In the frigid expanse of the Far East, the main Russian army had entrenched itself in Shenyang, pouring every ounce of its strength into advancing further.
Months into the war, reinforcements continued to arrive, yet the army's overall numbers remained unchanged. Soldiers fell in droves, replaced by fresh recruits barely trained for the horrors ahead.
"Report on the frontlines," commanded General Kuropatkin, his voice a grim echo in the war-torn command tent.
"We've secured Yingkou, which allows us to advance along the coastline. However…"
"Anshan remains impenetrable."
"That's correct, sir. But it's only a matter of time."
"Time, you say? That's precisely what we lack," Kuropatkin growled, his piercing eyes fixed on the map sprawled across the table.
The conflict had crystallized into three critical fronts: Anshan, Yingkou, and Lüshun.
