It is the 3rd Millennium. For more than a decade The Emperor Putin has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Russia. He is the Master of Slavs by the will of the gods, and master of a hundred oblasts by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Soviet era. He is the Carrion Lord of the Federation for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the nazi-infested miasma of the West, the only route between distant cities, their way lit by the GLONASS, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Spetsnaz, the special forces, faith-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the VDV and countless conscripts, the ever vigilant FSB and the engineer of the Kalashinov Concern to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from foriegn capital, liberals, LGBT - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold millions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only SMO. There is no peace amongst the cities, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting capitalists.