Three Superpowers — Three Worlds on the Brink of War
Hun
Hun — not a country, but an engineered empire.
An immense territory: 178 million square kilometers — as if a continent, alone, had decided to dictate law to humanity.
Its population: 1.5 billion people — a populace not merely loyal, but self-sacrificing.
Its government: an absolute monarchy — not through terror, but through engineered trust.
Its economy, a cutting-edge engine; its security, an invisible wall; and its military power, so formidable that even its enemies tremble in their dreams at the mere thought of attacking it.
Hun is bordered by land on one side, sea on two sides, and ocean on the fourth — as if nature itself had designed its strategy.
Its capital city, Hashana, lies beside Lake Lanav — as if breathing on the edge of a blue world.
Its astonishing size: 1 million square kilometers — larger than many countries.
Its population: 70 million people — neither crowded, nor deserted; a carefully planned equilibrium.
But Hun does not possess only one capital.
It has two others:
Alarona: the military capital — a place no one enters unless granted four-layer clearance.
Harduta: the economic capital — a city where every coin is a military order.
At the heart of Hashana rises the Arnahon Palace —
not a building, but the brain's core of this empire.
There, the King lives.
There, decisions are made—decisions that endure for centuries.
There, history is commissioned.
And the current King of Hun — Junior Smith, a fourteen-year-old boy whose crown is forged not of gold, but of irtransferable responsibility.
Hun's primary enemy? Khanam — a relationship that has never been good, not even on days when the sky rained.
And a detail many do not know:
Hun possesses two armies:
The National Army: for displaying power and defending borders.
The separate army of Hamun: a name from Hun's ancient tongue, meaning "the shadow that does not breathe" — a covert force known in its true form only to the Arnahon Palace.
Its terrorist group — Hanza: a name from Hun's archaic language meaning "the first breath after silence".
A group no one yet knows whether truly operates… or is merely a calculated silence kept alive by Hun to prevent actual war.
Khanam
Khanam — not a country, but a living resistance.
Area: 5 million square kilometers — small, yet unyielding.
Population: 100 million people — more than half of whom, over the past four years, have sipped their morning tea cold, each day, fearing the next attack.
Its government: a republic — yet a republic where every vote is cast in the shadow of explosions by the Khulen terrorist group.
Its economy is weak, its security moderate — but its morale?
No statistic can measure it.
And Khanam's peculiar geography:
It is completely encircled by water — as if nature itself had sealed it in.
Yet its capital, Nortinama, lies at the country's center — and is itself entirely surrounded by land.
A city spanning 7,000 square kilometers, with a population of 6 million — as if a heart beats within a body flooded on all sides.
The current President of Khanam: Lily Anoot — a woman who, just three years ago, with a single speech on "water as a human right," moved the world to tears.
Today, she is Khanam's sole line of defense against Hun's terrifying silence.
Khanam, too, has two armies:
The National Army: traditional, yet limited.
The People's Army "Doui": a force of which every citizen may become a part — even if all they carry is a knife in their bag.
And its terrorist group — Khulen: a name from Khanam's old tongue, meaning "the one who digs wells in silence."
Arland
Arland — not a power, but a calm decision.
Area: 1 million square kilometers.
Population: 10 million people — few, yet concentrated.
Economy moderate, security strong, military power high — and a democratic republic whose elections have never been canceled, not even during the darkest days of war.
And Arland's peculiar geography:
It, too, is completely encircled by water — yet unlike Khanam, this encirclement has made it dependent on the sea, not besieged by it.
In total, it has only ten cities — and the largest and most important is Ornil.
There, the capital resides.
Area: 1,000 square kilometers.
Population: 2 million people — a city where every street houses a university; every alley, a laboratory.
The current President of Arland: Amati Garra — a man who, in emergency meetings, first sips his tea, then gives orders.
Arland's army has only one unified force — so transparent that even its training schedule is published on the official website.
And its terrorist group — Ahara: a name from the local tongue meaning "the sea that grew furious."
A group no one yet knows whether truly exists… or is merely a clever threat Arland maintains to deter interference.
—
The Unholy Night
August 22, 2091 — 3:00 a.m.
The city of Nortinama had fallen into an unnatural silence.
Not merely the silence of sleep — but a silence as if time itself had halted: birds, animals, even the gentle night breeze — all still.
Most lights were off, and the streets, like veins emptied of blood, gleamed dark and vacant.
This silence was so beautiful, so serene, that even shadows did not move.
Until — the sound of a massive explosion, as if the earth had been ripped upward by a fist forged in the heart of a galaxy, shattered all that beauty at once.
The ground shook.
Not a tremor — a jolt, like the blow of a colossal fist shattering the city's heart.
Suddenly, all lights turned on at once — as if the houses had gasped for breath.
Birds erupted in sound — not song, but screams.
Everyone stood stunned. People emerged from under blankets, leaned against walls, and whispered with trembling lips:
"What was that sound? Why did the house shake? Where did it explode?"
Minds, like terrified birds, flapped wildly —
until suddenly, all the city's powered-off televisions switched on by themselves.
It was Lily Anoot.
Lily, the President who, only three months ago, at the International Waters Conference, had warmly smiled and said: "Patience is our tongue; water, our blood; and neighbor, our friend."
Today, her face was drenched in sweat, her eyes wide and pale — as if two months of her life had dried up in a single instant.
Her formal attire was wrinkled, her hair disheveled, and her hands—clutching her chest—shook, whether from fear or rage, no one could tell.
In a voice neither loud nor screaming — but rasping, torn—she spoke:
"Dear and honorable people of Khanam… tonight, the vile and wretched regime of Hun has proven its savagery… and by attacking the generals' residences, has sent them to the sky… and has officially, directly, entered war with Khanam."
As her speech ended, the television — struggling, as if it, too, had caught its breath — switched to the news network.
Footage aired: shattered buildings, black smoke clinging to the sky — and beneath each image, names in death-white:
Lorin Anemo (First General, Ground Forces, Doui Army)
Navachi Arkal (Third General, Air Force)
Amani Darta (First General, Air Force, Doui Army)
Modam Roulia (Thirteenth General, Naval Forces)
None were in barracks.
All were in their private homes.
This was not a military strike.
This was a message.
People were worried.
Because over these four years, they had tasted the flavor of real war—through the shadow of the Hanza terrorist group.
One worried about food — what to buy tomorrow, if warehouses burned?
Another thought of escaping missiles — where is the nearest public shelter?
And some stood silent, half-packed suitcases in hand, gazing at the train station — in no hurry, with no hope. Just fleeing.
But in Hun, it was precisely the opposite.
The people of Hun had never seen war or insecurity.
Even in their annual eight-hundred military drills, no real siren had ever sounded.
This war affected neither their morale nor their finances.
Their main hardship? Simply having to descend, a few times a day, into smart underground shelters — places equipped with miniature cafés and audiobook libraries.
Hun had built underground towns — not for emergencies, but for comfort.
Those who lost their homes in war (if it ever happened) did not take to the streets — they were relocated to standard smart units.
And Hun's poverty rate? Not 100, not 10 — but 0.8 percent.
A figure only multi-year droughts could raise.
—
The First Unlucky Day
Night passed in Khanam — not with sleep, but with worry.
Across the world, nations issued statements: some condemned, some expressed sympathy, and a few — very few — remained silent.
Hun stayed silent.
Until 1:00 p.m., no news came.
Then, at 1:03, a signal was received from Arnahon Palace:
"Speech by Junior Smith — 2:45 p.m."
From that moment until the speech began, speculation flared:
Would he apologize?
Would he vow revenge?
Or… is Junior truly the ruler — or merely a puppet?
Finally, at 2:45.
The crystal curtain of the Grand Hall of Arnahon Palace parted.
Junior Smith appeared.
A fourteen-year-old boy whose height had not yet reached 160 centimeters — yet when he entered, it felt as if the entire space descended.
He wore all black, embroidered with bold red patterns — as if blood were seeping from the fabric itself.
In his left ear, an earring bearing an atheist motif — a broken circle inscribed with the symbol "human instead of god."
His expression was neither joyful nor smiling — but detached.
He wore a smile — not of happiness, nor mockery. Rather, the smile of one who has calculated everything and is certain the outcome belongs to him.
His steps were calm. As if he feared nothing — not others, not even himself.
He approached and stood calmly behind the podium.
No papers in hand.
No hesitation.
He began speaking — in a calm, yet unwavering tone — a voice that, in the hall, traveled directly to every listener's ear, without echo, as if whispering inside their minds:
"In the name of the Guardian of Hun… Last night, Hun's National Army targeted areas in Nortinama with Kaslo missiles.
In response to this operation, many countries issued statements and expressed their views. Some even condemned this strike and sympathized with Khanam.
On this matter, I must say: We have endured many insults and crimes from Khanam… but the Arnahon Palace has decided, at last, to respond seriously and directly to this regime's offenses."
He paused for a moment — not out of doubt, but so his sentence could settle.
Then he raised his voice — not shouting, not angry, but resolute and pounding, as if even the walls listened:
"To those countries that have labeled Khanam 'the victim'… I must say:
'Khanam is not a victim. It is a tyrant that has not yet triumphed.'
From now on, you may follow Hun's decisions and actions through the news."
Then — without salutation, without pause — he turned his back to the camera and left.
The curtain closed.
Just as he had come — silent, decisive, and utterly indifferent to the presence of others.
—
The Surprise Operation
For ten days, conditions remained calm.
Only two nations stood aligned, pledging each other's destruction — like two ancient swordsmen who knew their final duel would mark humanity's last breath.
Until the eleventh day, when news scrolled a critical headline —
a headline in blood-red, a headline capable of making sweat pour from Khanam's foreheads:
Today, Hun's Minister of War, Ms. Missy Angel, sent a written order to the Navy Headquarters of Hun's Army, commanding the deployment of warships (Nuen) and massive submarines (Galan) near the port of Rulat in the city of Estab.
The letter's text reads as follows:
"In the name of the Creator of Hun. To all units of Hun's Naval Forces: I order you to deploy warships (Nuen) and submarines (Galan) near the port of Rulat, to prevent any probable adventurism by Khanam. I further order the dispatch of 100 aircraft carriers and air defense units as reinforcements to the deployment site."
Sweat streamed down brows.
Fear and shock gripped all of Khanam.
It was as if, in that instant, Khanam had died.
Tongues were tied.
No one could even breathe calmly.
This terrifying silence and shock lasted five minutes.
No sound emerged. Not even birds remained quiet.
Then —
Suddenly, televisions switched on again.
It was Lily Anoot.
Her face pale, sweat glistening on her skin.
Her clothes entirely disheveled — as if she'd been pacing nonstop.
Her hair tangled, as if she'd had not a moment's calm.
She stood behind the podium in a pure white suit and pants — a color permitted only in Khanami mourning ceremonies.
Behind her stood several senior military and political figures — like statues of ash.
In a voice that occasionally slipped out of control, she began to speak:
"Dear and honorable people of Khanam… Today, the vile and wretched regime of Hun has once again committed a childish and reckless act.
Yesterday, we sent Hun a ceasefire request… yet not only did it refuse, but with this move, it proved its desire for war."
As she finished this, she paused briefly.
Her eyes fixed on the water glass on the table — as if trying to foresee the future within it.
She picked it up and drank.
She opened her mouth to speak…
But before she could even turn her tongue to form words —
BOOM.
The sound of a colossal explosion — as if the sky itself had ripped open.
Dust engulfed the entire speech venue.
The television screen abruptly went black.
Five seconds of silence.
Ten seconds.
Sixty seconds.
Suddenly, the television lit up again.
It was Junior.
Same black outfit with red patterns.
Same atheist earring in his ear.
Same indifferent eyes.
But today, his smile was not calm —
but eerily calming.
As if to say: "We have no business with you wretches. We deal with history."
In a scoffing tone — not jest, not anger, but conscious erasure — he began:
"People of Khanam… For years, the criminal government of Lily Anoot has financially, militarily, and strategically supported the terrorist group Khulen.
Until today, we had decided on the complete annihilation of Khanam's land, government, and people…
(A brief pause — as if letting the word 'people' linger in the air)
But today, in a meeting among our military and political leaders, we reached an important decision.
From this moment onward, we will have no dealings with Khanam's government and people — and will instead attack the bases and settlements where Khulen terrorists reside.
Thus, this is your final warning and opportunity: distance yourselves from these bases and settlements… to stay alive."
The television did not cut off.
It switched directly to the news channel.
And something scrolled — not in red,
but in death-white over a black background:
Too Much Misfortune
The venue of President Lily Anoot's speech has been targeted.
No information regarding the number or identities of the deceased has yet reached us.
Local sources have reported the deaths of Donler Raib (Minister of Economy) and Romuno Dostoni (Minister of War).
However, to date, this report has been neither confirmed nor denied by any official authority.
No one knew that in that moment, Lily Anoot, with one eye open and the other covered by a bloodied cloth, was alive — buried beneath the rubble.
No one knew that Romuno Dostoni, thirty seconds before the explosion, had whispered to Lily:
"They only want to separate the people from us… If separation occurs, we are lost."
No one knew that, in Hashana, Junior, after his speech, walked to the window and gazed at a cypress tree — a tree his father had planted on the day of his coronation.
And the first words that left his mouth were neither an order nor a threat:
"Could… it have been otherwise?"
But no one heard.
Because in Hun, even a question requires a permit.