Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

December 15th, 1939 – St. Petersburg, Ruthenia.

The biting cold of Ruthenian winter pressed hard against the city's crumbling streets. Johannes Krieg navigated the labyrinthine alleys with the precision of a veteran operative. A dimly lit underground tavern, concealed behind a false wall in an old bakery, served as the meeting point for his next rendezvous with Sergei Volkov and his revolutionary council.
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Under his arm, Johannes carried a weathered briefcase. Inside were items that could change the course of Ruthenia's revolution—blueprints for improvised weapons, detailed maps of Tsarist supply depots, and coded instructions for receiving further assistance. Everything had been vetted and approved in Volkshalle, ensuring no detail would lead back to Valoria.

The Meeting.

The basement of the tavern was filled with muted voices and the smell of damp wood. At the center of the room stood Volkov, flanked by his lieutenants. Their expressions were a mix of suspicion and curiosity as Johannes entered, shaking off the snow from his coat.

"You return, journalist," Volkov said, his voice steady but probing. "What news do you bring this time?"

Johannes placed the briefcase on the table and opened it, revealing its contents. The room fell silent as the revolutionaries leaned in, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of a single oil lamp.

"These," Johannes began, "are tools to level the playing field. Your fight has heart, but heart alone does not topple an empire. This will give you strategy."

Volkov picked up one of the documents, his eyes narrowing as he examined the detailed map. "These supply routes—how did you get this information?"

Johannes smiled faintly. "I have my methods. What matters is that it's accurate. These depots house food, weapons, and medical supplies—everything your forces need to sustain the revolution."

One of Volkov's lieutenants, a wiry man named Dmitry, frowned. "And why should we trust this? For all we know, this could be a trap set by the Tsar's agents."

Johannes leaned forward, his tone calm but firm. "If I were working for the Tsar, you'd already be dead. Instead, you're alive, holding the tools to dismantle his regime. Trust is earned, I understand that. But if you want to win, you'll need to take risks."

Volkov raised a hand, silencing Dmitry. "Enough. We have no room for doubt right now." He turned back to Johannes. "What else do you have for us?"

Johannes pulled out another document, this one containing blueprints for makeshift explosives. "These designs use materials you can source locally. With them, you can sabotage railways, disrupt troop movements, and weaken the Tsar's hold on key regions."

The revolutionaries exchanged glances, their skepticism giving way to cautious hope. Anya, one of the youngest members of the council, spoke up. "If this works, it could change everything."

Volkov nodded, his expression resolute. "We'll use this. But tell me, Johannes, what does your Valorian newspaper gain from helping us?"

Johannes's gaze was steady. "The truth, Volkov. Your fight is the kind of story that inspires people beyond borders. That's all I need."

Volkov studied him for a moment longer before extending a hand. "Then we'll fight together."

Over the next week, Johannes worked closely with the revolutionaries, guiding them on how to implement the strategies he had provided. Small teams were organized to target the supply depots marked on the maps. Saboteurs learned to assemble the improvised explosives, practicing on abandoned rail tracks to perfect their timing.

The first operation was planned for a supply depot on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Johannes accompanied the team, observing from a distance as Volkov's fighters infiltrated the area. The depot guards, poorly equipped and demoralized, were caught off guard. Within minutes, the revolutionaries had seized crates of rifles and ammunition, as well as sacks of flour and canned goods desperately needed by the starving population.

When the team returned to the underground tavern with their spoils, the room erupted in quiet celebration. For the first time, the revolutionaries felt they had the upper hand.

"This is just the beginning," Johannes said, raising a glass of cheap vodka. "Your fight is far from over, but tonight, you've proven that the Tsar's forces are not invincible."

Volkov clinked his glass against Johannes's. "To freedom," he said simply.

"To freedom," the room echoed.

As the revolution gained momentum, news of the supply depot raid spread throughout St. Petersburg. Workers, inspired by the boldness of Volkov's forces, began organizing their own strikes. Soldiers stationed in the city grew restless, their loyalties wavering as whispers of revolution reached their ears.

But with success came risk. The Tsar's secret police intensified their efforts to root out dissent. Arrests surged, and suspected revolutionaries were dragged from their homes in the dead of night.

One evening, as Johannes reviewed plans with Volkov in the basement, Dmitry burst into the room, his face pale.

"They've arrested Kalashkov!" Dmitry said, his voice shaking. "He was caught with one of the maps."

Volkov slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it! How much does he know?"

"Enough," Dmitry replied grimly. "If they torture him—"

"They'll come for us next," Johannes finished, his tone steady despite the tension. He turned to Volkov. "You need to relocate your operations immediately. If the Tsar's forces discover this place, everything you've built will collapse."

Volkov hesitated, the weight of leadership pressing down on him. "And what about Kalashkov?"

Johannes's eyes hardened. "You can't save everyone, Volkov. Sacrifices must be made, or this revolution will die before it truly begins."

Anya stepped forward, her voice trembling with anger. "We can't just abandon him! He fought for us, bled for us. And now we leave him to die?"

Johannes met her gaze, his voice cold. "If you try to save him, you'll be walking into a trap. The Tsar's secret police want you to act rashly. Don't give them the satisfaction."

Volkov raised a hand, silencing the argument. "Enough. We'll relocate. But Kalashkov's sacrifice will not be in vain."

The revolutionaries packed their maps, weapons, and supplies, preparing to abandon the basement that had served as their headquarters. Johannes helped Anya carry a crate of rifles to a waiting cart, his mind racing with the implications of Kalashkov's capture. The operation had succeeded, but the noose around their necks was tightening.

As the last of the supplies were loaded, Dmitry approached Johannes, his expression grave. "You're calm, Krieg. Too calm. If I didn't know better, I'd think you had no stake in this fight."

Johannes smiled faintly. "My stake is in seeing this revolution succeed. That's all you need to know."

Before Dmitry could reply, the distant sound of boots on cobblestones reached their ears. Anya froze, her eyes wide with fear. "They've found us."

Volkov barked orders. "Everyone, move! Take what you can and go!"

Johannes grabbed Anya's arm, pulling her toward the exit. But as the group began to scatter, the first shouts of the Tsar's soldiers echoed through the alleyways. A spotlight from an armored vehicle swept across the street, illuminating the revolutionaries like deer caught in a hunter's gaze.

"Run!" Volkov shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Johannes's grip tightened on his briefcase as he darted into the shadows, his heart pounding. The revolution was in motion, but now, survival was the immediate goal.

In the distance, the crack of rifle fire shattered the cold night air.