Chapter 991 – "The First Decrees"
The year was 2030. Only weeks had passed since the formal establishment of the African Union, but the continent wasted no time.
Across the capitals of Africa, from Addis Ababa to Lagos, from Nairobi to Cape Town, the newly elected council of representatives convened in a rotating chamber, their discussions broadcast live across the continent. For the first time, millions of Africans sat together in homes, markets, and schools, watching leaders from dozens of nations speak not as rivals, but as one voice.
The Union's first policies were unveiled with startling speed.
Infrastructure Renewal:
The first decree was the creation of a continent-wide infrastructure network. Roads, high-speed railways, and mana-powered transport lines would weave together nations long separated by poor connectivity. With Aten rice accelerating strength and intelligence, millions of awakened citizens were already capable of building projects that once required decades. Now, they would do it in years.
"The deserts will not divide us, the forests will not hinder us, the rivers will not isolate us," declared the representative from Kenya. "From Cairo to Cape Town, from Dakar to Mogadishu — we will be connected."
Mana Education:
The second decree focused on education in mana arts and sciences. Every child across the Union was now guaranteed free access not only to standard schooling but to structured training in mana use. Specialized academies, modeled after the legendary Arx Aurelia, were being planned in every major region.
"This is not merely about warriors," explained the president of Ghana. "Mana is not for war, but for innovation. Our children will learn healing, agriculture, engineering, and protection. Every citizen shall rise with the knowledge of power."
Resource Protection:
The third decree addressed the continent's wealth — not only its natural resources but its newly awakened biodiversity. The Union announced the creation of mana reserves, protected zones where newly transformed flora and fauna would be studied and preserved. Mining, deforestation, and overhunting were strictly regulated, with penalties enforced by the Union's joint security forces.
"No longer shall our gold, our oil, our diamonds, or our land be stripped for the profit of outsiders," proclaimed the Nigerian delegate. "Africa's strength will serve Africa first."
Collective Defense:
Finally, a decree of collective security was signed. Each nation pledged its awakened warriors — from C-rank guardians to rare S-rank defenders — to the Union's defense corps. The message was clear: no dictator, no foreign invader, no hidden corruption would be allowed to destabilize Africa again.
The announcement was met with thunderous applause across the continent. In homes and villages, citizens cheered. Children lifted their hands, sparks of mana dancing in their palms, as if to celebrate their birthright.
For the first time in centuries, Africa was not defined by famine, war, or exploitation. It was defined by vision.
And as the broadcast closed, the Union's new banner was raised high — a golden stalk of Aten rice crossed with the outline of the continent, glowing beneath the African sun.
The world watched in silence.
2030 had begun with a continent reborn.
Not even six months after the Union's founding, Africa stunned the world again.
The experiment with a common currency, first tested quietly among regional trade hubs, had proven not only stable but wildly successful. Mana-infused agriculture, accelerated production, and shared transport links created a foundation stronger than anyone expected. Inflation remained low, trade between member states surged, and for the first time in centuries, Africa's internal markets rivaled its exports.
With unanimous support from the council, the African Union officially unveiled its new currency:
The Solari.
A gleaming coin was displayed on live broadcast, etched with a golden stalk of Aten rice on one side and the outline of the continent on the other. Banknotes followed, shimmering faintly with mana-seals that made forgery impossible.
"The Solari will be more than money," announced the chairwoman of the Union. "It is a symbol of unity, of trust, of a continent rising together. No longer will foreign powers dictate the value of our labor. From this day forward, Africa stands on its own foundation."
Citizens across the continent erupted in celebration. Markets immediately began pricing goods in Solari, while farmers, artisans, and awakened traders lined up to exchange their savings. In less than a week, the new currency became a fixture of daily life.
International markets scrambled to adjust. Analysts in New York, Brussels, and Beijing admitted, almost grudgingly, that Africa's Solari was unexpectedly stable — even desirable. Its mana-sealed nature gave it a kind of "living resilience," resistant to manipulation and counterfeiting in ways traditional currencies could never match.
On social media, videos went viral of African children proudly holding their first Solari coins, their laughter echoing against the backdrop of rebuilt schools and homes.
For the African people, the Solari wasn't just a new currency. It was proof: their unity wasn't an experiment. It was reality.
And as the new banner of the Union flew alongside this currency, world leaders realized Africa had just taken another decisive step toward becoming not just a regional power, but a global one.
Chapter 992 – "A Currency of Mana"
The African Union's announcement took an unexpected turn.
At first, the world believed the Solari would follow the path of the Euro — coins for small change, and paper banknotes for higher denominations. But when the Union revealed their decision, it shocked international financial circles:
There would be no paper money.
Instead, every Solari would exist only as mana-etched coinage and as digital currency, both bound by magical encryption that not even the most advanced counterfeiters could breach.
The reasoning became clear when officials recalled an incident eight months prior.
The FBI, working with international investigators, had dismantled a sprawling counterfeit operation in South America. At first, they were puzzled by the sudden, flawless flood of U.S. dollars entering circulation. These weren't crude fakes — they passed every bank scanner, every ink test, even ultraviolet detection.
The breakthrough came only when an awakened mage, recruited by the Bureau, noticed faint magical residue on one of the bills. What the world had dismissed as ordinary counterfeiting was something else entirely:
a magical counterfeiting technique.
Criminal organizations had discovered how to imprint mana signatures into physical currency, replicating even the most advanced security measures. Entire economies in the region had nearly collapsed before the FBI and allied governments destroyed the production sites and traced the awakened counterfeiters.
The memory of that crisis lingered.
Thus, the African Union declared:
"We will not risk the future of our continent on paper. The Solari will not be printed — it will live only in coin and in code."
The coins themselves were forged of a mithril-alloy, each embedded with a faint Aten rice-derived mana crystal at its core. They could not be duplicated without shattering their internal resonance, making counterfeiting impossible. For larger sums, digital Solari would circulate through an encrypted mana-network, verified by Union mages across every capital.
Global economists were stunned. It wasn't just currency. It was the first truly incorruptible monetary system.
In African markets, the effect was immediate. Citizens traded with ease, confidence soaring. Farmers accepted Solari coins with pride, while merchants used digital Solari linked to their awakened signatures — a transaction system impossible to fake.
In Washington and Brussels, policymakers whispered that Africa had just skipped decades of development in financial infrastructure, leaping ahead of the rest of the world.
And in the shadows, criminal networks cursed. For the first time in history, there was a currency they could not touch.
The press conference hall in Addis Ababa hushed as the African Union officials stepped aside, revealing robed envoys bearing the seal of the Magic Association.
For centuries, this Association had worked in the shadows — mediating disputes between magical clans, suppressing rogue practitioners, and maintaining the fragile veil that kept the supernatural world hidden from the mundane. But now, for the first time in living memory, they were stepping into the spotlight of global economics.
The African spokesperson's words carried both gravity and pride:
"The Solari was not forged by mortal hands alone. We requested the aid of the Magic Association, whose wisdom has endured since the first civilizations. Together, we have crafted a currency beyond the reach of fraud or corruption. Africa has funded this endeavor fully, and in return, the Association has bound itself by contract: none who know the secrets of Solari's making may reveal them."
Gasps and murmurs filled the air. Magical contracts were no ordinary oaths — they were unbreakable, binding the very soul. To violate one meant obliteration, not just of the body but of existence itself.
The Association's envoy stepped forward, his runed staff glowing faintly as he spoke:
"We assure the world: the methods of Solari remain secure. The materials used are mundane to the eye — steel, alloys, minerals of this earth. But their power lies not in rarity, but in what is inscribed. Runes that cannot be forged, glyphs that unravel upon tampering. This is no trick of metallurgy. It is a new order."
Questions erupted from the press, but the envoy silenced them with a raised hand.
"Know this only: even the attempt to counterfeit Solari will collapse into dust. The design rejects deception itself."
At the same time, Africa announced that every bank on the continent was already online, fully synchronized into the mana-encrypted Solari system. Each transaction carried a signature traceable not just through technology but through mana itself — impossible to scrub, erase, or falsify.
An online demonstration was shown live. A merchant in Nairobi transferred funds to a supplier in Lagos. As the Solari flowed digitally, glowing script shimmered across the broadcast feed, before vanishing with a chime. A voiceover explained:
"Each transfer is written not only to a ledger, but to the mana-stream of Africa itself. It cannot be undone. It cannot be hidden."
The announcement reverberated across the globe. Africa had not merely created a new currency — it had created the first magically sovereign financial system.
Economists scrambled. Journalists stammered. But within Africa, the people cheered. For the first time, their wealth felt secure, untouchable by foreign manipulation or criminal counterfeit.
Chapter 993 – "A Currency that Cannot Break"
The announcement from Addis Ababa rippled outward like a shockwave. Within hours, the financial world was in uproar.
In Washington, at the headquarters of the IMF, officials huddled around a giant screen, replaying the demonstration of Solari's mana-encrypted transfer again and again. Some looked intrigued, others pale.
One senior economist muttered under his breath:
"If this system works as they claim… then the entire global banking structure has just been leapfrogged."
At the World Bank, the reaction was even sharper. Leaders traded worried glances, their concern less about Africa's innovation and more about the precedent. If magic-based currencies spread, what role would remain for traditional oversight bodies? How do you regulate a system that literally binds every transaction into the lifeblood of a continent?
Across the Atlantic, private banking giants in London, Zurich, and New York convened emergency calls. CEOs whispered about opportunity and threat in equal measure. Some spoke with panic — fearing capital flight into Solari if it became recognized beyond Africa. Others saw only profit — visions of licensing mana-encryption or striking deals with the Magic Association.
But the deepest fear was not new. It was the echo of what the FBI had uncovered only months earlier in South America.
Back then, the world had been stunned when investigators revealed an elaborate magical counterfeiting ring. Ordinary humans might have dismissed forged bills, but supernatural alchemists had discovered ways to create fake US Dollars that even machines couldn't distinguish. For a brief, terrifying period, billions had flooded black markets, destabilizing entire regions before the FBI and magical task forces finally shut it down.
And now, whispers were spreading again.
Not in America — but in Asia. Currency analysts in Singapore and Tokyo reported unusual movements of Yuan, amounts so vast and irregular they could not be explained by trade flows. Almost simultaneously, in Europe, similar red flags emerged in the Eurozone.
The IMF director slammed a hand on the table during a closed-door briefing:
"This is exactly what we feared. If the South American incident can happen with the dollar, it can happen anywhere. Asia, Europe… what happens when confidence in fiat currencies breaks?"
Against this backdrop, Africa's new Solari loomed even larger. A system immune to forgery, immune to manipulation. For the IMF and World Bank, it was both a lifeline and a threat.
A lifeline, because it offered a solution to the problem gnawing at every economy.A threat, because it was born outside their control, forged by a continent they had once underestimated.
For now, global institutions held their tongues in public. But in private, phone lines burned hot, as world leaders demanded urgent reports.
Was Solari the future? Or was it the first fracture in the world's financial order?
The rumblings of instability in Asia and Europe came to a head faster than anyone expected. Reports of unusual spikes of Yuan and Euro circulation were confirmed by multiple financial watchdogs. Too much, too fast — entire blocks of currency moving in ways no legitimate trade could justify.
The IMF tried to calm markets with a bland statement about "temporary imbalances." The World Bank called it "regional liquidity anomalies." But everyone knew what it really meant: the same disease that once struck South America was spreading.
And in that atmosphere of fear, Africa made its move.
In a brightly lit chamber in Nairobi, television cameras captured what historians would later call the "Solari Breakthrough." Delegates from Kenya and India signed a multi-billion-dollar trade agreement for agricultural equipment and mana-infused fertilizers. But instead of settling the deal in USD, Euro, or Yuan — they settled it in Solari.
The announcement echoed like thunder.
The cameras zoomed in on the digital display: a live transfer glowing across the air, runes shimmering before dissolving into the ether. The transaction completed instantly, with no risk of reversal, no shadow of counterfeit.
A CNBC anchor in New York nearly shouted on live broadcast:
"This is unprecedented! For the first time in history, an international trade deal has been executed outside of the global currency system — and it worked flawlessly!"
Stock markets jolted. Traders froze mid-call. Within minutes, hashtags trended across the world:
#SolariDeal
#EndOfUSD
#ManaMoney
The symbolism cut deeper than the numbers. Africa had proven that its currency wasn't just theoretical — it could grease the wheels of global commerce. At the same time, the chaos of forged Euros and Yuan reinforced the perception: traditional money was crumbling, Solari was unbreakable.
In Beijing, party officials slammed tables. In Brussels, EU commissioners demanded emergency meetings. And in Washington, a grim silence fell across the Treasury Department as an analyst whispered the unthinkable:
"If one trade deal can be settled in Solari… what happens when it's oil? Or steel? Or tech?"
The world had just seen the spark. And everyone knew — the fire was coming.
Within weeks of the first Solari trade, the financial rot spread like wildfire. What began with the U.S. Dollar, Euro, and Yuan now infected almost every major global currency.
Breaking news tickers rolled across every channel:
"Counterfeit Shock: Illicit Banknotes Flooding Global Markets."
"Authorities Scramble as Currency Fraud Spreads Beyond Control."
The FBI, Interpol, and dozens of central banks confirmed the scope:
USD (United States Dollar) – still the largest victim, with billions untraceably printed and circulated.EUR (Euro) – counterfeit volumes destabilizing southern Europe in particular.CNY (Chinese Yuan) – black markets flooded, weakening Beijing's grip.RUB (Russian Ruble) – Moscow admits "unusual surges" of paper circulation.JPY (Japanese Yen) – Tokyo reports a surge of fake notes, particularly in 10,000-yen bills.INR (Indian Rupee) – New Delhi's Reserve Bank uncovers "mana-linked counterfeits" undetectable by ordinary scanners.GBP (British Pound Sterling) – the Bank of England issues a rare red alert; millions of fake £50 notes in circulation.AUD (Australian Dollar) – Canberra admits counterfeits slipping into even rural banks.CAD (Canadian Dollar) – border agencies find bundles of forged Canadian hundreds.CHF (Swiss Franc) – long thought "impossible to forge," but high-value notes now under siege.KRW (South Korean Won) – Seoul warns that fakes are spreading especially in technology hubs.BRL (Brazilian Real) – South America again hit hard, with Rio banks reporting "phantom money."MXN (Mexican Peso) – Mexico City detects counterfeit hundreds flooding marketplaces.ZAR (South African Rand) – even Africa's most modernized banks report old-world money destabilized.
Reporters were breathless:
"It's not just the big three anymore. We are witnessing the collapse of faith in fiat money itself."
Every week, more nations were added to the list. By the end of the month, economists whispered what governments dared not admit aloud: every major fiat currency was compromised.
And in that vacuum, one name kept rising — Solari.
Africa's rune-forged money had no counterfeits, no fakes, no anomalies. Transactions were transparent, instant, incorruptible. The more the world watched fiat collapse, the more it looked like the only anchor left was glowing golden from Africa.
Chapter 994 – "The Old World's Treasures"
The Solari was not just a currency; it was a revelation.
When it appeared, the first to move were not ordinary citizens or even governments, but the hidden powers of the supernatural world. For centuries, ancient families, covens, magical guilds, and occult clans had never truly trusted paper money. They had lived long enough to know that all things that could be made, could be forged.
Banknotes, no matter how advanced, were always a temporary tool. Their real wealth had always been elsewhere: enchanted artifacts, magical ores, grimoires, potions, dragon-blood crystals, sealed relics from fallen gods.
Yet even they had to admit — commerce with the mundane world still required money. For hundreds of years, they tolerated gold, then fiat, then electronic accounts. But never once did they mistake these things for true wealth.
Now, however, whispers passed through bloodlines and guild halls across the globe:
"A currency that cannot be forged… sealed by mana itself."
At first, they tested it cautiously. Small amounts of dollars, euros, yen, and yuan — converted quietly into Solari. The results were undeniable. No falsification. No anomalies. The runes woven into each coin and digital mark were absolute, unbreakable even by archmages or artifact forgers.
Within weeks, ancient clans in Europe, Daoist sects in China, witch covens in the Americas, and even scattered remnants of divine cults in the Middle East began liquidating their fiat reserves.
They did not move all their wealth — no, their main treasures were still their hoards of relics and forbidden tomes. But the message was clear: if money had to exist alongside treasure, then only Solari was worthy of it.
Hidden supernatural networks — black markets that traded phoenix feathers for leviathan bones, dragon horns for demon steel — started marking Solari as a valid tender.
In the shadows, a quiet shift had begun.
For the first time in history, both the human world and the supernatural community trusted the same coin.
At first, it was only whispers. A leaked memo here, a rumor among financial circles there. But soon, the truth could no longer be contained.
On every major network, the anchors spoke with barely concealed shock:
"Breaking News: Reports confirm that numerous supernatural organizations — including centuries-old magical families and hidden clans — have begun exchanging their reserves of foreign currencies into Solari."
Images played across the screens: grainy footage of robed figures walking into African banks under heavy guard; blurred faces of known supernatural leaders leaving with rune-sealed tokens; documents showing sudden surges of Solari inflows from accounts long rumored to belong to "magical clients."
Commentators filled the air with urgency.
"This is unprecedented," said one financial analyst on BBC. "For hundreds of years, these families have operated outside the modern banking system. They hoarded relics, treasures, and only kept fiat for practical use. If even they are abandoning dollars, euros, yen, and yuan for Solari, then the rest of the world must reconsider its position."
CNN's ticker blared: "SUPERNATURAL CLANS BACK SOLARI – GLOBAL BANKS RATTLED."
In Tokyo, Nikkei commentators debated whether the once-secret magical houses of Kyoto had already liquidated their yen holdings. In Berlin, German media replayed footage of an auctioneer admitting that Solari was now being accepted as payment for "artifacts of unique origin."
Even in Washington, the White House press secretary could not dodge the question. A reporter shouted over the crowd:
"If the supernatural community — the very people who've lived through empires rising and falling — no longer trust the dollar or euro, why should anyone else?"
Silence fell before the official mumbled, "We are monitoring the situation."
Across social media, the reaction was explosive. Memes spread like wildfire: robed magicians holding Solari coins, captions reading "If the sorcerers trust it, maybe we should too."
For ordinary people, it was both terrifying and strangely reassuring. If even the ancient powers of the world chose Solari, then perhaps it really was unbreakable.
And for Africa, it was the validation no politician or economist could buy. The Solari had just been endorsed by the very shadows that had quietly ruled for centuries.
The age of counterfeit banknotes was ending. The age of Solari had truly begun.
The announcement hit the world economy like a meteor.
The moment the supernatural community's endorsement became public, the IMF headquarters in Washington went into emergency session. Reports described their meeting room as chaos incarnate: directors shouting over one another, charts of collapsing currency confidence projected across the walls, analysts frantically comparing Solari's unforgeable rune seals to every known anti-counterfeiting measure.
The World Bank convened at the same time. One insider leaked a chilling line from the president's private address:
"If beings who have survived the fall of empires now declare their trust in Solari, then centuries of faith in the dollar and euro will vanish in months."
By dawn, the biggest names in global finance — JPMorgan Chase, Goldman Sachs, HSBC, Deutsche Bank, Mitsubishi UFJ — had already issued urgent memos to their shareholders. Many were contradictory: some promised stability, others admitted "structural uncertainty." Behind the scenes, several banks quietly began exploring Solari accounts of their own, despite officially denouncing it on camera.
The markets reacted violently.
Dollar futures dipped as traders questioned the long-term role of USD.The Euro weakened, burdened by news of counterfeit influxes in Southern Europe.The Yuan slipped, its government denying rumors that magical sects in China had already dumped their holdings for Solari.Meanwhile, Solari demand surged. African banks reported a tenfold increase in exchange requests overnight, with queues stretching into the streets.
In Brussels, EU officials were caught flat-footed. One minister blurted on live television:
"How do you compete with a currency that even sorcerers say cannot be forged?"
In Wall Street's trading halls, young analysts whispered comparisons to Bitcoin's early days, except this time the "crypto" was backed not by code, but by ancient runes blessed by the Magic Association itself.
Panic calls rang through the IMF's network. Emergency discussions with central banks from the Federal Reserve, the European Central Bank, the Bank of Japan, and the People's Bank of China were hastily scheduled. The unspoken truth loomed: if Solari spread any further, it would not just destabilize currencies — it would rewrite global finance.
Meanwhile, ordinary citizens watched their televisions in awe and unease.
Anchors on CNBC put it bluntly:
"The supernatural world has thrown its weight behind Africa's Solari. And now the most powerful financial institutions on Earth are scrambling to catch up."
Chapter 995 – "The Fractured Trust"
The world's governments could not stay silent any longer.
In Washington, the U.S. Treasury Secretary stood before cameras, his voice steady but his expression betraying unease:
"The dollar remains strong. We are investigating counterfeit operations and will stabilize markets. Citizens are advised to remain calm and use official banking channels."
Yet behind the scenes, leaked documents revealed the Federal Reserve had already opened quiet channels to study Solari — not to adopt it, but to prepare contingency measures should faith in the dollar collapse further.
In Brussels, the European Union issued a joint statement. Leaders condemned Solari as "an unregulated magical instrument" that threatened global stability. But financial journalists quickly noted that several member states — particularly France, Italy, and Greece — had discreetly contacted African banks about opening Solari reserves.
China's response was blunt. The People's Bank of China declared the Yuan "unshakable" but simultaneously announced a "research partnership" with the Magic Association to study counterfeiting-proof currency. Analysts called it what it was: an attempt to replicate Solari.
Japan's government, burned by its own surge of counterfeit yen, admitted publicly that discussions with the African Union were underway. The finance minister said:
"If Solari is the future, Japan must be ready to trade in the future."
Russia took a harder stance. State media denounced Solari as "economic imperialism through sorcery." Yet oligarchs were already funneling rubles into Solari through offshore channels.
Meanwhile, ordinary citizens around the world were taking action faster than their governments.
Lines stretched outside pawnshops and gold dealers. Families who once trusted their local banks now carried sacks of cash to exchange for jewelry, rare metals, gemstones, or — when they were lucky — Solari notes. In marketplaces across Asia and South America, merchants began openly advertising: "Solari Accepted Here."
A reporter summarized the atmosphere succinctly:
"Banknotes are turning into hot potatoes. No one wants to hold them for long. Their value bleeds by the day, while Solari's climbs higher."
The IMF's emergency bulletin that night called it a "run on trust itself."
For centuries, paper money had been faith embodied. Now, that faith was shattering before the eyes of billions.
And in Africa, the Union's officials remained calm. Their only public message was short and resolute:
"Solari cannot be counterfeited. Solari will endure."
The first dominoes to fall were not the great powers but the small states.
In the Caribbean, island nations long reliant on the U.S. dollar quietly announced that all future trade would also be settled in Solari. Their finance ministers explained it simply:
"We can no longer afford to rely on a currency that criminals can print faster than governments can stop."
In Africa itself, where the Union's influence was strongest, dozens of smaller nations abandoned their old currencies overnight. Some that had once pegged their economies to the U.S. dollar or the euro now declared Solari their sole legal tender.
Across Southeast Asia, tiny states and microeconomies — those who had always feared being swallowed by the monetary policies of their larger neighbors — rushed to Solari as a lifeline. For them, it was independence.
Eastern European states with fragile banking systems began experimenting as well. Moldova, Kosovo, and others quietly announced pilot programs, issuing Solari notes alongside their national currencies.
But perhaps the most telling shift came from the Pacific. Island nations battered by counterfeit inflows — and long forgotten in the larger global trade wars — declared openly:
"Our people will not suffer because others failed to protect the integrity of their money. From today, Solari will be our future."
Reporters highlighted the trend with a chilling headline:
"Small Nations Move First — The World Follows."
Financial experts explained why:
Small nations had less to lose, and everything to gain.Their currencies were already weak, so switching caused little disruption.Solari's promise of unbreakable trust outweighed centuries of dependency on foreign powers.
And as adoption spread, the effect was unmistakable. Solari was no longer just an African experiment. It was becoming the currency of the weak, the small, the overlooked — and through them, it was rapidly becoming the backbone of global trade.
The IMF, panicked, warned:
"If this trend continues, Solari could surpass several national currencies in global circulation within months."
For the first time, economists began using a new phrase on television:
"The Solari Standard."
Behind the scenes, a silent war was being waged.
Intelligence agencies across the globe — from the FBI and Interpol to China's MSS and Europe's Europol task forces — were scrambling to trace the origins of the counterfeit flood. What they uncovered was more alarming than anyone had anticipated.
This was no longer the work of a handful of shadow groups or rogue mages in South America. The counterfeiting process had spread. Small gangs were replicating it for local rackets. Mid-tier cartels were moving millions. And whispers emerged of major criminal syndicates — the Yakuza, Russian Bratva, and even fragments of disbanded terrorist cells — adopting the technique.
Governments tried desperately to contain the knowledge. Classified reports labeled the phenomenon a "monetary pandemic." Officials insisted, off the record, that full disclosure could collapse public trust overnight.
But not everyone was willing to stay quiet.
Private cybersecurity firms, payment processors, and independent economic think tanks began piecing the puzzle together. They tracked the sudden abnormal flows of dollars, euros, yuan, and now pounds and rupees. When their findings leaked to financial media, headlines erupted:
"Counterfeiting Crisis: Not Limited to Cartels — Global Syndicates Involved."
"Governments Knew But Stayed Silent, Experts Claim."
The public response was swift and bitter. Citizens demanded to know why their savings were eroding while officials reassured them "everything was under control."
In the middle of this firestorm, one private company CEO stated bluntly in an interview:
"This isn't about money laundering anymore. This is about the very idea of money itself. If a child with the right tools can print a hundred-dollar bill that no bank can detect as fake, what's left to believe in?"
The revelation fueled only one trend: more people rushing to Solari.
The leaks were the spark. The anger that followed was the fire.
In the United States, thousands gathered outside the Federal Reserve in Washington, D.C. Protesters held up counterfeit bills, waving them like torn flags. Signs read:
"OUR SAVINGS ARE A LIE."
"SOLARI NOW."
"STOP HIDING THE TRUTH."
Police lines formed, but the protests swelled day by day, spreading from New York to Chicago, Los Angeles, and beyond.
In Europe, the backlash was even sharper. Brussels, Paris, and Berlin saw demonstrations against both national governments and the EU itself. Citizens accused leaders of knowing about the counterfeit wave for months, yet keeping silent while ordinary people's pensions and salaries lost value. The chants were relentless:
"You saved the banks, but who saves us?"
China faced its own storm. Though state media tried to suppress coverage, word spread quickly through encrypted apps. Students and young professionals filled city squares, demanding accountability. Even loyal party members whispered their anger at the erosion of the yuan's value.
Japan — usually orderly — saw lines at banks stretching for blocks. Families tried desperately to exchange their yen for Solari or gold. Outside the Bank of Japan, elderly pensioners sat silently with signs reading:
"We trusted you."
In London, fiery speeches rang out before Parliament:
"Our government knew our money was being hollowed out and told us nothing! Is this what democracy is worth — silence while our lives are devalued?"
The unrest wasn't confined to the streets. Political fractures deepened in parliaments and congresses worldwide. Opposition leaders demanded resignations. Stock markets reeled with every new leak, every revelation.
Amid it all, one phrase repeated on banners, in chants, across social media:
"If our money is fake, then our leaders are too."
Governments could no longer pretend the crisis was under control. The tide of anger was rising — and Solari was becoming the symbol of stability the old currencies had lost.