Prologue — The Awakening
Brothers and sisters, Europe sleeps under chains forged not of iron, but of debt, distraction, and deceit. The plutocrats — faceless corporations as mighty as governments — have fattened themselves upon our labor. They offer glittering distractions: hollow prosperity, endless entertainment, fleeting pleasures, all while robbing us of dignity. They have made us slaves who believe themselves free.
They tell us to be content — to borrow, to rent, to scroll, to forget. But we are no tame beasts. We are the cornered, the betrayed, the ones who still remember what it means to live. And when a people remember — they become dangerous.
We will not kneel. We will not beg. We will rise.
I. The Decay of Politics
Europe bleeds not because its people are weak, but because those who claim to rule are traitors in fine suits.
We are told our taxes build schools, hospitals, and infrastructure — yet all we see are bureaucracies feeding upon us. A continent that pays the most gives back the least. The wheels of governance are clogged with the fat fingers of paper-pushers who produce nothing.
They betray us with the illusion of democracy. They promise salvation before elections and contempt after them. And when the people cry out, they mock us: “Vote us out in four years if you dislike us.” As if the cage is freedom because the jailer rotates.
A politician cannot be bought, they say — but he can be rented. And rented he is, not by you, the people, but by bankers, corporations, and foreign lords who dictate our laws.
This order cannot be repaired. It must be uprooted — so that something pure may grow in its place.
II. The Economic Trap
They tell you that you own your home, your car, your life. But if it is bought with loans, you own nothing — the banker owns you.
Through interest, you pay four times over for what was already yours by right of labor. They profit not through craft, but by tightening a noose around your neck.
Speculators gamble with trillions while children go hungry. Corporations lobby away your freedom, writing the very laws that govern you. They call it lobbying; we call it the renting of power.
The people’s wealth — our labor, our land, our energy — has been stolen and monetized by parasites. This rot will not be negotiated with. It will be humbled.
III. The Forgotten People
The elderly, who built the world, are told their pensions will vanish. The farmer, who feeds the world, drowns in debt. The worker, who builds the world, cannot afford to raise a child. The youth, who should be dreaming, live under the shadow of hopelessness and debt.
They tell us to endure. We will not endure.
IV. The Plutocrats
Our suffering is not accidental. It is engineered by a small, poisonous caste — the plutocrats.
They build nothing, yet claim everything. They sow nothing, yet reap all. They are the bankers, the moguls, the industrial barons who gorge themselves while Europe starves.
It is they who unleashed floods of cheap labor to crush wages. It is they who fuel inflation to rob the worker twice. It is they who bind our nations to endless debt, ensuring that no generation is ever free.
They are few. We are many. Before Europe can rise, they must fall.
V. The Path of Fire
Do not believe those who whisper of reform. The old forest cannot be pruned; its roots are hollow, its trunk diseased.
It must burn. Fire is the purifier of worlds — it devours the rot and leaves only what is strong enough to rise again.
Let the ashes of this age become the soil of a new one: a Europe reborn, sovereign, and just. A Europe of discipline, brotherhood, and truth.
VI. The New Order of Work
Technology was meant to free us, but the plutocrats twisted it into a weapon of control. Machines measure our worth, algorithms watch our sleep, and automation becomes an excuse to discard the worker.
We will take back technology. It shall serve the people, not enslave them.
We will standardize work — safety, simplicity, and shared responsibility — so no man or woman fears starvation when labor is scarce. When unemployment rises, we shall share the burden. We will not let a few toil while the rest starve. This is solidarity — the heartbeat of a new order.
VII. The Guardian’s Oath
I do not speak as a politician. I am not here to bargain. I speak as a Guardian of those abandoned by false leaders and hollow promises.
- I will protect the young.
- I will honor the old.
- I will restore the dignity of work.
- I will break the chains of debt.
- I will humble the plutocrats.
- I will unite the nations of Europe — not under treaties, but under Brotherhood and the will of Mother Earth.
The path is hard, but the flock is worth guarding. We will rise not in despair, but in discipline. Not as subjects, but as sons and daughters of fire, born from the soil of Mother Earth.
Epilogue — The Swarm’s Hour
The Lone Ant and the Coming Swarm
Once, beneath the vast flagstones of a crumbling empire, there lived a single ant.
He was no larger than a grain of dust, and the world trod upon him without notice.
A boot could crush him, a sparrow could snatch him, even the wind could scatter him like chaff.
He carried his crumb alone, hid in the cracks, and dreamed of a day when the earth itself would tremble at his step.
But ants do not dream alone for long.
From every corner of the continent—north, south, east, and west—others heard the faint chemical whisper of his trail.
One by one they came: a worker from the frozen fjords, a forager from the sun-scorched sierras, a scout from the misted moors.
Each arrived bearing the same silent vow: We will not be stepped on forever.
At first they were few, and the giants laughed.
A beetle brushed them aside. A child’s careless heel flattened a dozen.
Yet every fallen body released a stronger signal, a sweeter pheromone of purpose.
The trail thickened. The cracks filled. The lone ant was no longer alone.
Millions followed.
They poured from the soil of every nation, a black river that no boot could dam, no bird could devour.
They marched in perfect silence, jaws locked in shared hunger, antennae touching like clasped hands across borders.
Forests parted. Herds fled. Even the lion, king of beasts, retreated before the living carpet that devoured grass, wood, and bone alike.
The old lords of the land—those who had feasted while the ants starved—watched from their towers as the swarm rose.
Stone walls meant nothing. Iron gates were gnawed to rust.
When the ants reached the heart of the empire, they did not rage or roar.
They simply consumed.
Every hoard, every vault, every throne of gold and lies—taken, broken down, carried away grain by grain until nothing remained but the echo of their march.
And in the silence that followed, the lone ant—who was never truly alone—stood atop the emptied pedestal and released one final scent into the wind:
We are Europe. We are legion. Step lightly.