Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

The snow continued to fall over Novogorod, blanketing the city in a deceptive silence. Fires still smoldered in the ruins, sending thin columns of smoke spiraling into the gray sky. The once-bustling streets were now deserted save for the loyalist patrols methodically combing through the wreckage, their boots crunching through the snow and ash. The rebellion had been crushed, its leaders captured or killed, but in the shadows, the embers of defiance still glowed faintly.

Commander Antonov stood near the edge of the loyalist encampment, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed at the city's ruins. The evening air was bitterly cold, but Antonov's expression remained impassive as he listened to a report from one of his captains.

"Interrogations have begun, sir," the captain said, his voice low. "The prisoners are refusing to cooperate, but we'll break them eventually."

Antonov nodded, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "Do what you must. The Tsar demands answers, and we will provide them. Ruthenia cannot afford another uprising."

The captain hesitated before continuing. "What of the civilians, sir? Many are claiming innocence—insisting they had no ties to the revolutionaries."

Antonov turned to face the man, his cold eyes narrowing. "Innocence is irrelevant. Those who harbored the traitors, even unknowingly, are complicit in their crimes. Detain them all. If they are innocent, time will prove it."

The captain saluted and retreated, leaving Antonov alone with his thoughts. The rebellion's defeat had been decisive, but Antonov knew that dissent was not so easily extinguished. Ruthenia's wounds ran deep, and as long as the seeds of discontent remained, there would always be the risk of another uprising.

Far beneath the crumbling remains of a factory, a small group of survivors gathered in a hidden chamber. The room was lit by a single lantern, its dim glow casting flickering shadows on the walls. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow with exhaustion and grief, but their determination remained unbroken.

Irina, a young woman with sharp eyes and a bandage wrapped around her arm, addressed the group. "Novogorod is gone," she said bluntly. "Our leaders are either dead or captured. But this fight isn't over."

A man near the back scoffed, his voice bitter. "What fight? The Tsar's forces are everywhere. We've lost everything—our comrades, our homes, our city."

Irina's gaze hardened. "What we've lost doesn't matter. What matters is what we still have—our resolve, our hatred for Ivan, and the truth. If we give up now, everything we've suffered will have been for nothing."

The room fell silent as her words sank in. Slowly, heads began to nod in agreement.

"We don't have the numbers to fight them directly," Irina continued, "but we can still resist. Sabotage their supplies, disrupt their operations, spread the truth about what's happening here. Let the people know that Ivan's so-called unity is built on lies and blood."

The group murmured their approval, and Irina felt a flicker of hope. The revolution wasn't dead—it was simply changing form.

In the opulent halls of the Winter Palace, Tsar Ivan sat at the head of a long dining table, surrounded by his most trusted advisors. The room was warm and brightly lit, a stark contrast to the cold, dark streets of Novogorod.

stood at Ivan's right, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. "Your Majesty," he began, his tone measured, "the operation in Novogorod has been a success. The city is under control, and the revolutionary leadership has been eliminated."

Ivan inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Good. And what of the captured insurgents?"

"They are being interrogated as we speak," Mikhailov replied. "Our men are confident they'll extract valuable intelligence."

The Tsar leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "And the people? Have they learned their lesson?"

Mikhailov hesitated. "The people are subdued for now, Your Majesty. But there are whispers of discontent, even among those who supported the crown. They see the destruction of Novogorod, and some question the cost."n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Ivan's eyes flashed with irritation. "Weakness breeds dissent. The people must understand that rebellion brings only ruin. If they question my methods, remind them of Novogorod's ashes."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Mikhailov said, bowing his head.

Ivan's gaze swept over the room. "The rebellion is over, but our work is not. We must ensure that this cancer does not spread to other cities. Deploy additional troops to the provinces. Monitor the people closely. Crush dissent before it can take root."

The advisors murmured their agreement, their loyalty to the Tsar unwavering.

The days that followed saw a brutal crackdown across Ruthenia. The state police and military moved with ruthless efficiency, rounding up suspected revolutionaries and their sympathizers. Villages and towns that had once harbored dissent found themselves under occupation, their residents subjected to constant surveillance and intimidation.

In one such village, a family huddled together as soldiers searched their home. The father pleaded with the officer in charge, his voice trembling. "Please, we've done nothing wrong. We don't know anything about the revolutionaries."

The officer sneered. "Ignorance is no excuse. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear."

The soldiers tore through the house, upending furniture and scattering belongings. When they found nothing incriminating, they moved on to the next house, leaving the family shaken but unharmed.

Similar scenes played out across the country, the loyalist forces leaving no stone unturned in their quest to root out dissent. The revolutionaries who remained free were forced deeper into hiding, their once-coordinated efforts reduced to isolated acts of resistance.

In Valoria, General Raelthorn Graves sat in his office, reading the latest reports from Ruthenia. The crackdown had been swift and devastating, leaving little room for outside interference. Graves knew that any attempt to aid the remaining revolutionaries would be futile—and potentially disastrous.

An aide entered the room, carrying a sealed envelope. "General, this just arrived from the council. They want to know our next steps regarding Ruthenia."

Graves opened the envelope and scanned the contents before setting it aside. "Our next steps? We wait. Ivan's reign of terror will breed resentment, and resentment will breed rebellion. When the time is right, Ruthenia will come to us."

The aide nodded, though his expression was uncertain. "And if that time doesn't come?"

Graves's gaze was steely. "It will. Tyranny always carries the seeds of its own destruction."