To most, history is little more than dusty books and forgotten names. A subject pushed to the margins—useless, they say, in the face of modern marvels like AI, space travel, and towering cities of steel. But history isn't useless. It's the thread that sews the present to the past, the key to understanding how our laws, systems, and societies became what they are today.
Especially here—especially now—history reveals more than political shifts and social evolution. It tells us why the military personnel among us wield supernatural power, while the rest of us live ordinary, powerless lives. According to the archives, this division of strength wasn't always so.
My grandmother used to speak of it like a bedtime tale, a myth meant to scare or awe a child into sleep. But her voice would always carry something deeper—reverence, fear, maybe both. Because unlike fairy tales, her story was true. It was the tale of how humanity first came into contact with the supernatural.
It began in 1299.
At the time, humanity was still stretching its wings, learning to crawl toward greatness. There were no satellites in orbit, no sleek vehicles speeding down highways, no planes carving lines through the sky. But even in their primitive state, humans were building, discovering, thriving.
Then… it happened. No prophecy, no warning. The skies didn't split open. There were no portals, no machines, no symbols of ancient doom. The creatures appeared as if breathed into the world by the air itself—forming out of nothing, like illusions made flesh.
They were humanoid, vaguely. Some towered like titans, others slithered or skittered. Each one grotesque in its own way, a perversion of the human form. They did not speak, they did not bargain, and they came with only one appetite—the heart.
They devoured them. Ripped them from living chests, still beating. The screams echoed across continents. This was no invasion. This was a harvest.
Axes shattered against their hides. Swords snapped like twigs. Guns—when invented later—would have likely fared no better. These creatures, known now as Zunans, were immune to human ingenuity. They could not be killed. They could not be reasoned with. They simply were.
Panic descended like a storm cloud. Desperate, people turned to ancient gods and offered sacrifices. Livestock, blood, even their own children. They pleaded for mercy. But if the gods ever existed, they turned their backs.
In just six months, the human population was reduced to a mere 10%. Civilization crumbled. Cities became feeding grounds. Hope was a flickering candle in a storm—until it blazed.
It happened simultaneously across the globe. Every Zunan burst into golden-blue flames. Not just fire—something divine. No water could quench it. No wind could snuff it. These were flames of judgment, not nature.
And from the inferno, he emerged.
A being cloaked in those same divine flames, his form humanoid, but radiant—impossibly radiant. He was not on fire; he was fire. To some, he was an angel sent from heaven. To others, a god in the flesh. Names bloomed in his wake: The Flaming Angel, God of Judgement, The Burning Hand of Heaven.
He spoke to a select few—a handful of humans he found worthy. He told them that this purge was not an end, but a delay. The Zunans would return. But he would give humanity the means to fight.
He took them—no one knows where—and when they returned, they had changed. They wielded power no human had ever known: elemental force, raw energy, strength to match the monsters. Supernatural warriors, reborn for war.
But the Flaming Angel gave more than power. He reshaped the cosmos itself.
He created a parallel dimension—what we now call the Delay Universe. In this space, the Zunans would first materialize. It would hold them for exactly 48 hours before they crossed over into our Earth. That delay became humanity's last hope.
Using this window, the newly empowered soldiers—Zunan Fighters—could enter the Delay Universe, track the Zunans, and eliminate them before they reached Earth. It was a war fought in the shadows, in a world between worlds.
The Flaming Angel disappeared after that, but left behind one final gift: access to the place where the first soldiers had gained their powers. Those who were chosen—judged worthy by existing superhumans—could be taken there, trained, transformed.
And so, the militaries of the world changed. Nations struck uneasy pacts, agreeing on who would gain access to these powers, and how many warriors each country could awaken each year. Thus, the age of the supernatural soldier began.
Earth appears peaceful today. Cities have been rebuilt. Skies are calm. But it's a deception. The war never ended. The Delay Universe still pulses with danger, and every 48-hour cycle begins anew. The Zunan Fighters enter the breach again and again, protecting a world that barely knows the peril it's in.
Yet one question haunts every historian, every scholar, every child who dreams of becoming a fighter:
Will the Zunans ever stop appearing?
And if they do... what kind of world will be born from their absence?
Some say that answer is further than we can imagine.
But my grandmother always said it was closer than anyone dared believe.