People thought the World War II would be the biggest event of the 1940s, but they were absolutely wrong.

They thought the worst of it was over when the Allies defeated the Axis Powers. But the biggest event to happen worldwide came two years later, an event that involved every single nation on Earth. Even countries that had remained neutral during the war found themselves at the center of something entirely new.

The story began on June 24th, 1947. It was the year where the world is still recovering of the war in the past. Radios played big band music and breaking news in equal measure. Steam rose from street vendors in Saigon, church bells rang in Vienna, and children played baseball in Brooklyn lots still littered with wartime rubble. The world was trying to move on. Factories that once produced weapons now made washing machines and bicycles. Families gathered around radios in the evenings, eager for news that didn't involve loss.

Then, the sky changed.

Not just in one city or one country, but everywhere.

It began with a sighting. People across the world started noticing strange shimmers in the sky. It was as if the upper atmosphere had caught fire, and the glow kept growing. In places where it was day, it looked fantastical, like a cluster of stars shining in broad daylight. In regions where it was night, the shimmers became even clearer, like the beam of a prison searchlight sweeping across the darkness. The phenomenon ignored borders, appearing over both oceans and continents. Then, the shimmers grew larger, and it became clear what they truly were: a massive armada of alien ships.

They weren't like anything humanity had ever made or even dreamed of. A massive slab of matte black shell, all jagged edges and angular design, humming with faint pulses of shifting light. There were no engines, no wings, no visible means of flight, yet they hovered with precision, casting long, unnatural shadows over oceans, forests, desert and cities alike. They came in silence, thousands of them, aligned like they had mapped the planet long before we ever saw the sky. From nowhere. All at once. Each vessel seemed to know exactly where to position itself, as if following an unseen plan.

People stopped. Pointed. Photographers took to rooftops. Phones rang in newspaper offices. Radar screens lit up with unexplainable shapes.

Suddenly, the first ship exploded.

A deafening, violent explosion destroyed the ship in mid-air, pieces shredded into the stratosphere, pressure shockwaves flattening clouds for miles. The rest followed in sequence. One after another, thousands of these massive vessels detonated mid-air, without any human-being knowing the cause. There were no warning signals, no changes in behavior before detonation.

The Earth trembled as the sky rained fire.

It wasn't war. There were no invaders, no demands. Just death from above. No broadcasts, no patterns, no signs of intent preceded the event.

The remains came down fast with destroyed shells and burning fragments streaked across the sky, trailing black smoke behind them like vengeful comets. But that wasn't all. Among the debris, streams of light fell. Each with their own different colour, one is red, the other is pink and another is yellow. These lights moved differently from the falling wreckage, slower and more controlled.

They looked like a meteor shower at first, beautiful and also terrifying. People ran, some prayed, others stood frozen. But as the first of the lights reached the ground, something became terribly clear;

They weren't falling randomly.

Each streak of light curved mid-descent, changed course, and locked on to a person nearby. They moved with purpose, threading through clouds, skipping over rooftops and trees, before reaching someone, and entering them. Witnesses described the light bending sharply, as though reacting to movement or proximity.

Not striking. Entering.

It was like fire being drawn into a furnace. The light met the body, and then it was gone, inside. No scorch mark, no wound. Just a silent, instantaneous fusion. Dozens of cases. Then hundreds. Then thousands. All across the world.

In cities and in rural towns alike, the same event unfolded in parallel.

The phenomenon was over in minutes. The ships were gone, reduced to drifting metal and buried wreckage. The lights had vanished. The survivors were left blinking in disbelief, staring at the people beside them who now seemed... different.

They didn't glow. They didn't float. They were still human, but changed in some ineffable, undeniable way. You could see it in their eyes. The pupil of humans that struck with this lights changed into vertical slits. Some had blue irises, while the other had red.

It was the eyes the public noticed first.

Some were frightened. Some were jealous. Some believed these people had been chosen, others believed they had been cursed. But as governments scrambled for answers, the public did what it always did in the wake of catastrophe; it gave the unknown a name.

Inheritors.

They were called that because of what people believed. That the power, or curse given to them came from the alien vessels. That they had inherited something from the beings who had built those ships, something beyond science or understanding. The term first appeared in an Italian newspaper and spread like wildfire. Within a week, it was on every headline in the world. Newspapers printed the word in bold. Radio announcers repeated it with both awe and fear.

"The Age of the Inheritors Has Begun."

Authorities rounded up as many as they could, for study, for containment, sometimes for protection. Not every Inheritor was cooperative. Not every government was honest. But even early on, it was clear that these people were not simply victims or bystanders. They had become a new class of human, not by birth, not by choice, but by encounter. Inheritors were isolated, questioned, and observed, often without explanation.

No one knew why the ships exploded. No one knew if the lights were meant to empower or infect. And no one could explain why some people were chosen and others left untouched. Patterns were searched for; in age, gender, location, but none held up under scrutiny.

But every nation, every people, every culture was forced to adapt to a new truth:

Humanity no longer stood alone at the top of its own world.

Something had passed the torch, or dropped it.

And those who caught it would never be the same.

Five years had passed since the event, widely known as the Celestial Rain. The world still measured time by it, as if the stars themselves had chosen a moment to rewrite our future. Everyone remembered where they were when it happened.

Since then, the world has been gradually adapting to the presence of the World Inheritors Network (WIN), the organization that governs the Inheritors. The system was built with them in mind. That may be the case for the Inheritors, but for normal humans, life has shifted. They've become secondary to the power-wielding "super" humans.

In the center of Geneva, the WIN headquarters rose like a government fortress, brutalist architecture, symmetrical, and adorned with silver flagpoles bearing the Network's emblem. Rows of black cars lined the front plaza. Loudspeakers crackled overhead, echoing faint static as engineers fine-tuned the broadcast equipment. Inside the main hall, all dark wood and polished brass, the podium waited beneath a massive seal of the Inheritors.

At the center of it all stood the president of WIN, Oh Seungsik, the voice of all Inheritors, and the man the world had come to listen to.

He was a 54 year old South Korean, standing tall at 180 centimeters, with sleek black hair brushed back and streaks of gray at the sides. As an Inheritor, his eyes were striking, each iris vertically split into gold and red, wrapped around a narrow cat-like slit, gleaming like molten glass under pressure. He wore a sharp, dark suit that caught the stage lights just enough to frame his presence in quiet authority.

At any moment, he would deliver a speech to address the world as it stands.

As cameras rolled, he stepped up to the podium and began his speech.

"Five years have passed since that day, a day none of us can forget.

It was not a war. It was not a revolution. It was something more profound. The sky itself changed, and from it, something was given. Something we did not ask for, did not understand... and yet something that reshaped the very fabric of our world.

I want to remind you all of the day it happened. The day it changed the course of history. The day it led to me standing here, speaking to you now, not just as a leader, but as one of you.

I was turned into a Inheritor, like many of you sitting in front of me. Like many more listening now by radio or television. I did not ask for this fate, and yet I would not turn away from it.

We, the Inheritors, were not chosen by ideology or nation. We were not forged by training or bloodlines. We were transformed by something we may never fully understand. And with that transformation came a responsibility, not just to ourselves, but to the billions who look to us as symbols of hope, or fear, or possibility.

That is why WIN was born. The World Inheritors Network was not built to rule, but to guide. Not to command, but to protect Inheritors from the world, and the world from the misuse of our power.

We are not a government. We are not an army. We are a framework. United not by politics, but by purpose, to understand what we've become, and to ensure we do not lose ourselves in the power we now hold.

And let me remind you of this truth, one many people already know:

Inheritors are not infinite.

The phenomenon of Celestial Rain changed us, but it did not repeat. Children born after that year have never developed Inheritor traits. No new Inheritors have emerged since. We are the sole generation. The only generation of humans to carry this gift... or this burden."

Applause followed.

"This is why our role must be handled with care. With restraint. It is why we do not allow Inheritors to be conscripted into national armies. It is why, even as my homeland faces conflict, we must uphold our neutrality.

I was born and raised in South Korea. The pain of the war there is real to me. But imagine what would happen if even one Inheritor took part in that fight.

The illusion of balance would collapse. We are not just people. We are symbols. Weapons, some might say, though I absolutely reject that word.

I ask all of you to remember this when fear tempts you to act.

I ask you to remember that strength must be guided by wisdom.

I know there are those who question our neutrality, our authority. I welcome that. A power without scrutiny is no better than a tyrant.

But I also ask: look at what we've avoided.

No Inheritor war.

No mass uprising.

No planetary collapse.

Five years ago, we were standing on the edge of chaos. Today, we stand on a foundation that is evolving. Imperfect, but firm.

And that is worth honoring.

So I thank you, Inheritors and non-Inheritors alike, for your patience. Your cooperation. Your belief in our shared future.

Let us look forward to the future, not with fear of what we are, but with purpose in what we can become.

Thank you."

The broadcast ended with orchestral music. The man didn't move for a long moment. The radio's light dimmed, soft crackle of static returning like a whisper beneath silence.

Thousands of miles away, in the heart of Los Angeles, a man was listening to the same speech from a radio in his dim apartment. The only light came from the window, streaks of sun catching dust in the air. The world outside buzzed with energy. Children played in the street.

He sat alone, the weight of the speech settling into the quiet room.

A part of him admired the words. Another part, deeper, darker, distrusted them.

He thought he knew why, but he was still skeptical.

Maybe it was the certainty in the president's voice, like change wasn't something to be debated, only obeyed. Maybe it was how the world moved on without looking back, whether you were ready or not.

He turned the radio off.

Then, quietly, he asked the question that had stuck in his mind ever since the Inheritors' rise. The same one he had asked every Inheritor he'd met.

"Is there... an Inheritor who can heal?"

The room gave no answer.

Only the wind replied, brushing past the window like a whisper from a sky that had once burned.

"Is there an Inheritor who can heal?", he repeated, his words echoing like a bad joke.

Outside, Los Angeles moved on, cars moving past his window, stray dogs barking down the alley. A siren wailed in the distance, then faded. But inside, the man stood idle on the couch right by his apartment's window.

He was twenty eight year old war veteran, living in a world where he couldn't see. The top half of his face was covered in thick scar tissue, burned from the bridge of his nose to his hairline. The fire had taken more than just his skin, it had stolen his sight. His blond hair thinned toward the front, where burns had scarred over the scalp. Sometimes, he tried to remember the face he'd had before. But those days were long gone.

His name was Lawrence Edwards. Most people called him Law. These days, no one called at all.

Until the knock came.

Three short raps, firm and familiar. Law didn't move.

Another pause. Then a sigh from the other side.

"Law. I know you're in there."

The voice was soft, gravelly, worn by cigarettes and years. Law exhaled.

"Eddie?"

The door opened, because of course it wasn't locked. Eddie stepped in like he'd done it a dozen times before. He was thirty two now, African American, broad-shouldered and well kept despite the lines growing around his eyes. He wore a loose-fitting polo shirt tucked into beige slacks with the collar slightly open.

"You don't stop by often."

Eddie paused. "No. I don't."

He crossed the room, his voice much quieter now.

"I told myself you needed space. Truth is, I didn't know what to say to you."

"You look rough, man" Eddie said.

Law didn't face him.

"What do you expect from a crippled, divorced man?"

Eddie ignored the sting. He hung his coat and stepped over a stack of unopened mail.

"Listen, my friend... I know you hate hearing this, but you've got to get out of here. Out of this apartment."

"So I can walk past the alley again and hear a bunch of kids cry when they see my face?

I can't see 'em, Eddie, but I can imagine how horrified they look."

"That's not what I meant." (Eddie reached into his pocket.)

"I got a letter. VA's been trying to reach you, they sent this to me when they couldn't."

"What does the VA want with me now?"

"They've opened up a new program. D.C. Rehabilitation Unit. Top-tier. Small cohort.

They say it's designed for cases like yours, long-term injuries with no progress."

"I'm not travelling across the country for some rehab"

"This one's different. Rumor is they've got Inheritor tech involved now, stuff reverse-engineered from fragments after the skyfall."

"My blindness could only be cured by a miracle."

"We're living in one, Law. I see slit eyes everywhere, people flying, lifting trucks, melting steel with their hands.

Hell, my uncle can shoot a damn laser out of his finger now."

"Yeah. And not one of them can heal."

(A pause. Then...)

"Why come all the way here to tell me this?"

Eddie didn't answer right away.

Then, softly:

"Because I owe you."

Law's reply was quiet.

"You don't owe me."

It came back like smoke.

France. 1943.

The trench had caved in with sounds of steel and shrapnel. The platoon scattered under the shellfire, and Eddie went down hard, trapped beneath a slab of collapsed timber and stone, shouting through gritted teeth. Chaos tore through the smoke, voices crying for help, others already gone silent.

Law had nearly made it out when he caught Eddie’s voice, raw, strained, barely there.

He turned without thinking.

Instinct drove him.

Back into the trench he dropped, hands sinking into mud and blood-soaked earth. Shells hammered the ridge as Law tore at debris, heaved the beam off Eddie’s leg, and hauled him upright, one arm slung across his back.

Eddie was cursing, blood soaking through both their uniforms.

They barely made it ten feet before a shell burst behind them, a phosphorus round. Close enough to paint the trench in blinding white.

Law felt the heat. Then the flash. Then the dark.

When he woke up in a field hospital, Eddie was alive.

But Law couldn’t see.

Back in the apartment, the memory hung in the air like smoke.

Law said nothing. The memory was enough.

"I'm not going," he said.

Eddie exhaled, not surprised.

"I figured."

Then, quieter:

"Tessie's there."

Law froze. The mention of his ex-wife's name caught him off guard. She has been working with WIN for years, but Law thought she still in Geneva working at WIN headquarter.

"What?"

"She transferred to D.C. last winter. Works in administration. Compliance wing, I think."

Law's jaw worked silently.

"I didn't even know what city she was in."

"WIN has transferred her to the capital. WIN office there are pretty close to the rehab center, from what I hear."

Law didn't move.

"You should've led with that," he said.

Eddie cracked a faint smile. "Wouldn't have changed anything."

He stepped closer and opened the envelope. "I'll read it to you."

"Dear Mr. Edwards,

We are pleased to inform you of your eligibility for enrollment in the Advanced Rehabilitation Program, located at the D.C. Rehabilitation Unit. This initiative utilizes state-of-the-art conventional and post-Inheritor technologies to support veterans with severe physical trauma, particularly those with long-term neural damage or sensory loss.

Due to the limited capacity of the program and sensitive nature of the work, participation is by invitation only. Housing and transport will be provided.

We believe this program offers you a chance to reclaim a part of yourself lost in service. We hope you'll consider it."

Eddie let the silence sit.

Then Law reached out and took the letter from his hand.

He didn't say yes. But he didn't throw it away either.

And in the quiet that followed, something shifted, small, but there. The kind of silence that came just before a decision.