when taking the initiative would either pay off spectacularly or backfire completely. The energy in the room was shifting, and I could sense that the next few seconds would determine the entire direction of what followed.

Dr. Zimmermann was looking around the table, clearly seeking guidance from someone—anyone—about how to handle this development. His carefully prepared agenda was in ruins, and the meeting was spinning into territory that none of them had planned for.

Several delegates were whispering to their assistants. Others were staring at me with expressions that ranged from admiration to alarm. The French representative was tapping his fingers on the table in a pattern that suggested he was thinking rapidly.

"Mr. Reynard," Dr. Zimmermann said finally, his voice slightly strained, "you’re suggesting that we abandon the established protocols for international discourse and—"

"I’m suggesting that we stop pretending," I interrupted. "Everyone in this room knows why we’re really here. Everyone knows what the real issue is. The only question is whether we’re going to be honest about it or continue to dance around it with diplomatic language that fools nobody."

Samuel Osei was grinning now, clearly enjoying the disruption to what had probably been planned as a much more controlled encounter. "You know what I like about you, Reynard?" he said. "You’re not afraid to say what everyone else is thinking."

Prime Minister Andersson cleared her throat delicately. "If we’re abandoning protocol," she said, her accent revealing her to be Swedish, "then perhaps we should be direct about the purpose of this gathering."

Dr. Zimmermann looked like a man watching his carefully constructed world collapse around him. He glanced around the table one more time, then seemed to come to some kind of decision. His shoulders sagged slightly, and when he looked at me again, there was something different in his expression—something that looked almost like relief.

"Very well," he said, his voice carrying a tone of finality. "If we’re going to be honest..."

He closed his leather folder and set it aside, then looked directly at me. When he spoke again, his voice was steady and clear, stripped of all the diplomatic double-speak that had characterized his earlier remarks.

"Mr. Reynard," he said, and for the first time since I’d entered the room, his words carried the weight of absolute truth, "we’re here to discuss your candidacy to overthrow the current World President."

The room went completely silent. Even the subtle sounds of people shifting in their chairs, of papers rustling, of quiet breathing—everything stopped. This was the moment that everything had been building toward, the moment when all the careful pretenses were finally abandoned.

I felt my heart pounding in my chest, but my mind was surprisingly clear. My Strategist skill was working overtime, processing the implications of what had just been revealed, calculating the opportunities and dangers that lay ahead.

Dr. Zimmermann was smiling now, and there was something almost predatory in his expression. "Welcome to the real meeting, Mr. Reynard. Now we can begin."

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