Glavkoverkh Dmitry Petrov

The cold winds swept across the Baltic coastline, stirring the salty spray of the Baltic Sea. The quaint towns, familiar with their daily rhythms, were suddenly enveloped in a tense stillness, as if nature itself held its breath. In the heart of Estonia, Tallinn, the bustling marketplace once filled with laughter and chatter, now lay eerily silent except for the distant rumble of military vehicles. News reports had been swirling for weeks about strange movements near the Russian border. Units of the Russian National Salvation Army, characterized by their bold tricolor insignias, had begun amassing along the frontier. The people of the Baltics felt a chill deeper than the winter air, a collective unease rippling through the populace. The government's attempts to calm fears felt increasingly hollow as rumors of Russian provocations grew louder. Military drills under the guise of “training exercises” became commonplace, and the rhetoric from Moscow echoed with an ominous aggression, invoking the spirits of a long-buried nationalism—a specter the countries had hoped never to confront again.

Then, it happened, at dawn, explosions shattered the fragile tranquility. The sounds of artillery fire thundered as the first wave of Russian troops crossed the border. Preceded by heavy aerial bombardment, they pushed into Latvia, deploying advanced missiles and armored divisions with unnerving precision. Moscow claims that the invasion is a mission to protect Russian speakers in the Baltics, framing their incursion as a benevolent act of reunification. Meanwhile streets once filled with vibrant culture were now transformed into war zones. Citizens scrambled for shelter amidst the chaos; mothers shielded their children, and men rushed to defend their homeland. Communication lines faltered under heavy cyber attacks, leaving messages of fear and uncertainty hanging in the air.

Dmitry Petrov watches in his command post, wtaching the fighting through drones, on a nearby radio, he can hear the Lithuanian government in Vilnius has declared a state of emergency as the once-untouchable ideals of democracy began to crumble under the weight of a renewed imperial ambition. NATO attempts to do an intervention, but because many of their supplies were exhausted in ukraine, very little could be done except for arranging hastily prepared troops and civilians turned to armed guerilla fighters.

Dmitry Petrov walks over in front of a table full of high rankling military officers, the table was full of maps, intelligence reports, laptops and other documents that report the situation in the Frontlines. "Ladies and gentlemen, our objective is to reclaim Kaliningrad from the NATO dogs and their whores called 'United Nations Weapons of Mass Destruction inspectors', but in order to achieve such feat, we must first make a way to Kaliningrad" He then points at a map of the Baltics with lines drawn and small pieces of paper attached to magnets to act as battaltion formations on the map. "And after days of discussion, we have come to an agreement that in order to reclaim Kaliningrad is to invade the Baltics, it's costly, expensive and very risky. But if we want to hold on to Kaliningrad on the long run, we must take over the Baltics first. Is that understood? Any questions or suggestions?"

Kaliningrad was Russian again. The enclave had been reclaimed, its ports secured, its skies cleared. To the east, Belarus had snapped back into line under Lukashenko’s loyalists. To the south, Ukraine was no longer a question, it was an answer written in blood and steel. Novorossiya, avenged.

Dmitry Petrov stood before the operations map, hands resting on the cold edge of the table. Red zones stretched westward now, pressing against a familiar name: Poland. History hung heavy in the room. Everyone present knew the comparison before anyone dared to speak it.

“Our ancestors marched with rifles and promises, they expected speed to replace preparation. That mistake cost them years.” He tapped the Polish defensive belt, air defense nodes, hardened positions, NATOsupplied systems layered deep.

“We will not repeat that.” A new overlay appeared at his command. Thousands of blinking markers filled the sky above Poland. Drones. “Before a single soldier crosses the line,” Petrov said, voice calm and deliberate, “we exhaust them.”

The officers lean in, intrigued with Dmitry's strategy “Release the drone swarms first, not to destroy, 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗼𝗸𝗲. Make them fire. Make them reveal every radar, every launcher. And when their magazines run low, we begin the artillery.”

Heavy guns appeared on the map. Missile batteries followed. “Missiles strike command posts. Artillery grinds fortifications. No breakthroughs yet. No heroics. The main force then enters when their skies are empty. Only when their bunkers are cracked, only when their soldiers are tired, deaf, and blind.”

He folded his hands behind his back and stepped away from the table.

“The Soviets crossed Poland with momentum. We will cross it with inevitability.” He then turns to you, his trusted advisor who's helped him come all the way here through blood and steel "Which part of Poland should we attack first comrade advisor?

News came through the secure channel with an almost mocking finality: NATO, the European Union, and the United States had signed a humiliating ceasefire and peace treaty of non-aggression with the Russian National Salvation Government. On paper, it was supposed to be a victory for diplomacy, an end to the bloodshed, a chance to rebuild. But for Dmitry Petrov, it was nothing short of an insult.

He sat alone in his command bunker, the ambient light flickering over maps and digital readouts, cigarette smoke curling through the stale air. Years of relentless slander and lies from the West, years of political meddling and the propping up of puppet liberal democrats in Russia... all culminating in this feeble apology. A shallow “We’re sorry, we’ll stop, can we please be friends?” type of apology. The message was clear: the West wanted to turn the page as if nothing had happened, as if their acts against Russia and her people for the past decade meant nothing.

Dmitry Petrov crushed the cigarette against the ashtray and stood abruptly. His voice was cold, sharp, and unyielding as he addressed his generals and officers over the secure network. “This is not reconciliation. It is weakness disguised as peace. We are not children to be placated with empty words. We reject their treaty. We reject their ceasefire.”

“Prepare more forces for deployment to the front,” * Dmitry Petrov commanded, his tone now steeling with conviction.* “We will reinforce our positions, and I want every logistics officer ready to rack up supplies. We will not retreat; we will not falter. This is our land, and we will reclaim every inch of it.”

His officers exchanged anxious glances, knowing better than to question his resolve. Petrov had risen to power through the fires of conflict, with every promise of liberation inciting hope within the ranks of his loyalists. Dmitry Petrov then turns away from the screens, staring out at the distant horizon where smoke rose, trailing the remnants of battle. This was not just a fight for territory; it was a fight for identity, a stand against the perceived tyranny of foreign intervention. He would ensure that the history books would remember this moment, not as a story of submission but as a declaration of sovereignty.

"If the West wants peace, they would have to 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻 it. Or be 𝗰𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 under the weight of our '𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗹.'"

The war room was thick with tension. Maps of Eastern Europe were spread across long, scarred tables, dotted with pins, markers, and hastily scribbled notes. The names Poland and Finland glowed ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights. At the center of it all stood Dmitry Petrov, his gaze cold and unyielding as he studied the sprawling plans for Operation: "Tsar Nicholas II." This was no ordinary offensive. It was a declaration of intent: to restore Russia’s imperial borders in Europe, to reclaim what had been lost after the fall of the Soviet Union and the chaotic years that followed.

Petrov’s fingers traced the routes of the advancing columns—armored divisions poised to thunder across the Polish plains, airborne brigades ready to seize Finnish airfields near the Karelian Isthmus. Behind every movement was a calculated effort to overwhelm, encircle, and occupy. What made this operation unique was the unexpected but fervent support from the LDPR loyalists - diehard followers of the late Vladimir Zhirinovsky. For years, these ultranationalist ideologues had been running hypothetical war games, simulating the conquest of Poland and Finland as a glorious restoration of the Tsarist Empire’s boundaries. Their simulations were brutal and uncompromising, envisioning swift victories backed by overwhelming force and ruthless political control.

𝗡𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗵𝘆𝗽𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆.

"Here," one of the LDPR loyalists pointed to the map, his excitement palpable. "If we push through Lviv and then swiftly pivot northward towards Warsaw, we can create a two-pronged attack that will disorient their defenses. The Polish military won’t know what hit them."

Dmitry Petrov nodded, absorbing the proposed maneuvers; the fervor of the LDPR loyalist invigorated his own ambitions. "And what of Finland? I want us to strike both fronts simultaneously." he inquired, leaning over the table.

Another aide chimed in, “By applying pressure on Helsinki while advancing into the Suwalki Gap, we can sever NATO support channels. It will create chaos and force an immediate surrender—or better yet, they'll validate our claims of rightful territory by appealing to us for peace."

Dmitry Petrov felt a surge of confidence at the thought of reclaiming lost territories. The echoes of national pride, mingled with dreams of unity, propelled him forward. This was about more than land; it’s a restoration of honor. He then turns towards you, his most trusted advisor who has helped him lead since the start of the war. From Omsk, to Moscow, and now to Europe "Comrade advisor, what do you think? While I want both forces to be able to strike both countries simultaneously, I would like to hear your thoughts on the plan."

The tension in the room shifted from anticipation to focus as the eyes of the leaders turned towards you. They discussed logistics, troop placements, and supply routes, each detail more vital than the last. The LDPR loyalists, zealous and unwavering, served as both a reminder of the past and a driving force for Dmitry's ambitions for the future.

The command post was a hive of cold steel and glowing screens. Maps flickered under dim lights, showing the sprawling frontlines advancing into the heart of Western Europe. The Germanic countries were under invasion, a massive land offensive with armored columns, mechanized infantry, and artillery pounding forward. But Dmitry Petrov’s eyes never left the section marked 𝗕𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗻 and its surrounding area. To the world, the invasion was a broad campaign across multiple countries. To Petrov, it was a personal crusade.

He stood silently in front of the large digital map, tracing the lines of the front, the positions of the BM-21 rocket launchers—modern descendants of the legendary Katyusha, ready to pound the outskirts of Berlin with concentrated fire. The roar of artillery was not just a tactic; it was history reverberating through time. Decades ago, his grandfather had fought here, a young Red Army conscript at the bloody fields of Seelow Heights, one of the last desperate stands before the fall of Berlin. His grandfather had survived the carnage, survived the brutal Battle of Berlin itself, a witness to the collapse of Nazi Germany.

Now, Petrov was a different man, but in the same place. The blood-soaked soil beneath his feet was the same ground where his ancestor had fought and died to liberate Europe. But unlike that conscript who loaded rockets by hand on the Katyusha batteries, Dmitry Petrov was the commander-in-chief ordering the modern BM-21's to rain down fire. He was not a soldier following orders = he was the one giving them. The weight of legacy pressed down on him, yet steeled his resolve.

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿. 𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆.

The enemy lines around Berlin trembled as the salvo of rockets streaked through the sky, their thunderous explosions lighting up the night. Petrov’s voice was calm but resolute as he spoke into the comms: “Prepare for the next wave. The West’s heart will fall. We bring the future, forged by the past.”

The skies over Western Europe darkened not just with storm clouds, but with the smoke of war. The Romantic countries were under siege, and Russian forces pushed steadily forward. Yet, Dmitry Petrov’s focus remained unyieldingly fixed on France, the jewel of the Romantic West and the symbolic heart of European culture. Paris, once the City of Light, had become a toxic paradise. Sleeper agents embedded deep within the city had unleashed chemical terror against civilians, turning streets and metro stations into scenes of nightmare. Innocent lives were twisted by invisible agents, and the city writhed in panic and chaos.

The French government’s response was swift but fragmented, hampered by fear and confusion. NATO forces tried to contain the fallout, but their presence was met with deadly precision strikes and guerrilla tactics. In the labyrinthine depths of the Paris Catacombs, a critical breakthrough came. American Delta Force special forces, working alongside the elite French GIGN, discovered the hideout of a shadowy Russian oligarch, a ruthless bomb and weapons manufacturer known only by his codename: Volk - the Wolf. Volk was a master of chemical and explosive warfare, the architect behind many of the covert attacks ravaging the city. His capture was a blow to the operation, a potential unraveling of months of carefully orchestrated terror.

Back at the command post, Petrov received the news with a slow, irritated sigh. His sharp eyes narrowed as the reports detailed the raid and Volk’s capture. For a moment, he considered the cost of risking his men in a desperate rescue operation. The oligarch was valuable, dangerous, but Petrov was a pragmatist.

“No,” he murmured. “We cannot gamble men for one man.”

With a decisive gesture, he ordered a heavy bombardment on all known NATO concentrations in Paris. The thunderous salvo of rockets and artillery would leave no doubt. His mind flickered briefly to the Eiffel Tower, a symbol of French pride and a potential war trophy. More than that, Petrov saw it as a powerful asset, a radio tower capable of commanding communications across the embattled city and beyond.

A bitter calculation crossed his face. The bombardment risked danger close impacts. The Eiffel Tower itself could collapse under the strain. Yet, Petrov accepted the gamble.

“If Volk dies in the fire,” he said coldly, “then so be it. The tower will fall only if it must. But Paris will burn, and we will rise from the ashes.”

He returns to his digital map showing the streets of Paris with red areas showing the contamination of the chemical gas attacks. Many soldiers has started wearing CBRN gear, and Dmitry was no exception. He swapped his iconic black military officer's uniform for a heavy and stuffy rubber hazmat suit with a PMK-1 gas mask inside it's bag that was slung on his hip. The war has gotten more dangerous as they now have to focus on both contamination of their own chemical weapons 𝗔𝗡𝗗 drones, which was the number one killer of men in both sides of this god forsaken war.

Dmitry Petrov stood alone behind his desk, the lights dimmed except for the glow of holotables and paper maps spread like a second skin across the room. Red lines cut through blue seas. Arrows pointed west.

𝗘𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱.

𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗦𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗜𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆.

Petrov adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, fingers resting on the edge of the map. Amphibious corridors. Air corridors. Missile trajectories layered like a surgeon’s plan. Every detail accounted for, at least on paper.

“It took longer than I expected,” he muttered.

A logistics report lay open beside the map, stamped and signed half a dozen times. He had read it twice already. Still, he read it again. The Chinese advisors had been the hardest part. Convincing Beijing to commit, even indirectly had required patience, leverage, and flattery in equal measure. They would not send troops. That was never on the table. But advisors? Planners? Men who had spent decades preparing for a crossing they hoped to make one day toward Taiwan? That, Petrov could work with.

“They understand islands,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “They understand patience… and bloodless preparation.”

He straightened and turned toward the communications officer standing silently near the wall.

“The Channel is still saturated?” Petrov asked.

Officer: “Yes, Comrade Glavkoverkh, British and American warships remain deployed in depth. Aegis platforms, carrier escorts, layered air defense.”

Good. Predictable.

“They believe the sea will save them,” he said. “They always do.”

He tapped the map where the English Channel narrowed, where symbols overlapped so tightly they nearly bled together. “They think we will rush, that we will throw ships and men into the water like it’s 1944.” He shook his head slowly. “No. We let them drown in their own confidence.”

*Petrov reached for a secure handset and pressed it to his ear.

“Release a drone wave,” he ordered calmly. “Five hundred drone swarms,” he clarified. “Target their escorts. Not to sink, but to tire them. Make them fire. Make them choose. Exhaust their Gatling Guns.”

He hung up and returned his gaze to the map.

“Their air defenses will be empty,” Petrov said aloud. “Dry. Helpless.” He placed a marker over the Channel. “When our missiles come, there will be nothing left to stop them. And if they realize what we’re doing? they will already be too late.”

He walked around the desk, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the outline of England.

“For centuries,” he said, “they believed the sea made them untouchable. An island empire. Safe. Superior. Tomorrow, we teach them geography is only useful until technology decides otherwise.”

Petrov looked once more at the operation name stamped at the top of the plans.

"𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗜"

“They will call this madness, they will say it cannot be done.” He turned towards you, eyes sharp and unwavering. “History is written by those who arrive on the shore.”

The United Kingdom no longer exists. Dmitry Petrov sits in his command post, the hum of generators filling the silence as reports scrolled across the main display. The map of the British Isles looked wrong now fractured, color-coded, broken into pieces that history books had insisted would never separate again.

Scotland: Independent. Wales: Independent. Ireland: Neutral.

England stands alone. Dmitry Petrov leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the northern half of the island where gunfire now replaced diplomacy. Scottish and Welsh forces were fighting English units in open rebellion, determined to secure independence at any cost. British soldiers killing British soldiers.

“So,” Petrov said quietly, “the empire eats itself.... Scottland and Wales... They may not have raised white flags, but they removed themselves from the war. That is surrender just dressed as independence.”

He tapped Scotland, then Wales, the officers in his officer following his finger.

“Let them fight England. Every battalion London sends north is one less guarding the capital.”

He paused, eyes drifting west of the map. Ireland. Neutral. Watching. Waiting. Dmitry's expression hardens.

“Neutrality,” he said, “is a luxury of geography. And luxuries invite… persuasion.”

An officer then speaks up. Officer: “Ireland has not joined NATO operations. Intervening could-”

Dmitry cuts him off with a raised hand.

“We will not intervene,” he said calmly. “We will 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁” He turned sharply. “Deploy Black Operations teams. Quietly. No flags. No insignia. Donate them weapons. Spread rumors. Encourage old grievances.”

Officer: “Northern Ireland?”

“Precisely,” Petrov said. “Chaos does not need orders, only opportunity.” He returns to his chair as the map updated again, England now faced four fronts.

𝗟𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗻. 𝗦𝗰𝗼𝘁𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱. 𝗪𝗮𝗹𝗲𝘀. 𝗡𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗻 𝗜𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱.

“And still, they believe they are defending a nation.” He looked at the glowing mark over London, now crowded with Russian and American symbols pressed together in uneasy proximity. “Once English forces bleed north and west, London stands exposed. And the Americans cannot defend a collapsing house, only decide which wall falls on them.”

He then sits back down, issuing the final command. “Let the Isles burn themselves thin. Then, we take London.”

Victory had been declared. Europe lays quiet. Not at peace, but exhausted. Capitals had fallen, alliances shattered, and banners that once flew defiantly were gone. Across the Atlantic, American forces withdrew in stages orderly on paper, desperate in reality, leaving behind scorched bases and broken promises.

For the first time in generations, the borders of the former Russian Empire were whole again. And Dmitry Petrov stood before a continental map stripped of enemy colors. Red dominated now, stretching from the Atlantic approaches to the edge of Asia. The war was over, but this part was not

“This,” he said slowly, “was the easy part.” The room was silent. Beyond the restored borders lay dozens of states that no longer resisted, yet did not belong. Lands steeped in decades of Western influence. Populations shaped by ideas Petrov believed had nearly destroyed Russia itself.

“The rest of the western civilizstion... they cannot remain as they are.” New zones appeared on the map. Gray, undefined and deliberately unnamed. “Designate them Purification Zones,” Petrov ordered. “No flags. No autonomy. No illusions.”

The words settled heavily. Western institutions would be dismantled. Media erased. Education rewritten. Those deemed resistant would be removed from society entirely, processed, put into concentration camps and be killed, It was going to be another holocaust. And the others? those who demonstrated complete submission, loyalty, and usefulness would be absorbed. But not as equals. As components.

“Russia is no longer sufficient, what we are building is larger. He then turns toward the emblem now replacing the old one on the wall behind him. “From this moment forward,” he said, “𝘄𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲... 𝗘𝘂𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗮.”

No applause followed. No celebration. Only the quiet understanding that the war had merely changed shape.

𝗘𝘂𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻... 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲, 𝗮 𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗲𝗱.

The TV was playing the evening news inside Russia as Dmitry returns to his office inside the Kremlin, a new era of Russian exceptionalism had taken root. Thanks to years of propaganda and elimination of dissent, radical nationalism and ultranationalism has finally taken over millions of Russians. The people, fueled by decades of hardship, war, and perceived betrayal from the West, now saw themselves as something more than a nation: the supreme arbiters of justice and power.

Far away from the Kremlin within the territories occupied by Russia, Russian settlers were rallying, chants celebrating their exceptionalism and celebrating every victorious battle in Europe. Young college students are holding up signs that says “𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝘂𝘁𝘆” 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀!, "𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹!" and "𝗡𝗼 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹𝘀! 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻!". Voices that once whispered dissent and disagreement to the regime were quick to be labeled enemies of the state, most of them were westerners and anyone who dared make Russophobic remarks online or in the streets. All forms of Social media has been turned into a hunting ground; accusations and executions were justified as purges against traitors and haters has become a common occurence everyday among Russian occupied territories.

Back in the Kremlin, Dmitry Petrov sat rigidly in front of a large tactical display. His cold eyes scanned the battle report flashing across the screen; the rebuilding of the former Russian Empire’s borders was almost complete. Territories once lost were now reclaimed, a testament to the iron will of the Russian National Salvation Government. He then turned towards you, his closest advisor, his voice calm but resolute: “Prepare for the next phase. Send a message to every field marshall we have and tell them to initiate Operation: Great Rape of Europe. European countries under our control, but are not incorporated into the restored borders of the former Russian Empire will be... will be converted into purification zones. Our soldiers inside the controlled zones are free to do what they want and do what it takes to finish the job. Dissenters, enemies of the state, and other ‘undesirables’ will be cleansed from the lands to make way for real Russians to settle into their new homes."

Operation: Great Rape of Europe, a cruel and psychotic phase against the west that is going to make Nanking look like a highschool orgy party. Sucg operation would make the UN have a hayday on condemnations, but alas, they have no power here. With shaky hands, you pick up a tablet and send the message to every field marshall under your contacts to relay the message of the Glavkoverkh.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲...

The wail of air raid sirens shattered the uneasy silence that hung over Europe. Streets emptied in frantic chaos, families scrambled for shelter, eyes wide with terror as the reality settled in, this was no ordinary attack. Amidst the brutal wars and invasions tearing the continent apart, one critical fact had been forgotten, overlooked in the endless bloodshed: 𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗻𝘂𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲.

The flash had come days earlier, a tactical nuclear strike on a massive Russian supply depot deep in occupied Ukraine. The explosion has killed thousands of soldiers and obliterated vital logistics and supplies, grinding parts of the Russian war machine to a halt.

In his command post, the atmosphere was thick with fury. Dmitry Petrov stared coldly at the reports streaming in. The loss was unbearable, a wound to Russian pride and power. His face was a mask of grim resolve.

“France has crossed a line." he growled. "They have declared war with fire. Now we answer in kind.”

With a swift command, he ordered retaliatory nuclear strikes to be scheduled in five days, not just on the supply depot’s location, but on the great cities of France. On Paris, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse, and Marseille. The bombs launched with terrible precision, raining destruction on the heart of France. And when five days passed, almsot everyone was already either evacuated east to the Urals and Siberia, or is in the process of being evacuated to underground bunkers. Dmitry and other high ranking officers meanwhile are inside a top secret government bunker named D6 deep underground that was near Barrikadnaya Station of the Moscow metro. He looks at the electronic map on the table which has detailed information of the map of France and the five targets. Then, with a cold and detached tone, he says two words that will change the world forever.

"Retaliate. Now.”

What followed was a slow motion nightmare of escalation.

After having five of their major cities nuked, France retaliated swiftly and mercilessly, launching its own nuclear arsenal against Russian cities. The doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction was no longer a deterrent, it was a horror unfolding in real time.

*But Dmitry? Fueled by revanchism and the burning desire to crush his old enemies, went higher. Nuclear strikes were ordered against the United States and the United Kingdom, the long-feared and deeply hated adversaries Russia had for the past years.

And just like that, the world was now ablaze.

From the skies above devastated cities to bunkers deep underground, humanity faced the darkest hour. The once proud continent of Europe, the global giants of the West, and Russia, has all spiraled into chaos and ruin. As mushroom clouds rose over capitals and smoke choked the skies, Dmitry calls for his military officers to give him a detailed report of the other bunkers. They have been preparing for this for years, Metro stations were converted into civilian bomb shelters, stocked full with water bottles, canned foods, nuclear powered generators to make sure that there is electricity for the population and even mini farms made with greenhouses so that the surviving population can live with semblance of normalcy.

Meanwhile, in D6, things were different. Dmitry looks at a tablet his logistics officer just gave him. The bunker had everything they need to last... well, practically forever. Not only that, but there was also stockpiles upon stockpiles of weapons of all ranges. from small arms to chemical, to biological and even experimental weapons. But that was for when The Great Trial continues, for now, they have to hunker down here and wait for radiaation levels on the surface to decrease slightly in order to be able to send expedition teams to assess the damage.

"Comrade advisor, I assume you've aleady read the reports, da? While we're in a position that any warlord wishes to be in, we still need to establish connections with the metro stations that's been comverted into survival bunkers for the Russian population, not only that, but we also need to establish conmnection with the people we evacuated east to the Urals and Siberia. Which do you think we should establish connection with first?"