Building a Conglomerate in Another World-Chapter 291: Bear’s Reckoning

November 25, 1898

Saint Petersburg, Russian Empire — Winter Palace, Council Chamber

The great hall of the Winter Palace was as silent as a tomb. Its gilded walls, once resplendent with pride and triumph, now echoed with the somber creak of polished boots and whispered disappointment. Snow fell steadily outside, dusting the palace's grand windows with frost. Inside, Tsar Nicholas II sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by his senior ministers, military advisors, and members of the imperial general staff.

Across the lacquered surface of the table lay the final report: the official summary of the Russo-Chinese defeat in Korea.

"We underestimated them," General Ivan Dragunov said stiffly, his voice hoarse. "The Amerathians fought with technology and precision we weren't prepared for. Their airships and long-range artillery dominated every open field. And their command structure—efficient, flexible. Not to mention the Japanese—"

"The Japanese," spat Foreign Minister Mikhailov, slamming a gloved fist on the table, "fought like dogs with a bone. Ten years ago, we would have brushed them aside like smoke. Now they bleed us from the flanks. And the Koreans, emboldened like jackals!"

Silence fell again.

Tsar Nicholas II sat unmoving, his face pale and expression unreadable. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth behind him, its warmth lost against the cold tension in the room.

"Is it true," the Tsar said finally, voice even, "that our Eastern Front has collapsed entirely?"

General Dragunov hesitated, then gave a shallow nod. "Yes, Your Majesty. The last of our divisions withdrew across the Yalu on November 18. The Chinese forces have fallen back behind their own border as well. Their morale is shattered. Ours worse."

"So," the Tsar murmured, folding his hands, "we have gained nothing from this war. Nothing but dead sons and a humiliated banner."

Minister Mikhailov cleared his throat. "There were… lessons. Intelligence gaps. Industrial weaknesses. Our logistical chain was stretched past breaking. And we now understand—if nothing else—that the world has changed."

"Changed?" Nicholas turned his gaze to the minister. "Explain."

Mikhailov drew a breath. "Amerathia, Sire. They are not the power we imagined. They are more than a Western curiosity now. Their weaponry is decades ahead of ours. Their factories outproduce ours ten to one. Their warships—unsinkable. And their president? A man not of courtly patience, but of machines and systems. He doesn't wait. He moves. And when he moves, the world shifts."

The Tsar leaned back slowly, absorbing this.

"Then," Nicholas said coldly, "do we surrender our ambitions? Shall Russia retreat from the world stage, content to be outpaced by colonies and island empires?"

"No, Your Majesty," General Dragunov said quickly. "But we must change. Adapt. Modernize. If we are to preserve the Russian Empire's greatness, we must become what they have become—an industrial titan, not just a land of aristocracy and conscripts."

Across the table, Admiral Petrov added, "We lost because our ships were outdated. Our rifles jammed in the Korean mud. And our soldiers—brave though they were—marched without boots fit for the winter. The Amerathians flew reconnaissance airships that could spot our movements from miles away. We never had a chance."

The Tsar narrowed his eyes. "Then what do you propose?"

"Total reform," Dragunov said. "Military, economic, educational. We must close the technological gap before we're left behind permanently."

"And what of China?" Nicholas asked sharply. "They dragged us into this. Yuan Shikai promised a quick campaign. A united front. Instead, we found ourselves carrying the burden of every major battle while they bled our supply lines and retreated at every opportunity."

There was no response. Only uncomfortable shifting.

Minister Mikhailov spoke again, more cautiously now. "Beijing has sent envoys, requesting diplomatic dialogue. They too are shaken by this loss. The Qing court is facing unrest—Yuan's influence has waned, and the Emperor grows wary of future entanglements."

Nicholas snorted softly. "They seek to preserve their throne. We seek to preserve our empire."

He stood suddenly, and everyone around the table rose with him.

"Very well," the Tsar declared. "Summon the Duma. Draft proposals for immediate industrial expansion in Vladivostok and across the Trans-Siberian Railway corridor. And I want the War Ministry reorganized within the month. Our humiliation must become our forge."

He turned to Petrov. "Begin designs for a new fleet. No expense spared. Let Amerathia have their iron leviathans—for now. We shall build ours bigger, stronger, faster."

To Dragunov: "Form a commission. Study the battlefield tactics of the Amerathians and Japanese. Train a new officer corps—not of noble birth, but of merit. I want minds that can think beyond the Napoleonic line."

And to Mikhailov: "Reach out to Berlin. If the Kaiser sees the winds as we do, perhaps we can form something stronger than silence. The world is shifting. Let us be the storm that follows."

The chamber vibrated with renewed purpose, though beneath the energy lay the quiet sting of defeat. Russia had lost the war—but in the minds of its leaders, it had gained a new understanding.

An understanding that the future would belong to those who adapted—not those who waited.

November 27, 1898

Moscow — Imperial War Hospital

In a snow-dusted ward, far from the marble halls of the palace, wounded soldiers lay beneath wool blankets, their bandages stained and eyes sunken. A priest moved quietly among them, murmuring prayers. Letters from home were read aloud. A harmonica played faintly in a distant corner.

Sergeant Nikolai Orlov, his right leg amputated at the thigh, stared silently at the ceiling.

"We could've won," whispered the young private beside him. "If they'd given us better boots. Better rifles. If command hadn't ordered us forward without maps."

Orlov didn't reply.

"We'll go back, won't we?" the private asked. "One day?"

Orlov finally turned his head. His voice was quiet, but heavy. "One day. But not with the same guns. Not with the same leaders."

And that was all he said.

December 1, 1898

Saint Petersburg — Imperial Gazette

The front page bore a single headline in bold Cyrillic script:

"PEACE IN THE EAST — IMPERIAL REFORMS TO FOLLOW"

Beneath it, smaller lines explained the Tsar's new directives—an industrial initiative across the eastern provinces, a naval modernization act, the restructuring of military command, and new investments into telegraph infrastructure and chemical research.

The defeat was not denied—but neither was it lamented.

Instead, it was rebranded: a harsh lesson that would propel the Russian Empire into the new century, armed with steel, science, and sovereign resolve.

And so, while the war in Korea faded into memory, the echoes of defeat rang clearly through Russia's snowbound cities. In classrooms, military academies, and shipyards, a new generation began to rise—quietly vowing that the next time the bear woke, it would not slumber again.

And in the heart of Saint Petersburg, beneath gilded domes and candlelit halls, a singular belief took root among the Empire's elite:

This was not the end.

It was only the beginning.