The year is 1945, and the world teeters at the edge of exhaustion. Six brutal years of war have turned cities into ash, borders into battlefields, and men into monsters. But unlike the world we remember, this war did not end in Berlin.
Instead, the Third Reich triumphed.
Through a combination of early blitzkrieg victories, brutal suppression of rebellion, and the strategic genius of a shadowy inner scientific elite, Adolf Hitler's Germany carved its empire across continental Europe. By the time Allied forces began mounting a meaningful response, it was too late. France had already fallen. Spain and Italy had capitulated. Austria, Hungary, Romania, and Czechoslovakia had been absorbed into the Reich's iron grip.
With staggering losses on all fronts and the growing threat of total annihilation by the Reich's next-generation weapons research, the United States, the Soviet Union, and even Great Britain made the unthinkable choice: diplomacy over destruction.
In late 1945, the world watched in disbelief as three sworn enemies—Roosevelt's America, Stalin's USSR, and Hitler's Reich—signed the Treaty of Oslo, an uneasy Non-Aggression Pact that effectively ended the war in a cold stalemate. Rather than face mutually assured destruction, the great powers drew borders. The bloodshed ceased, but the world was not healed—it was merely divided.
From this fractured global order rose the United Nations, an idealistic institution built on promises of peace but dominated by Four Veto Powers: the USA, USSR, UK, and the Third Reich. The balance of power was no longer dictated by alliances, but by leverage, espionage, and silent threats. Nations smiled in the daylight but sharpened knives at midnight.
What was once a Second World War had become something more insidious—a World of Frozen War.
In this era of mutual distrust and imperial propaganda, the Cold War escalated on multiple fronts.
The Space Race quickly emerged as a symbolic battleground—each superpower seeking to be the first to plant their flag on the Moon, to claim the stars as proof of ideological superiority. But behind this public contest of rockets and satellites, another far more dangerous race had already begun:
The Supe Race.
The Reich was the first to move. While the Allies pursued conventional warfare and atomic science, Germany had poured its darkest resources into something far more terrifying: Project Götterdämmerung—the Twilight of the Gods. Led by a secret circle of eugenicists and biochemical theorists, the Reich sought to create a perfect being, not by chance of birth, but by brutal design.
Through decades of forced experimentation, selective breeding, chemical conditioning, and psychological manipulation, they produced a living weapon:A man without flaw.A soldier without mercy.A god in human skin.
His name was Eric.
Unveiled to the public in 1949, Eric was declared the Aryan Ideal—a blonde-haired, steel-eyed superman capable of feats beyond imagination. Faster than jet engines. Stronger than tanks. Unfazed by bullets or blades. With one carefully orchestrated appearance on Reich television, Eric ignited terror across the globe. If Germany had the power to birth gods, what chance did mortals have?
The United States, already lagging behind in the arms race, panicked. Behind closed doors, generals and scientists convened in the dead of night. The result was Project Liberty, an experimental biochemistry initiative founded by Dr. Natalie Grant, a war-time researcher with radical ideas and no time to wait.
While the public marveled at rockets, Natalie and her team sought to forge their own guardian—not through fascist ideology, but through willpower, loyalty, and the science of self-repair. Her candidate was a decorated veteran just home from war: Logan Carter, a soldier aching for peace but called to serve once more. Injected with regenerative serums and reinforced through gene-modulation, Logan emerged not as a monster, but as a man reborn.
Thus rose the American Sentinel.
But the Supe Race did not stop with two contenders. In the Soviet Union, paranoia was survival. General Boris Malenkov demanded the USSR produce its own "champion of the people." Their answer came in the form of Nikolai Orlov, a pilot haunted by his bombing of Kyoto. His transformation was as painful as it was cruel—designed not for perfection, but for resilience through suffering. A living symbol of sacrifice, Nikolai became the Red Guardian—a protector forged in the furnace of guilt and state loyalty.
And so, the world entered a new age—not defined by nations, but by icons.
Eric. Logan. Nikolai.
Three men reborn. Three ideologies personified. And three paths to power, colliding in the shadows of diplomacy.
Beneath the banner of peace, each nation now had its god—and none of them could be trusted.
These "supes" became living propaganda, tools of intimidation, envy, and whispered threats. The UN turned into a stage, with each superpower flexing its creation in summits, parades, and televised appearances. The public adored them. The governments feared them. The world trembled as the balance of power shifted from missiles to muscles.
But power invites tyranny, and not all gods serve willingly.
Soon, Eric's ambitions grew beyond borders. Whispers of a coup in Berlin. A moon base under construction. Files stolen by the French Resistance revealing deeper truths—Eric was not the first of his kind. Somewhere in the frozen reaches of the Arctic, a first prototype lies in stasis—stronger, wilder, forgotten.
The world once fought over oil and ideology. Now, it fights over who controls the future of the human genome.
The Supe Race is no longer about defense.
It's about dominion.
And in this fractured world of broken treaties and rising demigods, one question echoes louder than ever:What makes a hero? Patriotism—or humanity?