Ah, I forgot to introduce myself.

  That feels like the right place to start, even if this diary has already wandered through memory and reflection. A first chapter should always begin with an introduction, even if it arrives late. Perhaps that says something about me.

  My name is Veyor Arigrith. I am twenty-eight years old. I am an aeronautical engineer. And I am known—publicly, officially, and unavoidably—as the designer of the aircraft called **Deathbox**.

  The name was not mine. I would not have chosen it. Names like that are never chosen by the person who understands what they mean. They are chosen by those who see only function, impact, and outcome. Still, the name remains tied to me, whether I accept it or not.

  I am deeply interested in my work. That part is true, and I will not deny it. Aircraft have always held my attention in a way nothing else has. My room reflects that obsession clearly. Every wall is covered with posters—fighters, bombers, experimental designs, silhouettes captured mid-flight. Some are historical. Some never left the prototype stage. Some exist only as concepts drawn by people who imagined a future that never arrived.

  Every poster carries a story of engineering choices, compromises, ambitions, and limits. Wing shapes. Engine placements. Intake designs. Stealth geometry. Lift-to-drag ratios. I can explain every one of them if asked. I know their strengths, their weaknesses, and the mistakes hidden beneath their beauty.

  I could explain Deathbox too .

  I could talk about its structure, its materials, its aerodynamic profile. I could explain how its radar cross-section disappears into noise, how its engines mask thermal signatures, how its flight profile avoids detection long enough to make countermeasures meaningless. I know every line of it. Every equation. Every late-night correction that made it work.

  But I am trying to move forward from that.

  So I won’t talk about it here.

  In the chase of my dream to build a passenger air vehicle—something meant to carry people, not end them—I ended up making a weapon of mass destruction. That contradiction is difficult to explain, even to myself.

  It wasn’t a sudden decision. It wasn’t a single wrong step. It was a sequence of reasonable choices that led somewhere unreasonable.

  Deathbox is not a simple fighting plane. It is not designed for air-to-air combat or visible dominance. It is a stealth bomber. In today’s technological landscape, there is no real precaution against it. Detection systems react too late. Defensive protocols assume a warning that never arrives.

  The only moment you see it is the moment everything ends.

  That fact is written plainly in classified documents, expressed without emotion. It is also written somewhere else, in places documents do not reach.

  How I ended up as a weapon designer is a different story. One that deserves its own space, its own careful examination. But some parts of it belong here.

  Seven years ago, during my final year of engineering, a world war broke out.

  In start , It was a war between two nations, Caledon and Norvia. I don’t remember much about the exact reason it started. As far as I can recall, it began from old, unresolved conflicts that heated up again. But truthfully, they never needed much of a reason to fight each other. With time, other nations took sides, alliances formed, and what began as a limited conflict slowly grew beyond control. A simple war turned into a world war.

  Here is a **clean, clear rewrite** of that section, keeping your meaning intact and fitting the diary tone. I’ve made it smooth and easy to read, without adding anything new.

  My country, **Valendor**, did not directly participate in the war at first. Instead, preparations began quietly. Recruitment drives started, training camps were set up, and resources were redirected toward military readiness. There was a sense that war was approaching, even if it had not officially reached us yet.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Caledon was a strong ally of ours, so we supplied them with troops, equipment, and essential resources as a precaution and as support.

  Because of the sudden recruitment, I was unable to complete my final year of engineering. Many of my friends were recruited and sent directly to Caledon. What happened to them after that, I still do not know.

  I was a bit more fortunate. I was recruited into the ground forces at an air station a few kilometers away from my home. The work was not too demanding, and I was not separated from my family.

  Fortunately, I never had to kill anyone. That sentence matters to me. I repeat it often, as if repetition might reinforce its weight. I served in airbase security—guard duty, logistics support, maintenance coordination. It was not glamorous. It was not meaningful. It was safe, in the narrow sense of the word.

  But safety has a way of feeling like waste when ambition is still burning.

  Somewhere between routine inspections and idle hours, I was noticed. Not for bravery or leadership, but for competence. I solved problems quickly. I noticed inefficiencies. I suggested improvements. Small things at first. Adjustments to layouts. Better scheduling. Minor mechanical optimizations.

  Then bigger things.

  I don’t know exactly when the shift happened. There was no formal moment where I crossed a line. I was offered work that matched my skills better. Design assistance. Analysis. Modeling. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself it would improve my situation. Maybe they would treat me better. Maybe I wouldn’t have to do such lowly work anymore.

  Or maybe—this is harder to admit—I wanted to impress someone. I liked the lime light.

  Maybe I believed that if I proved my worth, I would be allowed to return to my real dream. Maybe I thought that building credibility here would eventually buy me freedom. Maybe it would bring me closer to Spawn.

  Nothing turned out the way I imagined.

  If the weapon I created had ended the war the first time it was used, I might have been able to justify my part in it. The idea is simple and cruel: use force once to prevent greater loss later. One decisive strike to stop a longer war. That reasoning has existed for a long time, and many people more intelligent than me have believed it.

  But that is not what happened.

  Instead, it ignited everything further.

  In the past four years, Deathbox has been deployed over six times. Each use was framed as necessary. Strategic. Controlled. Each use was followed by escalation.

  The enemy responded. They adapted. They developed similar systems,then superior ones. Arms races don’t pause to consider intent.

  In the end, my work was connected to the deaths of nearly two hundred thousand people.

  And over the period of 7 years , many million other died due to consequences of war. Numbers that large lose precision quickly. They become estimates, ranges, projections. But the scale is undeniable. Even if the number were smaller, it would not matter. One life would still be too many.

  The only consolation—if it can be called that—is that this war is finally coming to an end.

  After seven years.

  Seven years of conflict, retaliation, and exhaustion. Millions dead. Cities damaged beyond recognition. Generations altered permanently. And today, of all days, the end arrives quietly.

  Politicians will shake hands as if nothing happened. They will stand before cameras, speak of unity, resilience, and lessons learned. They will look relieved, not burdened. Relief belongs to those who never had to carry consequences personally.

  It is the common people who will rebuild. They always do. With hands that did not sign treaties and lives that were never consulted.

  *The television has been running in the background for a while now.*

  *Reporter starts to speak*

  "Now the war between Caledon and Norvia, which started in 2035 and lasted for over seven years, will be ended today. All countries and their allies—Westmark, Arcland, Valendor, and Merovia—will sign a peace treaty, concluding the conflict with a formal handshake."

  * After some background noises , reporter continues*

  "Both the presidents of Calendon and Norvia are present. "

  "The president of Valendor, the biggest ally of Calendon, has also arrived. Valendor played a major role through supply chains and soldier suppot."

  "Other heads of state are making their way through the hallway."

  *The broadcast continues, listing names, locations, movements. None of it sounds real. Wars never end the way they begin. They fade out through procedures and statements, not resolution.*

  *Sudden footsteps behind Veyor*

  Veyor's mother enters the room, carrying a basket of wet laundry. The weight of it bends her arms slightly, water dripping onto the floor as she walks.

  “How are things going?” she asks, nodding toward the television.

  “They are going smooth,” Veyor reply.

  *It is the simplest answer he can give.*

  “Finally, this deadly war will come to its end,” she says.

  *There is relief in her voice, unguarded and sincere.*

  Veyor thinks "She does not know everything. She does not need to."

  *She moves toward the balcony to hang the clothes.*

  *The television continues in background*

  *Outside, the weather is calm. The sky is clear, washed in a soft light that suggests transition rather than celebration. The air feels lighter, as if the world itself has decided to pause. There is no wind strong enough to disturb the hanging clothes, only a slow movement that makes them sway gently.*

  My mother stands at the balcony, pinning fabric to the line. Sunlight reflects off the wet cloth, turning ordinary colors brighter for a moment. The day feels unexpectedly beautiful.

  She calls out to Veyor.

  “Veyor, come outside. Look how beautiful the weather is.”

  *There is genuine excitement in her voice, the kind that comes from simple things being right at the right time.*

  *An aircraft passes overhead.*

  “Oh my! Look at that beautiful airplane,” she says. “You shouldn’t miss it. What a view.”

  She knows Veyor. She knows how much aircraft mean to him. She doesn’t want him to miss the moment.

  *Veyor look toward the window.*

  He see my mother standing there, looking up, smiling. The sky behind her is open and clean. For a brief second, there is no view better than that in this world for him.

  “Nah, mother,” he says. “I am having a much better view here.”

  She laughs lightly. “You just sit inside all day. Look—it’s a plane, just like the biggest poster in your room.”

  *Veyor's heart clenches.*

  Time compresses into a single moment.

  The aircraft silhouette aligns perfectly with the image burned into his memory. The angle. The shape. The profile. All appears clearly in his mind.

  The biggest poster in his room.

  The machine He designed.

  The death He created.

  **Deathbox.**