Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

Tsar Ivan IV sat at the head of the long conference table, his fingers drumming a furious rhythm against the polished mahogany. Around him, his ministers and generals shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances as they awaited the inevitable storm.

"Where is the report?" Ivan snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. His cold blue eyes burned with impatience.

General Viktor Orlov, head of the Imperial Navy, entered the room, a leather-bound folder clutched tightly in his hands. His usually confident stride faltered under the weight of the news he carried. He approached the Tsar and bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty," Orlov began, his voice low and hesitant, "the final reports from the South Atlantic have arrived."

"Well?" Ivan demanded, rising from his chair. "What are you waiting for? Speak!"

Orlov opened the folder, his hands trembling as he laid out the grim details. "Our Black Sea Fleet... has been decimated. The RNS Vulkan was sunk. The Vityaz and Yermak have been heavily damaged and rendered inoperable. The remaining destroyers and cruisers are retreating to safer waters. The Valorian forces continue to dominate the seas."

The room fell deathly silent, the weight of Orlov's words settling over the gathered officials like a funeral shroud. Ivan's face darkened, his lips curling into a snarl as his knuckles whitened around the edge of the table.

"And what of our invasion plans?" the Tsar growled. "Surely we can regroup—send reinforcements, salvage what we can!"

Orlov's gaze dropped to the floor. "Your Majesty, without a navy to secure the waters and protect supply lines, any invasion is impossible. The distance to Valoria is nearly 10,000 kilometers. Even if we muster the manpower, we cannot sustain such an effort without naval support."

The Tsar's hand slammed down on the table, the force of the blow causing glasses to shatter and papers to scatter across the polished surface.

"Impossible? Is that all I hear from my commanders now? You were supposed to be the pride of Ruthenia, and now you tell me we are powerless?"

General Orlov stiffened but did not raise his head. "Your Majesty, the loss of the navy has crippled our ability to project power. The morale of our troops is in tatters, and the people are beginning to question—"

"Silence!" Ivan bellowed, his face red with fury. He swept his arm across the table, sending documents, plates, and an ornate candelabra crashing to the floor. His ministers recoiled as he continued his tirade.

"We are the Ruthenian Empire!" Ivan roared, pacing furiously. "For centuries, we have stood as a beacon of strength and dominance. And now, you come before me with excuses, with failures! Are we to roll over like dogs before Valoria?"

Prime Minister Konstantin Petrov, who had remained silent until now, rose cautiously.

"Your Majesty," he began and continued, "we must consider our position carefully. The people are losing faith. Factories are operating at half capacity due to strikes. Food shortages are becoming widespread. If we continue this war without a clear path to victory, we risk internal collapse."

Ivan turned on Petrov, his glare venomous. "You dare speak of collapse? This is your failure as much as theirs!" He pointed an accusatory finger at the generals and ministers. "You have failed me, all of you! And now you tell me we should grovel for peace?"

Petrov held his ground. "Your Majesty, peace may be our only option. The Valorians have made it clear that they will not relent. If we persist, we risk losing not just the war, but the empire itself."

Ivan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to contain his rage. "And what would you have me do, Petrov? Beg at that masked leader feet? Offer him the crown of Ruthenia?"

"No, Your Majesty," Petrov replied evenly. "But we must negotiate terms while we still have something to bargain with. If we wait too long, we may find ourselves with nothing left to offer."

The room held its collective breath as the Tsar glared at his prime minister. For a moment, it seemed as though Ivan might strike him, but instead, he turned away, his shoulders heaving with frustration.

"Get out," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "All of you. Leave me."

The ministers and generals hesitated, but one by one, they filed out of the room, leaving the Tsar alone with his fury. Once the doors closed, Ivan let out a primal scream, the sound echoing through the gilded halls. He grabbed a heavy crystal decanter from the table and hurled it across the room, shattering it against the wall. The amber liquid cascaded down the ornate wallpaper like tears.

Breathing heavily, Ivan collapsed into his chair, his head in his hands. The weight of his empire's failures bore down on him, crushing his pride and leaving him adrift in a sea of despair. For all his power, he was helpless to change the course of events that had brought Ruthenia to its knees.

In the silence that followed, the Tsar's mind raced. The visions of grandeur that had driven him to war now seemed like cruel mockeries. He had underestimated Valoria, misjudged their resolve and strength. And now, his empire paid the price.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts. "What is it?" he barked, not bothering to lift his head.

A servant entered hesitantly, bowing low. "Your Majesty, a message from the Admiralty."

Ivan gestured impatiently. "Speak."

"The remaining ships of the fleet are requesting permission to withdraw to safer waters for repairs," the servant said.

Ivan let out a bitter laugh. "Repairs? For what? So they can be sunk more efficiently next time?"

The servant remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Tell them... tell them to do as they see fit," Ivan said finally, his voice hollow. "It no longer matters."

As the servant retreated, Ivan sat in the empty room, surrounded by the shattered remnants of his outburst. For the first time in his reign, the Tsar felt powerless.