American volunteers in Ukraine witnessed a Russian Su-34 perform a close air support mission. Shortly after delivering the weapons payload a Ukrainian SAM returned fire.

To clarify some confusion, the Bamar Army's indigenous name is ဗမာ့တပ်တော် while the Myanmar Army's name is တပ်မတော်(ကြည်း).

This substation allegedly powered military bases and bomb factories. The junta still bombs areas in regions where the earthquake hit the most (particularly Sagaing Region).

The Bamar Army stated that this attack was not in earthquake-affected parts.

Two days ago US Naval Aviators conducted Airstrikes on the Iranian backed Houthi Separatists. Attached is CENTCOM footage of the Airstrikes.

I would rather be bound for eternity to the blood-drenched sands of Rajasthan’s five-hundred-year war, where the sun has turned against men, no longer a giver of life but a vengeful god, its wrath so intense that the earth itself screams. The heat is so great that flesh peels from bone before the first strike of steel, and warriors march forward knowing that their skin will slough away like wax before they ever taste the edge of an enemy’s blade. The very swords they wield are not mere metal, but fire given form, each strike sending shockwaves that crack the earth open, splitting the desert into chasms of endless depth where the forsaken wail from below. The heat has melted the sky into a crimson haze, and even the stars above seem to bleed, dripping molten light down upon the cursed battlefield.

Here, in this war beyond mortal comprehension, the moon is no longer a celestial guardian but a possessed entity, an ancient demon that feasts upon the souls of the fallen, growing darker with each slaughter. It casts no light—only shadows that slither across the sand like spectral serpents, whispering the names of warriors who have perished in agony. And the war? The war is beyond human. It is beyond gods. It has raged for so long that men no longer know the concept of peace, only the relentless drumbeat of battle, the endless screams of those who refuse to die. The bloodshed has been so immense that Rajasthan itself is no longer land but a pulsing, living wound in the earth, a battlefield so soaked in carnage that from the heavens, it glows red—a festering scar upon the planet that no divine hand dares to heal.

And I? I would rather march into this abyss of eternal slaughter, where men do not merely fight, but ascend into something beyond human, where their rage twists reality itself, granting them power beyond comprehension. Where the very act of swinging a blade splits the sky, where warriors no longer fear death, for they know that death itself is trapped within this nightmare, unable to claim them. Where even the gods stand upon the edges of this war, watching in silent horror as men tear each other apart with such fury that the laws of existence tremble. I would rather let my bones be ground into dust beneath the feet of titans, my blood boil until it evaporates into nothingness, my very soul be devoured by the ancient spirits that haunt this forsaken war—than kneel before a woman who sees me as nothing but a beast of burden, a provider, a hollow shell of servitude.

For there is horror in war, yes. There is pain beyond measure, suffering beyond the limits of flesh and spirit. But even in this nightmare, there is meaning. Even in the flames of this unholy slaughter, there is purpose. To fight, to struggle, to defy—even as the heavens fall and the ground is swallowed by the abyss—this is the will of the unbroken. But to be shackled, to be drained of life by the greed of another, to exist only to serve without love, without gratitude, without honor—that is a fate far worse than being skinned alive by the fires of war. Let me be impaled upon the spears of demons, let my screams become the song of the battlefield, let my spirit be trapped in the endless loop of slaughter for all eternity—but never shall I sell my soul to the grasping hands of a woman who demands what she does not deserve. I choose war. I choose blood. I choose annihilation before submission.

Let Rajasthan burn, let the rivers of blood rise so high they drown the gods themselves, let the war rage until time itself collapses—but never shall I bow. I will fight until my last breath, until my last drop of blood stains the desert, until my name is carved into the bones of the dead as the one who never surrendered. And when the world turns to ash, when the final battle has been fought and all that remains is silence, let it be known— I stood. I raged. I chose destruction before disgrace.