Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

July 5th, 1939 – Winter Palace, St. Petersburg

The grand chambers of the Winter Palace were eerily quiet. Tsar Ivan IV sat rigidly on his gilded throne, his face pale and drawn. The weight of the moment bore heavily on him as he prepared to deliver the most painful address of his reign. Before him, a cluster of microphones stood ready, their cold metallic sheen a stark reminder of the words he was about to speak.

His advisers stood at a respectful distance, their faces a mix of worry and resignation. Prime Minister Konstantin Petrov approached cautiously, placing a final draft of the speech on the desk before the Tsar.

"Your Majesty," Petrov said softly, "the people are waiting."

Ivan's cold blue eyes flicked up at him, filled with a mixture of fury and despair. He nodded once, his jaw clenched tightly.

The broadcast began with a low hum, signaling to every household, factory, and farm across Ruthenia that their leader was about to speak. Radios crackled to life, and citizens gathered in tense silence. In homes, streets, and taverns, they waited for the announcement they had dreaded but suspected was coming.

Ivan took a deep breath and leaned toward the microphone. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of his crushed pride.

"Citizens of Ruthenia," he began. "I speak to you today not as your Tsar but as a fellow Ruthenian, burdened by the sorrow of our nation. Our great empire has faced countless challenges over the centuries, and we have always emerged stronger. But today, I must share news that weighs heavily on my heart."

He paused, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as if drawing strength from the solid wood.

"Our navy has been defeated. Our forces, despite their courage and sacrifice, have been unable to secure victory against the Valorian aggressors. We have signed a treaty of peace, accepting terms that ensure the survival of Ruthenia but at great cost to our pride and position."

The silence on the streets was deafening. The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, suffocating the hope of an already weary population.

"We will cease all hostilities immediately," Ivan continued, his voice cracking slightly. "Our naval forces will be disbanded, and reparations will be paid to Valoria. These terms were not made lightly, nor were they agreed upon without deep consideration. They are necessary to prevent further suffering and to preserve what remains of our beloved empire."

Across the country, people reacted with shock and disbelief. In cramped apartments, families sat in stunned silence, the reality of their defeat sinking in. In the bustling marketplaces, vendors abandoned their stalls, huddling around radios as murmurs of anger and despair spread through the crowds.

A young factory worker named Mikhail turned to his comrades as the broadcast continued. "So, it's true," he muttered, his fists clenching. "We lost."

An older man beside him shook his head bitterly. "Lost? We've been humiliated. The Tsar has sold us out to those Valorian tyrants!"

In a small village on the outskirts of the empire, an elderly woman wiped tears from her eyes as she listened. "My grandson... he died for nothing," she whispered, clutching a worn photograph of a young sailor.

Back in the Winter Palace, Ivan forced himself to continue, though every word felt like a dagger to his soul.

"I understand the anger and disappointment you feel," he said, his voice growing quieter. "I feel it too. This defeat is not just a blow to our military; it is a blow to our national pride. But I implore you, my people, do not let this moment define us. Ruthenia is more than its navy, more than its armies. We are a people of strength and resilience. We will rise again."

As the broadcast ended, Ivan slumped back in his chair, his composure finally breaking. The weight of his empire's defeat pressed down on him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel the full depth of his failure.

In St. Petersburg, the mood was grim. The once-bustling Nevsky Prospekt was subdued, its usual energy replaced by an air of despondency. Groups of people gathered in hushed conversations, their faces etched with anger and disbelief.

"This is what we fought for?" a young man shouted, his voice breaking the uneasy silence. "To surrender like cowards?"

An older woman nearby shook her head. "The Tsar had no choice," she said quietly. "Do you want more of our sons to die?"

Her words did little to calm the crowd. Tensions simmered as frustrations boiled over. At a nearby café, a group of students debated fiercely, their voices rising above the murmurs of other patrons.

"This is the end of Ruthenia as we know it," one declared, slamming his fist on the table. "We've lost our honor, our power. What will the world think of us now?"

"Better to lose power than to lose everything," another countered. "We still have a chance to rebuild."

In the working-class districts, the mood was even darker. Factories operated at half capacity as workers refused to return to their stations. Protestors took to the streets, waving signs that read "Down with the Tsar!" and "We demand accountability!"

"Where was the leadership?" a factory foreman shouted, his voice amplified by a makeshift megaphone. "Where were the plans? Our sons died because of their incompetence, and now they ask us to rebuild for them?"

The police presence in the city increased, with mounted officers patrolling major thoroughfares to prevent riots. Still, the resentment was palpable, and clashes between protestors and authorities began to break out in isolated areas.

Far from the urban unrest, the countryside faced its own struggles. Farmers listened to the broadcast with heavy hearts, their concerns less about politics and more about survival. With war reparations looming, many feared increased taxes and conscriptions to make up for the losses.

"We'll be working ourselves to death for generations to pay off this war," muttered Sergei, a grizzled farmer in his sixties. "And for what? So the Tsar can keep his throne?"

His wife, standing beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. "At least our boys are safe now," she said softly. "At least the fighting is over."

But not everyone found solace in that thought. Younger men, full of anger and pride, spoke openly of rebellion.

"We can't let this stand," one declared to a group gathered at the village tavern. "If the Tsar won't lead us to victory, maybe it's time for someone else to lead."

Back at the Winter Palace, Ivan watched the unrest unfold from his balcony, the distant sound of protests reaching his ears. His advisers crowded around him, each offering conflicting suggestions.

"We need to restore order," one said. "Deploy the army if necessary."

"No," countered another. "The people are already angry. If we show force, we risk losing what little support we have left."

Ivan said nothing, his gaze fixed on the city below. For the first time in his reign, he felt powerless, a ruler not over an empire but over ashes.

As the sun set on Ruthenia, the once-great empire stood at a crossroads. Its people, broken and angry, faced an uncertain future. And its Tsar, a man once full of ambition, now wrestled with the reality of his shattered dreams.